Not If I Save You First by Ally Carter (8)

Maddie

For a long moment, Logan lay on the cold ground, looking at where Maddie was supposed to be. She was just there, he thought, even though the words didn’t make any sense. Even though he should have been running, fighting, crawling, or shouting out for help instead of screaming the one word that mattered anymore: “Maddie!”

He was aware faintly of the cold ground beneath his knees, the feeling of rocks biting into his hands as he crawled toward the edge of the cliff.

Maddie was there. He knew it. In the movies, this was when you looked over the side to find a tiny ledge just a few feet down. Maybe she was clinging to a tree—a rock. Something. Anything.

Maddie was down there, and Logan had to get to her. She had to be hanging on.

But there was no ledge. No tree. Logan peered down at the small, twisted body tangled in the brush below. It was probably a fifty-foot fall to the place where she rested. Maybe farther.

It was so much farther.

But Logan wasn’t going to think about that. He could reach her. He could dry all that blood that was over her face. There was so much blood. He could wipe it away and wake her up and they’d laugh about it.

He would tell her he was sorry.

He would. It wasn’t too late to say it to her. It wasn’t too late. Period.

Logan was so focused on Maddie and her blood and his guilt that he almost forgot about the man.

But when a huge boot landed in the dirt and the rocks in front of him, almost smashing one of Logan’s fingers, Logan jerked back.

Slowly, he looked from Maddie’s mangled body, up and up until he was squinting against the sun. Only when a head moved to block the light could Logan really see him.

“Shut up,” the man said.

But he wasn’t a man, really. He probably wasn’t even that much older than Logan. In DC, he would have looked like a student at Georgetown, maybe an intern on the Hill. No way the man was older than twenty-five, and if anything he looked younger. He had dark hair a little too long and a dimple in his cheeks.

It was only the eyes. He had old eyes, like they had seen far too much danger and misery to be contained in fewer than twenty-five years.

“Do not move,” the man said, and Logan tried to place his accent. Russian, he knew. But which part of Russia? It wasn’t the accent of the gutter. No, whoever he was, he’d gone to decent schools. He was important to someone—somewhere. He wasn’t some dumb thug with a gun and an ax to grind. No. He sounded like …

He sounded like the men in the corridor—like death itself—and it made Logan shutter and remind himself that this wasn’t just another bad dream.

The man’s hands were all over Logan then, patting him down and feeling in his pockets. Logan was too stunned to move, but when the man pulled out the small panic button that Logan had sworn to never abandon again, Logan shouted, “No!”

But the man was already pulling back his arm, and Logan watched the button fly over the edge of the cliff.

“Now get up. Slowly.” The man climbed off of Logan and backed away, and a part of Logan knew that he was supposed to obey, follow directions. Be good and not make trouble because a grown-up had just given him an order.

But Logan had already forgotten his promise to be good. If anything, he was in the mood to be very, very bad, so as soon as he reached his knees, he put one foot underneath him and shot toward the man’s legs, grabbing them in a death grip, twisting and plowing his shoulder into the man’s thighs and knocking him to the ground.

Logan wasn’t cold anymore. He wasn’t hungry or tired or jetlagged. He wasn’t even angry. Anger has a beginning and an end. This was simply rage, like a fire had been burning inside of him since he saw his mother’s dress sticking out of that rolling cart. This man was nothing but gasoline.

Logan didn’t stop until he felt the man hit the ground with a satisfying thunk. The two of them rolled, kicking and tangled together. Logan managed to strike the man in the stomach, but it was like he didn’t even feel it. The man just reversed their positions and brought the gun up, slamming it into Logan’s gut in one fierce blow that made all the breath leave Logan’s lungs. Logan turned, wanting to move, to strike. But they’d rolled close to the edge, and when the man pressed, Logan’s head turned and there she was.

Maddie.

Not moving.

Face covered with blood.

Maddie was dead, and the realization made Logan’s fire go out.

In a flash, the man was up and moving. He held Logan’s arm behind his back as he dragged him to his knees, forcing a pair of handcuffs onto one wrist. Too tight.

But Logan couldn’t find the words to complain.

All he could say was “You killed her.”

The man didn’t answer. He just dragged Logan to his feet, pulling his right hand in front of him and cuffing it to his left.

“I should really put your hands behind your back, but if you lose your balance and follow your friend down a ravine it will delay us. We cannot have delays.”

“You killed her!” Logan yelled again, lunging forward and smashing his combined wrists against the man’s chest, but the blows glanced off like they were nothing. When the gunman looked at Logan he seemed mostly annoyed.

“Yes, I did.” The man’s voice held no emotion. It was like Logan had asked him for the time, like maybe he was about to comment on the weather. This was just another day in this man’s eyes.

Wake up.

Take a walk.

Kill a girl in cold blood.

“You killed her,” Logan said again, and suddenly a calm, cold peace came over him. He turned from Maddie’s mangled body, and when Logan spoke again, they were the most honest words he’d ever said: “So I’m going to kill you.”

The man almost smiled.

“You are welcome to try.”

Before Logan could lunge for him again, the man pulled a small silver key from his pocket and dangled it in front of Logan’s eyes.

“This is your hope,” he said, then brought the key to his lips, kissing it softly. “Good-bye,” he said before tossing the key over the edge and into the deep ravine, just like Maddie.

“Maddie.”

“Now walk,” the man said. He poked Logan in the ribs with his gun and pushed him in the opposite direction from the cabin.

“You’re not going to get it,” Logan said. “Whatever you want, if you think kidnapping me is going to help you get it, you’re wrong.”

“Right now I want you to walk, and I’m going to get that,” the Russian said with a shove in Logan’s back, forcing his legs under him as gravity took over, pushing him farther and farther away from Maddie’s body.

Maddie’s head hurt. And her face felt funny. Like maybe she’d forgotten to take off one of her deep-conditioning masks. Or like maybe the batteries were low and she’d been burning a candle and wax had melted in her hair while she slept. It didn’t burn, though. And her skin didn’t hurt. But the sticky feeling made her feel like she’d never be clean again, like there wasn’t enough water in Alaska to wash it all away.

It was stiff and itchy and …

She brought her hand to her face, then looked down at her fingers.

Red.

Maddie’s hand started to shake. She was too cold, and when she looked at the blood that covered her fingers, she wanted to scream.

Logan.

Maddie remembered fighting with Logan.

She turned and looked up to where she had been—to where he was supposed to be. But the sun was too bright and she had to squint. Her head pounded and all she wanted to do was to lie back down, pillow her aching head on her arm, and go to sleep for an hour. A day. A lifetime.

Nothing would ever feel as good as sleep.

But there was something nagging at her, some thought that wouldn’t let her rest.

As soon as she closed her eyes, she saw the gun coming too fast toward her; she felt the blow to her head, the ache of a kick to the gut. And she knew.

“Logan!” she tried, but she couldn’t get enough air. All the sound had been kicked right out of her. “Logan!” she tried again, expecting him to peek over the side and tell her it was all some misunderstanding. One of his detail had gotten confused. Someone was going for help. He was going to climb down and get her, grab her in his suddenly-too-strong arms and carry her up the cliff.

She yelled one more time. “Logan!”

And when he didn’t answer, she got a whole different kind of worried.

Her head still pounded and her side still ached, but those pains were fading as a new kind of terror took their place.

After all, it was one thing to fall and hit your head in the middle of nowhere. It was another to be knocked unconscious while standing beside the only child of the most powerful man in the world.

“Logan!” she shouted again.

Now wasn’t the time to panic.

Now was the time to be smart. Be clever. If Logan was up there, he would have answered by now. Unless he couldn’t answer. Unless he was hurt or dead.

But when she saw the red blood on her fingers she couldn’t help but think about another piece of red—and instinctively she knew he was alive. After all, plenty of people might want to kill the president. But the president’s family? No.

Logan wasn’t a teenager. Logan was leverage. And leverage is only worth something when it’s alive.

The thought should have been a comfort, but it wasn’t. Maybe it was the pounding inside of Maddie’s head. More likely, it was the flash she saw on the far side of the river, inching up another ridge, away from the lake and the cabin.

He was there: Logan was there and he was alive. But she couldn’t tell if there was one gunman with him or two. Or twenty? Maddie cursed herself, utterly unsure. She felt sloppy and stupid and weak, so utterly weak that she could have laid there and wallowed in self-pity for the rest of her life, but she didn’t have time for that.

She tried to climb to her feet, but her head swam and she might have been sick if there had been anything in her stomach besides a little coffee and last night’s supper.

There was nothing inside of her but fear and regret.

On the far side of the river, Logan stumbled, and the big man hit him in the back, forcing him to climb higher. Faster.

Maddie put her hands to the ground, ready to push herself to her feet, but something cold and sharp bit into her palm. She jerked back, and there, imprinted on the soft flesh of her hand, was a key—a small metal key like to a set of handcuffs. She wanted to scream again because this key on the ground, more than the blood and the pain and the sight of Logan walking away, made it all seem real.

Maddie knew what she had to do. The Secret Service had sent two agents with Logan. Soon they’d be wondering why Rascal hadn’t returned. They’d need to check in, touch base. They would be coming. Soon.

And they no doubt had satellite phones and maybe coms units. There was also her dad’s old radio and the sat phone he left for emergencies. One way or another, help was waiting at the cabin. She just had to get there and then …

She felt a raindrop.

This happened in Alaska. Clouds could come from nowhere, filling the sky and turning a beautiful day into a deluge in a matter of minutes.

She felt another raindrop. And another. And another.

The soft earth where she’d landed was already starting to form puddles. Whatever trail Logan might be leaving would soon be washed away.

And right then, Maddie knew she had two options.

She could go for help, summon the cavalry and call the guards.

Or there was option two.

How many times had she questioned her father’s sanity, wondering what kind of person ran toward gunshots?

But the rain was falling harder. So Maddie pulled up the hood of her jacket and watched Logan disappear into the trees and the brush on the opposite rise, and she thought about her father, running toward the gunmen, jumping in front of the bullets.

And Maddie did the only thing she could do: She followed.