Seconds later, he was dead.
I turned toward the spot I had last heard Donato’s voice and began squeezing off rounds.
I had expected to receive fire in return, but Alpha was a combat veteran of Afghanistan and not prone to dumb panic. The moment he saw Hoyt collapse, he must have realized that he was outnumbered. Worse, he didn’t have a clue who had fired the arrow or where the archer was hiding.
I was pretty sure I knew. But I didn’t want to get my hopes up.
I swung the scope around for a peek at the cabin and found, to my relief, that Aimee and the kids had scooted under cover.
Donato must have had an escape vehicle stashed somewhere. He would be making for it now. The truck would have to be parked far enough down the Tantrattle Road that I hadn’t seen it from the gate.
I gambled that the men had all ridden in together, except for whoever had guarded their sacrificial lamb, Peaslee. I wasn’t sure how Gorman could have known where I was holed up, but he was a local with all kinds of connections, and it didn’t matter who’d told him.
A bullet ricocheted off the trunk above my head. Then another, ripping loose scales from the pine.
Donato had somehow circled around behind me.
I rolled over and over, trying to get the tree between us again.
For all my time stalking game and the tactical training I received each year, I had only been in a few firefights. Compared to a war fighter such as Donato, I was out of my depth. Pride had always been the chief of my vices, and now it was going to get me killed.
Except that Donato had other plans than to finish me. Maybe he feared the archer was too close.
I heard his heavy footsteps as he sprinted down the trail.
Those two shots had been suppressive fire; he’d needed a moment of me ducking my head to get past.
Leaves and pine needles stuck to my muddy clothes. Blood had plastered the knit cap to my head wound. I clawed my way to my feet.
I followed Donato down the trail. My pace was brisk: a jog not a run. I made sure to pause and scan the woods ahead in case my target had stepped off the path to attempt another ambush.
There were multiple sets of bootprints heading into the camp, but only one set heading out. From the depth and the heaviness of the toe marks, I could tell that Angelo Donato was running all out.
I picked up speed.
Suddenly I heard a single gunshot ahead.
I stopped short, raised my rifle. I became a Cyclops; my one eye was the scope.
Careful, careful.
Even before I reached the place where I’d knocked Crossman cold, I could guess what I would find. Donato had executed his unconscious collaborator. One less witness who might testify against him.
A moment later I heard a metallic screech. Donato, unable to vault the gate, had swung his legs over. He was opening his lead on me. I picked up my pace.
Once he got past my Scout, and Peaslee’s Ram, it would be a straight shot to his vehicle if it was hidden where I expected it to be hidden.
I had yanked the earpiece out of my ear minutes ago. But the pigtail wire was still attached to my body. When the radio crackled, I fumbled to push the receiver in place again. What I heard was a long scream.
Then groans, labored breaths, curses.
I advanced carefully, hearing only Donato’s side of the conversation, the words he could barely spit out.
“I should have known.”
Something unintelligible muttered in response.
“Fucking fool. She played you. She played everyone.”
Something more. Through the earpiece it sounded less like human speech and more like the grunt of some beast.
“Do it!”
The microphone picked up the thump of the arrow as it pierced Donato’s throat. There was some gurgling, then a crash, then a long stretch of nothing.
I trotted forward, but I was farther behind than I’d realized.
Because, before I could reach the gate, another man spoke through the radio. “Do you read me, Mike?” said Billy Cronk.
I fumbled to turn off the muting function. “I’m here.”
“Are they all OK?”
“Yeah, they’re safe, Billy.”
“Thank you.”
“Donato?”
“He won’t be getting up again.”
“I’m coming down.”
“I need to see Aimee and the kids. I’ll meet you halfway.”
He did.
43
Billy was still dressed in his prison blues, still wearing his size-fourteen sneakers. The crossbow was the one I had purchased at Fairbanks Firearms. He’d found it inside my Scout when he’d arrived and grabbed it as the only lethal weapon available.
“How did you get ahead of him?” I asked.
“You kept running toward where he was. I ran toward where he was going to be.”
Billy’s long blond hair hung loose about his shoulders. His cheeks were scratched from fighting his way through the underbrush. But his eyes were clear and bright. He seemed recharged.
“So you cut through the woods to get in front of him?”
“Barely did so. He was a fast mother.”
“I have so many questions, Billy.”
“I need to see my family first. You’re a smart guy, though. You’ll find a few answers down the road. We’ll be up at the cabin waiting for whatever comes next. It looks like a cozy place.”
“It is.”
He left me with the crossbow and a set of car keys. Then he strode up the trail, his broad shoulders visible for less than a minute before the fog dissolved his silhouette.
I continued downhill until I came to Donato’s lifeless body. I inspected the corpse. One crossbow bolt had pierced his lung. The other had split his Adam’s apple with the accuracy of William Tell.
Under his black jacket and shirt, Donato had been wearing a Class III ballistic vest not unlike the one I wore when on duty. Hoyt had probably been wearing similar protection. Irony
