too. He already knew the result. And he knew that Bud Longbrake Sr. had died three days before. He’d never come out of the coma, and to Nate it was a bittersweet ending. An incomplete ending. He was not satisfied.
When Nate heard the sound of a car motor coming from the west, he wasn’t alarmed. He squatted and repacked his things into his duffel bag. When he returned, he’d begin rebuilding his stone house, making it habitable and secure for the winter ahead. He’d need to lay in meat and wood, and repair the well that had been knocked over by yahoos.
Although he couldn’t see the vehicle yet, he recognized the particular sound of the motor. It wasn’t Joe’s pickup or Marybeth’s van.
Squinting toward the sound, Nate took his holster down from the peg and slid it on and strapped it tight.
Large Merle’s 1978 Dodge Power Wagon ground over the top of the distant western rise, and the cracked windshield caught a brilliant flash of morning sun. Nate stepped behind the trunk of the cottonwood tree and waited. Merle drove slowly, and swerved from side to side, the front wheels climbing out of the two-track and wandering away a few feet before being turned back in.
Was Large Merle already drunk so early in the morning?
Slowly, the old 4x4 drew closer. Nate could see Merle’s unmistakable woolly profile through the windshield. There was no passenger. Nate expected Merle to brake to a stop next to his Jeep, but he drove slowly right by it. As he did, Nate could see Merle’s head slumped forward, chin on his chest, eyes closed.
“Merle!”
The vehicle rolled over Nate’s old vegetable garden, headed straight for the stone house.
And he watched the Dodge drive head-on into the side wall of his house with a heavy crunch. The wall was solid, though, and didn’t collapse. The motor coughed twice and died.
As Nate approached the rear of the Dodge with his hand on his .500, ready to draw, Merle’s door opened and the big man tumbled out and landed sloppily and heavily on the dry grass. His feet remained in the car and he lay on his back, his mouth open and gasping, his blood-soaked hands clutching his belly.
“Jesus,” Nate said. “Merle?”
Large Merle rolled his head over toward Nate. His face was ashen. He spoke through gritted teeth. “That girl . . . that Montana girl. She was a scout.”
Nate didn’t understand at first. Then he did. The girl who’d seduced Merle, who’d asked him to come to Montana with her. She had been sent out to find him. And to find Nate as well. And she’d succeeded.
He winced as he got closer to Merle and could see that his friend was clutching at his huge belly in an attempt to keep slick yards of blue-colored intestines from rolling out. He’d been gutted.
“The Five,” Merle said. “They’ve deployed.”
The author would like to thank everyone who assisted in the research, reading, editing, promotion, and publication of this novel, including Tim Curley, Lonie Hardenbrook, Ryan Lewis, Bob Budd, Max Maxfield, Karen Wheeler, Sherry Merryman, Doug Lyle, M.D., Roxanne Box, Molly Box, Laurie Box, Mark Nelson, Terry Mackey, and Bob Baker.
Kudos to Don Hajicek for cjbox.net and Jennifer Fonnesbeck for the Facebook page.
Special thanks and recognition goes to the wonderful Ann Rittenberg as well as the champion Putnam team of Ivan Held, Michael Barson, and the legendary Neil Nyren.
ALSO BY C. J. BOX
THE JOE PICKETT NOVELS
THE STAND-ALONE NOVELS
