Known colloquially as “the chokes,” these narrow ravines found along the length of the Kali Gandaki Gorge can be treacherous in the springtime. At night, meltwater runoff from the surrounding mountains frequently flash floods the ravines with little notice, rising to a height of-
Sam stopped reading, handed the iPad back to Remi, and whispered, “Pack your gear. Just the essentials. Quietly.” Then aloud, he called, “Mr. Thule?”
No answer.
“Mr. Thule?”
After a few moments’ delay, they heard the scuff of a boot on gravel, followed by, “Yes, Mr. Fargo?”
“Tell us about the chokes.”
A long pause. “Uh . . . I am afraid I am not familiar with that phrase.”
More scuffing on gravel, the distinctive click of one of the Toyota’s doors being opened.
Hurrying now, Sam unzipped his sleeping bag and rolled out. Already mostly clothed, he grabbed his jacket, slipped it on, and quietly unzipped the tent. He crept out, looked left and right, then stood up. Thirty feet away he could just make out Thule’s silhouette leaning through the Toyota’s driver’s-side door. He was rummaging around the interior. On his feet, Sam began creeping toward the Toyota. He was twenty feet away when he stopped suddenly and cocked his head.
Faintly at first, then more distinctly, he heard the rush of water. Across the ravine he could see the stream was roiling, white water lapping at the sides of the cliff.
From behind, Sam heard a tsst and turned around to see Remi poking her head from the tent flap. She gave him a thumbs-up, and he replied with a palm out: Wait.
Sam crept toward the Toyota. When he’d closed the gap to ten feet, he ducked down and continued on, stooped over, around the rear bumper to the driver’s side of the vehicle. Sam stopped, peeked around the corner.
Thule was still leaning into the Toyota, with only his legs visible. Sam eyed the distance between them: five feet. He extended his leg, carefully planted his foot, and began shifting his weight forward.
Thule whipped around. Clutched in his hand was a stainless-steel revolver.
“Stop, Mr. Fargo.”
Sam stopped.
“Stand up.” Thule’s charmingly stunted speech had vanished. Only a slight accent remained.
Sam stood up. He said, “Something tells me we should have checked your ID when you offered.”
“That would have been wise.”
“How much did they pay you?”
“For rich people like you and your wife, a pittance. For me, five years’ worth of wages. Do you want to offer me more?”
“Would it do any good?”
“No. The people made it clear what would happen to me if I betrayed them.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam could see the river had begun expanding outward, and, far behind, the rush of water was gaining in volume. Sam knew he needed to play for time. Hopefully, the man before him would let down his guard, if only momentarily.
“Where’s the real Thule?” Sam asked.
“Two feet to your right.
“You killed him.”
“It was part of the task. Once the waters recede, he will be found along with you and your wife, his head crushed by the rocks.”
“Along with you.”
“Pardon?”
“Unless you have a spare spark ignition wire laying around,” Sam replied, patting his jacket pocket.
On impulse, Thule’s eyes darted toward the Toyota’s interior. Anticipating this, Sam had started moving even as he’d patted his pocket. He was in midleap, his hands a foot from Thule, when the man spun back around, the barrel of his revolver lashing out; it caught Sam high on the forehead, a glancing blow that nevertheless gashed his scalp. He stumbled backward and dropped to his knees, gasping.
Thule stepped forward and cocked his leg. Sam saw the kick coming and braced himself while trying to roll away. The top of Thule’s foot slammed into his side and flipped him onto his back.
“Sam!” shouted Remi.
He rolled his head to the right and saw Remi sprinting toward him.
“Get the gear!” Sam croaked. “Follow me!”
“Follow you? Follow you where?”
The Toyota’s engine grumbled to life.
Moving on instinct, Sam rolled onto his belly, pushed himself onto his knees, then got to his feet. He stumbled toward the nearest lantern, six feet to his left. Through his pain-hazed vision he saw, down the ravine, a twenty-foot-tall wave of white water churning through the slot. Sam snatched the lantern off the pole with his left hand, then turned back toward the Toyota and forced his legs into a shuffling sprint.
The Toyota’s transmission engaged, the wheels sprayed gravel, peppering Sam’s lower legs. He ignored it and kept moving. As the Toyota lurched forward, Sam jumped. His left leg landed on the rear bumper; he clamped his right hand on the roof rack’s rail.
The Toyota surged ahead, fishtailing on the gravel and jerking Sam from side to side. He held on, pulled himself closer to the cargo hatch. Thule straightened the Toyota out and sped toward the ravine entrance, now fifty yards away. Sam stuck the lantern’s handle between his teeth and used his left hand to turn the wick knob. The flame guttered, then brightened. He grasped the lantern in his left hand again.
“One chance,” Sam muttered to himself.
He took a breath, let the lantern dangle at arm’s length for a moment, then heaved it like a grenade. The lantern twirled upward over the Toyota’s roof and crashed onto the hood, shattering. Flaming kerosene splashed across the windshield.
The effect was immediate and dramatic. Startled by the wave of fire across his windshield, Thule panicked, jerking the wheel first left, then right, the double slewing motion sending the Toyota up on two wheels. Sam lost his grip. He felt himself flying. Saw the ground rushing toward him. He curled himself into a ball at the last instant, smashed into the ground on his hip, and let himself roll. Dully in the back of his mind he heard a crash; glass shattering and the crunch of metal. He rolled over, blinked his vision clear.
The Toyota had crashed with its hood wedged into the narrow rock arch.
Sam heard footsteps, then Remi’s voice as she knelt beside him: “Sam . . . Sam! Are you hurt?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“You’re bleeding.”
Sam touched his fingers to his forehead and looked at the blood. “Scalp wound,” he muttered. He grabbed a handful of dirt from the ground and patted it on the wound.
Remi said, “Sam, don’t-”
“See? All better.”
“Anything broken?”
“Not that I can tell. Help me up.”
She ducked under his shoulder, and they stood up together.
Sam asked, “Where’s the-”
In answer to his question, water washed across their feet. Within seconds, it rose to their ankles.
“Speak of the devil,” Sam said. In unison, they turned around. Water was rushing through the northern end of the ravine.
The water was roiling around their calves.
“That’s cold,” Remi said.
“Cold doesn’t even begin to describe it,” Sam replied. “Our gear?”
“Everything worthwhile is in my pack,” Remi replied, turning her shoulder so he could see it. “Is he dead?”
“Either that or unconscious. If not, I think he’d be shooting at us by now. We need to get that thing started. It’s our only chance to outrun the flood.”
They headed toward the Toyota, Remi in the lead and Sam limping behind her. She slowed as she reached the vehicle’s rear bumper, then crept around to the driver’s door and peeked inside.
She called, “He’s out.”
Sam shuffled up, and together they opened the door and dragged Thule out. He plunged into the water.
To Remi’s unspoken question Sam said, “We can’t worry about him. In a minute or so this is all going to be underwater.”
Remi climbed into the Toyota and across to the passenger’s seat. Sam followed and slammed the door shut behind him. He turned the key. The starter whined and clicked, but the engine refused to start.
“Come on . . .” Sam muttered.
He turned the key again. The engine caught, sputtered, died.
“One more time,” Remi said, gave him a smile and held up crossed fingers.