“Prove it.”
What was he doing? Ford reached around his back and pulled out a handkerchief with something rolled up inside. Slowly, he unraveled the fabric, revealing a sheathed blade with a mosaic hilt glinting in the light.
“The knife for her.”
“You’re not in a position to be making demands,” Lance responded.
“Take the knife and let her go, and you’ll never see us again. We won’t come after you. We won’t even tell them which direction you went. Or . . . I throw this in the river,” he said, raising the knife in the air. “It’s one or the other, but something tells me Vautour would rather have this over those damn photos. You choose.”
“Ford, don’t,” she called out. “Don’t give it to him.”
“I know what I’m doing,” he said, focusing only on her.
His emerald eyes stared at her holding so much hope. Holding on to the chance that her trust was still a possibility. She wanted to give it to him, but there was a knife grazing her neck. This wasn’t just him tricking her into coming on this dig. This could get her killed.
But the thought of getting out of this situation with his arms wrapped around her provided her comfort.
She nodded her head slightly, telling him okay. She trusted him. His worried eyes relaxed a fraction, and then he turned his attention back to Lance.
“Do we have a deal?”
“Fine. Bring it to me and I’ll let her go.”
Ford took a few steps closer, rewrapping the knife in the handkerchief. “Toss the knife over there,” Ford said, pointing to a spot several feet away, “let her go, and then I’ll give this to you.”
Lance waved the blade away then tossed it to the ground before pushing Corrie toward Ford. She resisted the urge to grab the knife from Ford’s hands and run to camp. Trust me, his eyes spoke as she walked behind him, shielding herself with his body.
“Here,” Ford said, outstretching his arm with the handkerchief. “Take it and go.”
Lance greedily snatched the knife from his hands. “Nice doing business with you.”
“Come on,” Ford said to Corrie, pulling her into his side.
They took a few tentative steps forward to head to camp, then Ford reached down, grabbing the knife that Lance had discarded. What was he doing?
“On the count of three, run,” he then whispered.
Run?
“One . . . two . . .”
“What the hell is this? What do you think you’re trying to pull?” Lance growled.
“Run!”
Ford pushed Corrie out of the way as Lance lunged with the knife, but not fast enough to avoid the rusty blade slicing his forearm. He winced, grabbing his cut arm as Corrie screamed his name.
“Go! Run!” he screamed at her.
And leave him there alone?
“Give it to me!” Lance yelled.
Lance waved the knife at Ford, slashing it through the air, Ford narrowly missing the blade each time. They danced around in a circle, lunging and swiping at each other, while Corrie stood motionless off to the side. Their bodies finally connected, wrestling each other next to the rushing river.
She’d run from bandits, tricked mob bosses, outrun wild animals, and rafted down rivers. But for the first time in all her archaeological adventures, Corrie felt utterly helpless.
No. Corrie was anything but helpless. She couldn’t let this animal hurt Ford. She was a motherfucking badass.
“Let him go!” she screamed, searching for something to use to fight back. A stick. A rock. Anything.
“Corrie, go! Get help!” Ford called out before throwing back his head with a loud cry as Lance fell into his body. His grunting continued as Lance stumbled, tripping over his backpack on the ground and sending both of them hurling into the river with a loud splash.
“Ford! No!”
Corrie rushed to the river’s edge, where Ford hung on to a root protruding from the riverbank, Lance clinging to his back, the waterfall rushing less than a hundred yards away. A hundred yards toward certain death.
“Help! Help!” Lance screamed, his face terrified as he pushed Ford’s head under the water trying to climb out.
She dove to the ground, pulling on Ford’s arms to help him out. But Lance used Ford’s body as a ladder, clawing to escape the rolling rapids. The pounding waterfall sent a deafening thunder through her ears, adding to the chaos and franticness.
“No! Get off him!” Corrie yelled, using her legs to kick Lance. Ford twisted beneath him, fighting to hold on to the riverbank while elbowing Lance out of the way and gasping for breath. Finally, Ford broke free from his grasp, sending Lance bobbing in the depths of the river and over the edge with a bloodcurdling scream.
Ford rested his head against the muddy riverbank, panting and exhausted from the struggle.
“Do you think he made it?” Corrie asked, still holding on to his arms.
“Honestly . . . I don’t fucking care.”
“Come on. Let me help you out.”
She used her legs to pull him out of the river, tugging under his armpits as he crawled up the bank. Once on dry land, they both collapsed. Out of breath. Out of harm’s way. Corrie stared at the blue sky poking out through the tree canopy, panting at how close they’d both come to death. All because of . . .
“Ford! The knife!” she said, shooting up to a seated position.
“Don’t worry . . . I’ve got it right here,” he said, pulling a knife from his pocket. The one Lance had pointed at her neck.
“Wait . . . I thought this was a fake.”
“No. The other was the fake. A little trick I learned from you. Besides, I needed something to do in the evenings,” he said, turning his head toward her and flashing a smirk.
She couldn’t help but smile. “Oh my God, Ford. Do you know how dangerous that was? We could have both been killed.”
“Well, I knew you’d never forgive me if I let him get away with that knife. And I’d never forgive myself if you got hurt. What else was I supposed to do?”
Her heart pounded. He’d saved her. Saved her again. Badass Mejía had needed saving by Weak Sauce Matthews, and in his mind, he’d had no other options.
“Ford . . . I—”
“We should get back,” he cut her off. “They’re going to be looking for us soon and we don’t want them to think we took off.”
He started to sit up, then cried out in pain and collapsed on the ground.
“What’s wrong? What is it?” she said, scooting closer to examine him, his arm wrapped around his waist. “Is it your arm?” she asked, seeing the blood everywhere.
But he lifted his shirt and it was so much worse. Blood pooled out of a wound in his side. “Oh my God, Ford! He stabbed you!”
As if that wasn’t obvious.
“It’s fine,” he said, sucking in a breath and closing his eyes. His lips pulled into a tight line as he tried settling his breaths. “I just need to get to camp.”