He felt her reach down and touch his neck as if for reassurance.
“How far are they?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe five hundred feet?”
“You’re doing great,” he said.
“Oh, Jesus,” she said after a beat. “Someone’s coming outside.”
“Which trailer?”
“The second one. Now two men. Nate, one of them has a long rifle or a shotgun. They’re standing there looking our way.”
“Is he aiming the weapon?”
“Sorta.”
“Is he aiming it at you or not?”
“He’s kind of holding it at port arms,” she said, an edge of panic in her voice.
“Good,” Nate said. “Keep going. Don’t flinch. They recognize the vehicle. They think we’re on their team.”
“Oh my God,” she said, her voice tight. “There’s John Nemecek. He just came out of the first trailer.”
“Keep going,” Nate said. “Smile at them if you can.”
Joe and Dan Hinkle were twenty yards from the bank of the river. There was so little current this high up in the mountains it barely made a sound, just a muffled gurgle as it muscled around exposed river rocks.
The muzzles of both guns were pressed into him, one at the base of his skull and the other in the small of his back. Joe felt dead inside and his feet seemed to propel him forward of their own accord. He thought, There is no way they’ll let me go.
He thought about what he could do to get away. If he were in a movie, he’d spin and drop-kick the weapons away and head-butt Hinkle into submission. Or simply break and run, juking and jiving, while Hinkle fired and missed. But this was real and there were two guns pressed against him. He didn’t know how to drop-kick. And Hinkle was trained and skillful and wouldn’t miss.
Ahead of him, across the river, three men had emerged from the two trailers. All three were facing the oncoming white SUV and apparently hadn’t seen Joe and Hinkle yet. One of them, tall and fit and commanding in looks and presence, looked like the person Marybeth had described meeting in the library. Nemecek stood ramrod-straight, hands on hips, his head bowed slightly forward as if he was peering ahead from beneath his brow. The other two men, both young and hard, one in all-black clothing and the other wearing a desert camo vest over a Henley shirt, flanked Nemecek. The man in all black carried a semiautomatic rifle.
The three stood expectant, waiting for the arrival of the white SUV.
“They’re just standing there,” Haley said to Nate. “Nemecek turned and said something to the man with the gun and he lowered it. I think Nemecek recognizes me.”
“How close are they?”
“A hundred feet, maybe less.”
“He’s confused for a second,” Nate said. “He wasn’t expecting you.”
“Now he’s turning back around toward me, staring. Nate …” The fear in her voice was palpable.
Nate said, “Floor it.”
The SUV came fast, Joe thought. Too fast. But then the motor roared and the Tahoe rocked and accelerated and he heard Hinkle gasp behind him.
It happened in an instant. The man in black with the rifle shouted and leaped to the side, in Joe and Hinkle’s direction. Nemecek jumped back the other way and flattened himself against the first trailer. But the man in the desert camo was caught in the middle and hit solid and tossed over the hood and roof of the Tahoe with a sickening thump.
Hinkle said, “What the fuck just happened?”
“Got one!” Haley shouted, hitting the brakes before she crashed head-on into the front of the second trailer.
Before they’d completely stopped, Nate reached up for the passenger door handle and launched himself outside. He hit the turf hard on his injured shoulder, rolled, and staggered to his feet.
Yarak.
The man in black who’d dived away scrambled to his feet a few yards away, his face and hands muddy, the rifle in his grip. Nate shot him in the neck, practically decapitating the body before it hit the ground.
Nate wheeled on his heels, cocking the hammer back with his left thumb in the same movement, and finished off the injured operative in the grass.
Then he turned on Nemecek, who was still against his trailer but was reaching behind his back — likely for his .45 Colt semiauto. Nate could see the impression of body armor under Nemecek’s sweater, but it didn’t matter. The .500 exploded twice. The first shot shattered Nemecek’s right shoulder and painted the trailer behind him with a crazy starburst of blood, and the second bullet hit Nemecek square in his upper-left thigh, annihilating the bones and dropping him like a bag of sand.
Nate caught a glimpse of Haley as she bailed out of the Tahoe with her rifle. He was proud of her, and his blood was up. He loped across the grass, found Nemecek’s .45 in the tall grass, and tossed it away behind him. He reached down and grasped Nemecek’s collar and pulled him away from the trailer so he was prevented from rolling under it, then dropped both of his knees on Nemecek’s chest and shoved the muzzle of his revolver under his old commander’s chin.
“Before you die,” Nate seethed, bending down so his eyes were six inches from Nemecek’s, “I need some answers.”
Joe had seen it all, and was stunned by the speed and violence of what had taken place in front of him. He stumbled and nearly lost his footing in the shallow river as Hinkle shoved him across, running now, but maintaining contact with the two weapons as they splashed across.
The woman who’d emerged from the Tahoe, the woman who’d run over the man in desert camo and scattered the others, stood with her back to them, cradling a carbine, looking at Nate hunched over Nemecek near the trailer. She was young but clearly capable, and she looked over her shoulder as Hinkle cleared one of the Glocks and aimed it over Joe’s shoulder at her — the gun inches from Joe’s ear — and shouted, “Hey!”
She hesitated when she saw the two red uniform shirts, didn’t raise her rifle, and Hinkle’s Glock snapped three concussive shots and she went down. Joe instantly lost hearing in his right ear, and it was replaced by a dull roar.
At the sound of the shout and the shots, Nate looked up from where he’d pinned Nemecek to the ground. His eyes darted to the woman on the ground and then up to Joe and Hinkle. Joe had never seen such a murderous look in any man’s face in his life.
“Get off of him!” Hinkle shouted to Nate. “I’ve got your buddy here.”
Nate didn’t move. His expression was ferocious and fixed on Joe.
No, Joe thought. Not at him. But at Hinkle behind him, who peered out at Nate over Joe’s right shoulder. Hinkle aimed the Glock at Nate down his extended right arm, which rested on Joe’s shoulder. The other weapon was still in the small of Joe’s back.
Joe found himself straining hard against the cuffs, as if trying to pull them apart. Because Hinkle hadn’t closed them hard, there was some play. The cuff on his right hand had slipped free almost to mid-thumb, and the steel bit hard. But he didn’t know how he could possibly shed one without breaking bones in his hand. The pain was searing.
Joe willed Nate to look at him, to look into his eyes. …
Nate shifted his glare from the shooter holding Joe — the man who’d shot Haley — to Joe. His friend’s face was white with pain. Had he been hit?
Then he saw Joe relax slightly. He was trying to get his attention and tell him something without speaking. There was blood on his right ear.