I didn’t hesitate, didn’t pause for conscious thought, just pointed the gun in the right direction as though there were nothing between us and fired a volley of six shots in a tight circle. The rounds went through my side of the cabin without complaint. I hoped they would pass through the other side as easily.
Fools seldom differ. A trail of exit holes mushroomed in the wooden siding two feet to my right. One glanced off the barrel of the Remington, knocking it out of my loose grip. I fell back to the corner. Stalemate once again.
Except that I had only seven bullets left. My opponent might have a thousand times that. All he had to do was wait me out.
But then I caught a break. As though toying with us, the sun cast its beam over the earth again. Once again it was fleeting, rolling over the dead grass and the sparse trees on the incline before disappearing behind the trees on the western ridge.
But before it did so, it glinted off of a wing mirror.
I squinted and made out a green pickup truck, partially obscured behind trees. Virtually invisible to the casual glance, but clear enough once you knew where to look. I made the range around seventy yards, which meant I hadn’t a chance in hell of hitting it with the Beretta. But with the Remington…
I glanced around the corner again fleetingly, just in case the shooter was there. It was clear, so I took a longer peek. The Remington was ten feet from my position.
A voice rang out, sure and clear.
“You can come on out, partner. I ain’t gonna hurt you.” The voice cleared one thing up. The smooth Southern delivery. The “partner” that sounded at once completely natural and carefully studied. It was Wardell all right. “Got to say, though,” he continued, “I’d be mighty grateful if you’d toss that weapon first.”
I ignored him, knowing that the aw-shucks good humor was about as trustworthy as a crocodile’s tears. I got down low and inched around the corner again. My outstretched left hand reached for the Remington. Five feet, three. My fingers closed around the barrel just as a hawk screeched from somewhere back in the tree line. Another burst of AK-47 fire ripped through the siding as I scrambled back for cover. I felt a sting an inch below my right eye and reached my hand up, plucking out a thin splinter of wood half dipped in crimson.
“What happened to not hurting me?” I yelled, covering the noise as I checked the magazine to confirm the Remington had been loaded with the Win Mag cartridges from the box inside.
“My finger slipped. Come on out.”
“If it’s okay with you, I’ll wait a few minutes.”
There was a pause, and I wondered if that meant the seed I’d tried to plant was taking root. I braced the butt of the Remington against my right shoulder and found the pickup in the scope. The angle it was parked, I could see three out of four tires. I took a bead on each and practiced sighting and firing. One, two, three.
When the voice returned, it was business as usual on the surface, but something was firming up beneath it. “You’re, uh… you’re starting to try my patience here a little, partner.”
I didn’t answer. Not with words, anyway.
One. Two. Three. All three visible tires on the pickup blew out. I put another round through the driver’s side of the windshield and two in the engine block, just for good measure. Six shots, all on target. I was no Caleb Wardell, but it wasn’t too shabby.
I hit the ground again and switched back to the Beretta as I heard a surprised curse and the sound of running feet. I swung out from the corner again to see Wardell coming around the side, opening up with the AK. He was expecting me to be higher up, so his first burst went high. I flinched and the five shots I squeezed off went wide too. I saw Wardell roll behind the porch of the neighboring cabin.
“Shit,” I said as quietly as I could manage. I was down to two bullets and one hope in hell. “Stick around,” I yelled. “I’m beginning to enjoy myself.”
No snappy comeback this time, just the still silence of a smart man considering his options. And then the sound of another magazine clicking into place. I flattened against the ground and braced myself. There was a sustained burst from the AK. It was difficult to be sure, but it sounded like it was moving right to left. The poor, abused cabin took a few dozen more hits, the siding splintering a good four feet above my head. He was making no effort to actually hit me, which meant it was covering fire. Which meant that maybe, just maybe, my ruse had worked.
By taking out Wardell’s vehicle, I’d turned the tables somewhat, made full use of an information deficit. Wardell had gone from a strong position to one of uncertainty. Without the pickup truck for a guaranteed getaway, he couldn’t afford to just wait me out, not when there was no way of telling how far away my backup might be. Maybe that’s what I had meant about waiting a few minutes. Maybe I was waiting him out.
With an effort of will, I slowed my breathing and kept still, listened. A minute, two, five. I kept listening.
I’m a pretty good listener. With a regular shooter, I’d be one hundred percent satisfied that the scene was clear, but with a Marine sniper, stealth is the name of the game. I started to wonder how long I was going to have to leave it, what it would take to convince me he’d bolted. And then, somewhere in the distance, I heard a starter motor catch and an engine roar to life. A familiar-sounding engine.
Good news, bad news. I was now pretty certain Caleb Wardell was no longer on the scene. I was pretty certain, because the son of a bitch had just stolen my car.
34
Who in the hell was that? The question rode alongside Wardell like a nagging bitch wife as he forced the elegant Cadillac to traverse the rutted country track as though it were a well-used Jeep.
The man in the cabin had been a white squall at the end of a long period of plain sailing. From the moment Wardell had departed Fort Dodge, everything had gone like a dream. Better, in fact. He’d expected that it might be a little difficult getting to Nebraska, that he might be expected when he got there. But no; the feds were apparently hundreds of miles away with their thumbs wedged firmly up their assholes.
So who in the hell was that, then?
Probably not FBI; that was Wardell’s first thought. Feds, like cops the world over, traveled in pairs. They tended not to move with such practiced ease under fire, either. Despite all the training, being fired upon just isn’t a common enough occurrence for a federal agent to get used to. This guy, though… this guy moved as though he had been born into a gunfight and hadn’t backed out of one since. Wardell had had everything on his side: the element of surprise, a choice of OPs, multiple weapons, and plenty of ammunition courtesy of Nolan. And yet this other man had held his own, put Wardell on the back foot, and achieved a stalemate. Not a fed or a cop, so who?
Wardell put the thought on hold again as he slowed on the approach to a larger road and swung out to the right, the Cadillac’s tires gratefully receiving the smooth asphalt. It seemed to Wardell that there were three possibilities.
One: The man in the cabin was completely unrelated to the manhunt. He was meeting with Nolan for his own purposes and just happened to get caught up in the execution of Wardell’s business.
Two: The man was a free agent. Some kind of bounty hunter looking to bag Wardell and claim the big reward. Was there a reward? Wardell hadn’t had time to check.
Three: The man in the cabin was not FBI, but he was working with them. And, by the looks of things, showing them up pretty handily.