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With a bit of new determination in her stride, Morganentered the tunnel on the left, once again stepping into unknown darkness insearch of a killer.
Her eyes were wide, and her hands were shaking. Her chestfelt like it had weights tied to it, preventing her from taking a deep breath.And her stomach had tied itself into a tight, painful knot. She didn’t likelosing control like this, but it was difficult to stay calm as the tunnelsseemed to grow thinner all around her.
“Come on, come on,” she mumbled, figuring she had to be onlya few feet behind him.
She held her gun out in front of her and followed thetrail of blood that he’d left on the ground. Soon, she came to anotherintersection. And then another.
But still, no Samson.
Her mind was spinning with several possible scenarios. Hecould be lurking in one of these rooms, waiting for her. She could very well bewalking right toward him. Or, if she had truly been that lucky, he could havestopped to bandage himself up somehow and she could be closer to him than shethought.
As she looked into more of the alcoves, she wondered how longago it was that these mines had been used. It was certainly before they wereclosed. She stopped quickly in one of the little rooms and looked over thecandlewax, shining her flashlight down on it. There was a sheen of dust on it.The wax was old…years old. That spoke to the fact that Samson had been downhere a lot in the last several years.
Or maybe even the other man in the home of the fourthvictim…maybe Sandra Berryhill’s husband. But that was a mystery for anothertime. That was a—
She saw him up ahead. Samson. He had stopped to catch hisbreath, slightly hunched over in the tunnel roughly a dozen or so feet ahead ofher.
“Samson!” she roared.
“Yes…I’m…I’m done, Agent Cross. Bleeding…I can’t…can’t…”
She advanced on him, the Glock still held out in front ofher. “Get on your knees,” she ordered.
“I can’t. Hurts…too much. The shot…right in the guts. I…pleasehelp.”
It was peculiar, but she felt in that moment that it wasmore important for Samson to come out of this alive. If there was indeed oneother person involved in her framing, maybe Samson knew more than he’drevealed. She stepped forward cautiously, realizing that she had no realoptions here. She had more or less trapped herself. If she cuffed him, therewas no way in hell she could march him out if he was injured this badly.
Besides, killing him would be too easy. She hadn’t waitedten years to simply off him in a darkened cave. No, she wanted answers. Shedeserved answers.
More than that, what would her father think? If there wasa way to end this without killing Samson, she had to take it. She had to try.
She took one more step toward him, the barrel of the gunno more than two feet from him. In the flashlight beam, she could see the painin his eyes.
And a smile on his lips.
In an instant, he stood up straight and tossed somethinginto her face. Sand or a powder of some kind. And as she stumbled back,screaming out and instinctually bringing her hands to her face, she recalled thathe had the knife. He had played her like a damn fiddle, and he still had theknife.
Her eyes stung. They were burning terribly. She’d onlybeen blinded for a few moments, but when she opened her eyes again the worldwas so dark, she couldn’t see a thing. She tried to use what sight she stillhad left to get a bead on him, but all she could see were faint blobs of light.
The son of a bitch had blinded her with sand or someother particulate matter. Yes, she still had the Glock, but the quarters weretoo tight, too contained.
“Come on!” she screamed. Ten years of frustration cameout in the scream and in that moment, she didn’t care if she died. She didn’tcare if he plunged that knife into her throat, chest, stomach. She didn’t care.She just wanted this to be over.
As she did her best to blink the sand or powder away, hereyes had to once again get adjusted to the natural darkness of the tunnel. Aflickering blob of gray came rushing forward as Samson shoved her hard againstthe wall. The wind went rushing out of her, the back of her head banged off ofthe rock, and her hand released the gun.
She heard it clatter to the floor and with it, she alsofelt her last hope relinquished.
“Come on already,” she said, barely able to push thewords out of her lungs.
The lack of caring suddenly evaporated, replaced withanger. And when she sensed him coming close again, still little more than a grayblur in her vision, she let out a right-handed jab. She felt his nose beneathher knuckles, cracking and bleeding instantly. But at the same time, she felt theblade of the knife come down. It sliced across her right wrist, digging deep,clanging against bone.
She howled.
Morgan hit the ground, screaming out in pain. She couldfeel the warm liquid seeping out of her wrist, both arms now losing blood. Thegun…she had to find the gun. She twisted and turned and started to crawl insearch of the gun, but the pain was unbearable.
The rough ground ripped through her hands and thebloodmade it hard to keep traction. She sensed him moving somewherebehind her, maybe even with the blade pointed over his head for the death blow.
But before that could happen, she heard something else inthe tunnel. Thunder? A small quake?
