Chapter 136 A Lifeline in the Mud
The water was impossibly cold.
That was the very first thing Dorian registered as his body slammed through the surface, a violent, ice-cold shock that instantly tore every bit of oxygen straight from his lungs. The heavy river current seized him without mercy, dragging him under and slamming his battered frame against the sharp rocks lining the riverbed. Hard edges scraped across his back, his legs, and his bleeding arms, tearing through what was left of his clothing.
He fought to breathe, but only sucked in freezing water. He tried to open his eyes, but saw nothing. He tried to listen for the sound of the rushing rapids, but his ears only rang with a deafening, hollow pressure.
Eventually, the wild roar in his head faded out entirely, replaced by absolute, heavy silence.
He was just drifting, completely at the mercy of the water. The winding current dragged his limp body down the canyon before finally tossing him toward a shallow bank.
His face scraped against coarse mud, wet grass, and frozen earth. Solid ground.
He was out of the river.
He lay there on his stomach, coughing weakly as frigid water spilled from his mouth and nose. His chest burned like it was filled with hot coals, and every breath felt like inhaling glass.
He tried to push himself up on his elbows.
Nothing happened. His arms refused to respond.
He tried to open his eyes to scan his surroundings.
Complete darkness. His vision was entirely gone.
He tried to listen for the sounds of the mountain or the mercenaries chasing him down.
Total silence.
He tried to part his lips and yell for help.
Not a single sound came out of his throat.
Blind. Deaf. Paralyzed.
The M-209 nerve agent had done its job, locking him inside a completely useless body.
Despite his physical state, his mind remained sharp and clear.
He knew exactly where the current had dumped him. This had to be the edge of the Giia Forest, the dense valley stretching out beneath the high cliffs. He had carefully studied the maps of this entire region before flying out, memorizing every trail and landmark. He knew the terrain by heart.
Unfortunately, knowing where he was didn’t mean anything if he couldn’t move a single muscle. He couldn’t crawl to safety, he couldn’t call out, and he certainly couldn’t defend himself if someone found him.
It was only a matter of time before the mercenaries made their way down the mountain trail to check the base of the cliff. They were professionals. They would check the riverbank, inspect his body, and put a bullet through his head to confirm the kill.
He had to get out of the open. He needed to find cover, find help, and survive this night.
Yet he was entirely helpless.
He tried to feel around his pockets for his phone, but he quickly realized it was gone, likely torn from his jacket when he hit the water at terminal velocity. He had zero ways to signal his location to his remaining men in the city.
A sudden wave of panic rose up in his chest, threatening to drown him from the inside out. He forced it down with raw discipline.
Think, he commanded himself, focusing every ounce of his willpower on his right hand. Move.
Nothing happened.
Then, after several seconds of intense effort, his index finger gave a tiny, barely noticeable twitch against the wet mud. That was all he could manage.
Footsteps were approaching.
Because his hearing was completely dead, he didn’t hear them coming. But lying flat against the ground, he felt the faint, rhythmic vibrations traveling through the dirt and wet grass.
Someone was walking straight toward him.
Dorian’s heart began to hammer violently against his ribs, his shallow breathing turning ragged.
The vibrations suddenly stopped.
Whoever it was, they were now standing directly beside his face.
He couldn’t see if it was one of the masked mercenaries coming to finish the job. He couldn’t hear the sound of a gun cocking. He couldn’t even brace himself to fight back.
All he could perceive was a sudden shift in the air, a subtle shadow blocking the cold wind, the slight warmth of a human body, and the subtle, clean scent of crushed wild flowers drifted past his nose.
It wasn’t a mercenary. It was a woman.
The woman stood completely frozen in place.
She had just been taking her usual shortcut through the edge of the forest when she spotted what looked like a pile of dark clothing tangled in the river weeds. Curious, she had cautiously approached, only to realize it was a grown man lying facedown in the mud, soaked in blood and shivering violently.
Fear instantly spiked through her chest, and she took a step back, turning on her heel, ready to sprint away and mind her own business.
Down on the ground, Dorian felt the distinct vibration of her boots turning away. She was leaving him here to die.
In a moment of pure desperation, Dorian opened his mouth wide and tried to scream with everything he had left.
To his own dead ears, he heard nothing at all. But he could feel the violent strain in his vocal cords and the deep vibration rattling through his chest as a raspy, painful gasp tore out of his throat.
The vibrations in the ground abruptly cut off.
She had stopped.
Dorian tried to speak again, but his throat was too dry and damaged to form words.
He focused all his remaining energy into his right hand, slowly dragging his arm through the mud to point down at the dirt. He tried to use his fingernail to trace letters on the ground, but his numb fingers simply wobbled, failing to make any coherent marks.
He felt the grass shift as the woman crouched down beside him. He could tell she was leaning in close, watching his struggling hand with a mix of fear and curiosity.
Dorian opened his mouth, carefully moving his tongue and lips to exaggerate the shapes of words without making a sound.
Paper. Pen.
The woman just stared at his face, her hands hovering nervously above her knees.
He tried a second time, moving his lips as slowly and clearly as he possibly could.
Paper. Pen. Please.
Understanding finally clicked.
She quickly reached into her canvas shoulder bag, her fingers scrambling through her things until she pulled out a small, worn paper notebook and a simple ballpoint pen.
She set the open notebook on the grass right beneath his trembling hand, placing the pen against his palm.
Dorian tried to wrap his fingers around the plastic barrel, but his hand was far too weak. He couldn’t get a proper grip, and the pen simply skittered across the smooth paper without leaving a single stroke of ink.
His muscles were completely unresponsive, trembling uselessly from the lingering nerve agent.
The woman watched his fruitless efforts, her eyes wide with concern.
Seeing him struggle, she reached down and gently wrapped her warm, soft hand directly over his frozen fingers. Her grip was steady and comforting against his icy skin.
With her guiding his movements, Dorian applied what little pressure he could muster, forcing the tip of the pen into the paper.
Slowly, line by line, he managed to write out a series of numbers. It was Butler Huge’s direct, private phone line.
The handwriting was shaky, crooked, and jagged, but thanks to her steadying his hand, the phone number was completely legible.
The woman carefully pulled the notebook away, studying the ten digits written across the page.
She pulled her own cell phone out of her jacket pocket and quickly typed the number in, pressing the call button and holding the speaker to her ear.
The line rang once. Twice. On the third ring, someone picked up.
"Hello?" a frantic, elderly voice barked through the speaker.
The woman took a quiet breath, her voice soft and trembling slightly as she looked down at the bleeding man. "Hello... I just found a man at the edge of the Giia Forest near the riverbank. He is severely injured and can’t speak or move, but he wrote this number down for me."
There was a sudden, sharp gasp on the other end of the line, followed by the loud sound of a chair scraping against the floor.
"Please," the woman added softly. "You need to come quickly. He’s in really bad shape."
"We are coming right now! Do not leave him!" the old man shouted back before the call abruptly disconnected.
She slipped her phone back into her pocket and looked down at Dorian. His eyes remained shut tight, his dark hair plastered against his pale forehead, and his body remained entirely rigid in the damp grass.
Slowly, she crouched back down beside him and picked up his cold, hand.
Using her index finger, she gently began to trace letters directly into the palm of his hand, writing out a message so he would know he wasn’t alone.