I saw the outline of a back door across the kitchen and went for it. I tripped on something and my hand went out. I hit a stack of pots and pans and they clattered and banged on the floor like the end of the world.
“Shit!”
I ran for the back door but didn’t make it. The room flashed and thundered, buckshot pellets scorching the pots and pans next to me. Blake stood half in the kitchen doorway, firing blind at the sound. I spun quick, shot twice, and he ducked back.
Blake screamed, “Harris!”
I knew I needed to get out before Harris arrived, but I kept low when Blake swung the shotgun into the kitchen again and blasted buckshot over my head. I fired again just for the noise to make him back off, and tried to work the rusted slide bolt on the back door. I heard him pump another shell and hit the floor again just before he blasted. I shot at his feet, and he backed off again.
“Harris!” Blake screamed. “Goddamn it, I got him trapped in the snack bar. Get your ass over here.”
“You’re under arrest, Blake.” It was worth a try.
“Fuck you, Toby.” He stuck the shotgun around the corner and shot the ceiling.
I holstered the revolver and pulled Karl’s Glock. I aimed a foot left of the kitchen door where I imagined Blake stood ready to rush in and cut loose on me with the shotgun. I squeezed the trigger four times, chewed up the wall. The smoke hung thick from all the gunfire. I heard a grunt and a thud out in the front area of the concession stand.
I waited a second, kept the automatic aimed at the doorway. I heard a muffled groan. Good. Blake got his. Lie there and bleed, you son of a bitch.
I bashed the slide bolt open with the heel of my hand, and it finally came loose. I kicked the door hard, and it flew wide. I rushed out, the Glock leading the way.
The back of the concession stand: an old dumpster, a rusted junk car. Crappy picnic tables.
The first blast peppered the wall next to me. I dove for the ground. I saw the flash from the second blast. I felt a sting along my left leg and grunted.
Harris.
I looked up to see him breaking the breach on his double-barrel shotgun, thumbing in new shells. I shot at him and the slug tunked the dumpster. Harris ducked.
I got to my feet, ran and dove behind the junk car. I raised up just enough to look over the hood. I waited for his head to pop out for a look, so I could blast it off. He stayed put.
“Harris!” I called. “Harris, come out with your hands up. Throw out the gun, and you don’t have to end up like Blake.”
Maybe that would shake him up.
He didn’t say anything and didn’t show his face. I was-n’t eager to show mine either. I crouch-walked around the other side of the car toward the dumpster. I wondered if I was being as quiet as I hoped. I knew he was crouched on the other side of the dumpster. Hopefully I’d catch him looking in the wrong direction. I tried my best not to step on dry twigs or broken glass or anything else that might make a noise. The distant bonfire and the fading moonlight didn’t do a whole lot to help me see where I was putting each step.
I finally nosed around the corner of the dumpster and saw him squatting there, clutching the shotgun and keeping watch toward the rusted out car. I eased toward him, leveled the automatic. One more step, and another. A little closer.
“Don’t move, man.”
He tensed then said, “Shit.”
“I’m going to come get the shotgun. If you move, I’ll blast you to hell. You understand?”
“Yeah, I understand,” he said.
I moved in slowly, took the shotgun out of his hands and backed away. I flung it behind me out of reach. I did-n’t have any cuffs and wasn’t exactly sure what to do with him. But I did have some questions.
“How many you got out for me tonight? I know the Jordan boys are prowling around someplace.”
“Hey, fuck you, Deputy,” Harris said. “How ’bout we knock off the chit-chat and you just take me to jail.”
“Jail’s full,” I told him. “Maybe we’ll settle things here.”
“Bullshit.”
Yeah, it was bullshit, but shitbag Harris didn’t need to know that. And there was something about a guy squirting buckshot at you that got the heart pumping. If he so much as twitched an eyelash, I Goddamn would blow his head off.
“Are you in on smuggling the Mexicans?” I asked. “Or are you just a hired goon for the special occasion of hunting down Deputy Sawyer?”
“You’re so stupid. Take me off to the slammer, man. I’m not even going to need my one phone call. I’ll be pissing on your grave in an hour.”
I raised the pistol to smack Harris in the back of the head when the back door of the concession stand swung open.
Blake stumbled out, one shoulder soaked with blood. He barley held the shotgun with one hand, blasted it straight over our heads, the buckshot not even coming close. It was enough to distract me, and Harris sprang, one hand going to my throat, the other to my pistol. We tumbled to the ground together rolling in the dust, raising a cloud. Each of us kicked and twisted trying to get some kind of advantage.
The gun ended up between us, and we rolled and he ended on top and I pulled the trigger. The Glock barked, and Harris’s eyes went wide, his mouth falling open, saliva dripping. He strained to say something, but only managed to heave out this sad croak.
“Here’s one for the road,” I said.
I squeezed the trigger again, and he convulsed on top of me. His eyes closed, and I pushed him off. I got to my knees and saw Blake stumbling for me. He was trying to swing up the shotgun into his other hand, so he could pump in another shell, but the twelve gauge just dangled from his grip. He finally managed to pump in a shell. I brought up the pistol, and we faced each other. He looked like he could barely stand, might fall over any minute. He’d lost a lot of blood, and his face looked like chalk.
“Drop it, man,” I warned. “You’re all used up.”
A yellow smile spread across his face. “Toby Sawyer, you dumb half-assed musician pinhead bastard. You’re small time … you’re nothing. You’re walking around dead with a tin star on your chest.”
“I’ll last longer than you.”
He swallowed. “Maybe. Maybe not.”
And then the Mexicans were there. I don’t know how long they’d been silently moving up to encircle us, but they closed in, made a ring around us, men in front, the dim faces of women beyond. Even in the darkness I could feel them, the thick mass of humanity all bearing down like a single thing with one mind focused on Blake.
He swung the shotgun in a circle, stumbled. Not one of the Mexicans flinched. Didn’t even blink. Blake shook the scatter gun at them. “You get back, you wetback fuckers.”
“Who you going to shoot, Blake? They’ll be on you before you can pump in another one.”
“Maybe I’ll save the last shot for you,” Blake said. “That’d be some satisfaction anyway.”
“Big mistake. I can take you into custody, get you patched up. Or you can take your chance with these folks.”
“Listen at you,” Blake said. “Talking like a for real law man. Well, you can shove your protective custody straight up your ass, you ass … hole …” His eyes rolled up, and he toppled forward, his face bouncing off the hard-packed dirt.
We gathered around, watched to see if he’d get back up. He didn’t. I thought he might have kicked it, so I knelt, put a hand on his chest, felt a heartbeat. He was breathing.
“Can you guys try to patch him up?” I asked. “Just until I can send somebody back for him. There’s probably some towels or something in the concession stand. Just staunch the bleeding if you can.”
The kid and Enrique looked at each other, then back at me.