Leland had shown himself moving so the cops would think he was heading toward the cabin. He knew they would move to ambush him as he came in from the point. After moving back into the shadows, he had dropped to the ground and slipped into the water on the far side of the finger of land. He knew they wouldn’t expect him to flank them underwater. Swimming submerged without disturbing the surface was never hard, but with the wind rippling the surface, it was downright easy. Animals in the swamp survived by knowing how things that mattered worked, doing whatever it took to live another day. Leland had not watched and hunted critters without learning how they worked things.
Lying in the shallows like a gator, he had watched the cops take up positions, marked the closest landmark to them-the cattails, which were roughly at a ninety-degree angle from where the cops had set up. Shouldering the 66 underwater, he broke the surface, knowing the pair would be aiming in the wrong place, and Leland gave the barrel only enough time to clear itself of water to fire at the closest cop’s head.
The woman had seen Leland come up, and he’d have had her nailed, too, but the man didn’t fall out of the way fast enough. He’d hit the little bald cop in his stupid head. Leland had seen the red marks blossom as the bullets hit home. The gal cop’s gun went off, but missed Leland by a mile. The woman had scrambled behind a tree and turned her shotgun on him, but she wasn’t quick enough, so he was almost completely underwater before she shot.
He slipped out of the water well away from where he’d gone under, felt a sharp burn in his side, and realized she’d been luckier than he’d imagined. She’d got him. He was bleeding, but the pellets had done little more than cut a couple of shallow channels in him, maybe broken a rib or two. As he lay there, he saw one of the other cops, this one wearing camouflage like a hunter and carrying a rifle, pass within ten feet of where he lay. Leland wished he had a rifle like the one the cop had. Shooting through a motor like it had, it would be even better at shooting through those vests.
He felt a bulge under the skin lodged between his ribs and pushed it this way and that until the dislodged object just plopped out of the hole where another one had gone through. He looked at the little round piece of lead, which was warped out of round. He inhaled; it felt like somebody was jabbing a sharp stick into his side.
He took a scoop of mud and pressed it into a piece of Spanish moss and stuck that to the wounds. He moved silently, going around his cabin, toting the 66. The more he thought about it, the more Leland really wanted one of those big rifles. He smiled, because he knew where to get one.
He could go deep into the swamps and evade any cops or searchers that showed up. But this was his place, and he wasn’t going to allow these strangers to defile his place. When you have something worth having, you do what you have to in order to keep it.
85
Detective Kennedy’s wounded leg throbbed to the rhythm of his heartbeats. It hurt like hell, but, he knew, not nearly as badly as it was going to. Bond had cut into his pant leg so he could see the tiny hole below his right knee that, thanks to the tourniquet, was merely oozing a trail of bright blood. Bond had raised Kyler’s leg using two Y-shaped limbs, with their Y’s acting as supports, their lengths forming a bipod. Kyler had set his Glock in his lap and laid the Winchester. 270 by his side.
Shortly after Bond had left to circle around to where Agent Keen and Manseur had gone, hoping to head off Leland Ticholet’s escape, several twenty-two rounds had sounded. They’d been instantly answered by two shotgun blasts.
Kyler had wanted to be a Homicide detective since joining the force, having moved up from patrol due to hard work and making the right connections.
The detective closed his eyes to better concentrate on sounds coming across the channel from the other bank. He didn’t dare use his radio, because he could give away Bond’s or Manseur’s position to Leland Ticholet. He had faith that between Bond and Manseur, things would end for Leland shortly. He knew Alexa Keen’s reputation for closing cases, but, as far as he knew, none of it involved dealing with this kind of violence.
Kyler felt a sting on his cheek and slapped the mosquito that was feeding there. He wondered why the little bloodsucker didn’t land on his leg and drink without piercing the skin. He was probably lying in poison ivy or in chigger-infested brush, and if he were being attacked by the mite-sized parasites, he’d pay a terrible price later on.
He closed his eyes and felt the cool wind on his face, and the sweat gathering underneath his clothes.
He shifted and reached for the Winchester. 270, but felt only the ground. He looked down and saw, to his horror, that his rifle had vanished. He smelled Leland Ticholet, and had the Glock in his hand a split second before the butt plate of his Winchester crashed into the side of his head, ending his panic.
86
Manseur was in excruciating pain. Kennedy was on the other point, separated from them by the inlet. Leland, who might or might not be wounded, could be anywhere. Bond and Alexa had to figure out some way to take Leland out of the picture. Bond tried to reach Kennedy by radio.
“He isn’t answering,” Bond reported. “Might have his unit turned off.”
“I hope so, but I doubt it. Leland isn’t someone to underestimate. He killed two game wardens and Deputy Boudreaux.”
“He killed those wardens?” Bond asked.
“I found a Wildlife and Fisheries badge inside the cabin. They were on Leland’s trail for selling alligators or something. They got this far, but I doubt they got out alive. We have to assume Leland flanked us and has Kennedy’s weapons,” Alexa said. “If he does, what are we facing?”
“Two-seventy rifle, shoots on the money to four hundred yards. The rounds will totally ignore these vests,” Bond answered. “He had maybe forty rounds with him, minus what he used up. Plus his Glock. 40 and three magazines.”
Alexa said, “He can pick us off as he sees us. And we can also assume he’s taken Kennedy’s vest.”
“Possible,” Bond agreed. “We’ll just shoot him in the head, or blow off one of his limbs.”
“We have to see him first,” Alexa reminded Bond.
“Any ideas?”
“He’s wired tightly, primitive emotionally. I’m going to really piss him off and see if he overreacts.”
“How?” Bond wondered.
“Boys and their toys,” Alexa replied, smiling grimly.
87
Leland put on the cop’s vest. It was a tight fit even after he loosened the straps to let it out. Once he cinched it, the vest did an admirable job holding the compress in place. Leland rubbed mud on his face, head and neck, shoulders and legs. The breeze would dry it quickly. Putting aside the 66, he lifted the pistol and the Winchester and filled his mouth with rifle bullets. Leland watched the shore across the channel from cover, looking through the rifle’s scope for movement that would give away the cops’ positions.
He moved the scope to inspect the hull and transom of his boat for holes, and to see those in the motor’s cowling. Those sons of bitches. They’ll pay dear for screwing with my boat.
He knew he could swap out his motor with the game warden’s, which he had hidden nearby under leaves and brush. He’d caulk the holes in the fiberglass hull. The vessel’s bow was lodged on the muddy bank just enough to anchor it. As he watched, he was sure he saw the boat move. He watched it more closely, knowing there wasn’t
