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.
Joe deliberately looked down at the top of his boots. Then slowly back up again.
Nate understood. Joe was going down.
Joe saw the look of recognition in Nate’s face and suddenly buckled his knees. As he dived forward, he bent his head down and set his shoulders for the fall.
There were three nearly simultaneous explosions, and Joe hit the ground so hard he was able to use the force of his body weight to wrench his hands apart.
Behind him, Hinkle’s body was thrown into the river from the impact of a. 50 caliber round plowing through his chest and out his back. But his last reaction was to fire both pistols. The one aimed at Joe had hit somewhere in the mud. Nate was hit, and it rolled him off Nemecek.
Joe writhed in the grass and dirt. White spangles exploded in front of his eyes from pain. Although he’d been trying to free his right hand, it was his left that had somehow been wrenched through the steel claw of the cuffs from the fall, breaking bones along the way. The pain in his left hand was sharp and awful and made him gasp for air. His injured hand felt like a boiling needle-filled balloon on the end of his arm.
He wasn’t sure if he blacked out for a moment, but when he opened his eyes he could see, at ground level, John Nemecek crawling through the grass, using his left hand and right leg. Nemecek’s face was a mask of anger and pain.
Joe raised his head slightly. Nemecek was going for the semiautomatic rifle dropped by the man in all black before Nate killed him.
Behind Nemecek, Nate lay on his side, his eyes open. He looked conscious.
Joe grunted and rolled to his hands and knees. His left hand was white and strangely elongated. The slightest pressure on it hurt like nothing Joe could recall. He looked around for a weapon. Hinkle had dropped two somewhere.
But when he looked over his shoulder, Nemecek was a few feet away from the rifle.
With his good ear, Joe heard Nemecek say, “Five shots, Romanowski. I counted.”
There was a dull black glint in the grass, and Joe closed his right hand around the grip of one of the Glocks. He rose up on his knees, swung around, and aimed it at Nemecek as he crawled.
Joe was a notoriously bad shot with a handgun. He qualified annually by the grace of God and a forgiving firearms instructor. He wished he had his shotgun, but he didn’t, and he croaked, “Freeze where you are, Nemecek.” His own voice sounded hollow and tinny to him.
Nemecek paused and looked up with contempt. His shoulder and leg were a bloody mess, and his face was pale and white. He was bleeding out and knew it. And Joe apparently didn’t scare him.
Like a wounded animal, Nemecek grimaced and crawled toward the rifle. As he reached for it, Joe started firing. Every third or fourth shot, it seemed, hit home. The impact rolled Nemecek to the side and when he tried to scramble back to his knees, he’d go down again. Joe didn’t stop squeezing the trigger until the slide kicked back and locked. Fourteen rounds. He’d emptied the magazine. Spent shells littered the ground near his knees.
As Joe lowered the Glock, he saw, to his terror and amazement, that Nemecek was crawling again toward the rifle.
Joe heard someone speak but couldn’t make out the words. He looked over to see Nate standing, bracing himself against the trailer. He was shaky. His empty revolver hung down along his thigh. Joe could see blood on the side of Nate’s coat.
“I said, He’s wearing a vest. ”
In response, Joe held up his empty handgun.
The two exchanged looks for a second. Neither, it seemed, was capable of stopping Nemecek before he grasped the rifle.
Then Joe remembered. He tossed the Glock aside and reached down into the front pocket of his Wranglers with his good hand. His fingers closed around the heavy. 500 round Nate had left in his mailbox.
“Nate,” Joe said, and tossed the cartridge through the air. Nate reached up and speared it.
Nemecek had made it to the rifle now, and was pulling it toward him with his left hand. He gripped it and swung the muzzle up.
Joe watched as Nate ejected a spent cartridge, fed the fresh one into the wheel, and slammed the cylinder home.
With a single movement and a sweep of Alisha’s black hair, Nate swung the weapon up.
Although the concussion was probably loud, Joe only heard a muffled pop.
Nemecek’s head snapped back, and the rifle fell away.
