I rose just enough to peer around the area, looking for any sign he wasn’t alone. The forest was still and quiet. I opened my mouth . . . and caught a movement to Diaz’s right, a dark shape slipping through the trees.
Son of a bitch! Double-crossing—
Sunlight glinted off a gun. A sawed-off shotgun. Very clearly
not
pointed at me.
“Diaz!” I shouted. “Get—!”
The shotgun fired. Diaz went down. I was halfway to my feet. I froze and had to lock my knees to keep from dropping so fast I’d be spotted. Gaze fixed on that shotgun, I lowered myself slowly back to a crouch. I almost fell doing it, my head swimming, as if in delayed reaction to jumping up. I blinked hard and rubbed my face with my free hand. Then I hunkered there, my gun poised, trying to get a clear shot, but the guy was on the move, walking toward Diaz, who lay moaning on the ground. The gunman walked right up to Diaz, aimed the shotgun and—
I fired. Even as I pulled the trigger, I knew my angle wasn’t good enough. The gunman staggered back, the shot catching him in the side. He swung the shotgun in my direction. He fired. I hit the ground hard. A couple of pellets ripped into my shoulder and side. I raised my gun. A blur of movement as Diaz grabbed the guy’s leg.
Damn it, no, Diaz. Don’t—
I fired mid-thought. So did the guy with the shotgun. He swung it on Diaz and fired and my bullet hit him a split-second later, catching him square in the chest and he went down.
I pushed up—too fast—and nearly passed out. Teeth gritted, I stood and staggered toward them, my gun ready, my gaze on that shotgun, still in the guy’s hand. The barrel lifted, barely half an inch, shaking hard. I was about to squeeze my trigger when the shotgun fell and the guy let out a long hiss and went still.
I continued toward them, slowly and carefully, still aiming in case the shooter was faking. When I was close enough, I kicked the shotgun. It fell out of his hands. I checked for a pulse. None. Then I turned to Diaz.
There wasn’t any need to check for Diaz’s pulse. The guy had aimed that shotgun at his head, point-blank range. I swallowed and turned away. Even that movement seemed too much, as if my body had hit its limit. I tried to lower myself to the ground and got halfway down before collapsing.
I blacked out for a second. When I came to, it took a few more seconds to orient myself. Then I saw Diaz and remembered what was happening. I needed to get out of here. Those three guys weren’t working on their own—they were very obviously hired thugs, and their handler would be tracking them by GPS. When they didn’t call in an update—
As if on cue, a phone vibrated from the pocket of the guy with the shotgun. I fished the cell out. The caller ID only said “Juan,” but I knew it wasn’t a buddy calling to see if he wanted to come over and watch the game.
I pocketed the phone. I needed to get out of here. Just get up and . . .
Halfway to my feet, I swayed, the world dipping and darkening. I quickly lowered myself again.
I might be able to get as far as the cars, but neither vehicle was in any condition to get me out of here, and I didn’t know where Diaz left his.
I just needed to get someplace temporarily safe. Someplace I could rest and assess my injuries.
I took the guy’s belt to use as a tourniquet and checked his pockets for anything else I could use. A wallet—probably fake ID, but I grabbed that. A pocket knife. Might as well take it, too.
I put the small stuff into my pockets and crawled to Diaz and the other guys. I emptied their pockets, taking cell phones, wallets, car keys and weapons. That’s a lot to carry, but if I had to hunker down in rough shape, preparing to fend off more attackers, I was building an arsenal.
With everything stashed and the shotgun in hand, I rose at the rate of a ninety-nine-year-old with bad knees. At least the slow movement kept my head from swimming. I got upright and then continued at that
Son of a bitch! Double-crossing—
Sunlight glinted off a gun. A sawed-off shotgun. Very clearly
not
pointed at me.
“Diaz!” I shouted. “Get—!”
The shotgun fired. Diaz went down. I was halfway to my feet. I froze and had to lock my knees to keep from dropping so fast I’d be spotted. Gaze fixed on that shotgun, I lowered myself slowly back to a crouch. I almost fell doing it, my head swimming, as if in delayed reaction to jumping up. I blinked hard and rubbed my face with my free hand. Then I hunkered there, my gun poised, trying to get a clear shot, but the guy was on the move, walking toward Diaz, who lay moaning on the ground. The gunman walked right up to Diaz, aimed the shotgun and—
I fired. Even as I pulled the trigger, I knew my angle wasn’t good enough. The gunman staggered back, the shot catching him in the side. He swung the shotgun in my direction. He fired. I hit the ground hard. A couple of pellets ripped into my shoulder and side. I raised my gun. A blur of movement as Diaz grabbed the guy’s leg.
Damn it, no, Diaz. Don’t—
I fired mid-thought. So did the guy with the shotgun. He swung it on Diaz and fired and my bullet hit him a split-second later, catching him square in the chest and he went down.
I pushed up—too fast—and nearly passed out. Teeth gritted, I stood and staggered toward them, my gun ready, my gaze on that shotgun, still in the guy’s hand. The barrel lifted, barely half an inch, shaking hard. I was about to squeeze my trigger when the shotgun fell and the guy let out a long hiss and went still.
I continued toward them, slowly and carefully, still aiming in case the shooter was faking. When I was close enough, I kicked the shotgun. It fell out of his hands. I checked for a pulse. None. Then I turned to Diaz.
There wasn’t any need to check for Diaz’s pulse. The guy had aimed that shotgun at his head, point-blank range. I swallowed and turned away. Even that movement seemed too much, as if my body had hit its limit. I tried to lower myself to the ground and got halfway down before collapsing.
I blacked out for a second. When I came to, it took a few more seconds to orient myself. Then I saw Diaz and remembered what was happening. I needed to get out of here. Those three guys weren’t working on their own—they were very obviously hired thugs, and their handler would be tracking them by GPS. When they didn’t call in an update—
As if on cue, a phone vibrated from the pocket of the guy with the shotgun. I fished the cell out. The caller ID only said “Juan,” but I knew it wasn’t a buddy calling to see if he wanted to come over and watch the game.
I pocketed the phone. I needed to get out of here. Just get up and . . .
Halfway to my feet, I swayed, the world dipping and darkening. I quickly lowered myself again.
I might be able to get as far as the cars, but neither vehicle was in any condition to get me out of here, and I didn’t know where Diaz left his.
I just needed to get someplace temporarily safe. Someplace I could rest and assess my injuries.
I took the guy’s belt to use as a tourniquet and checked his pockets for anything else I could use. A wallet—probably fake ID, but I grabbed that. A pocket knife. Might as well take it, too.
I put the small stuff into my pockets and crawled to Diaz and the other guys. I emptied their pockets, taking cell phones, wallets, car keys and weapons. That’s a lot to carry, but if I had to hunker down in rough shape, preparing to fend off more attackers, I was building an arsenal.
With everything stashed and the shotgun in hand, I rose at the rate of a ninety-nine-year-old with bad knees. At least the slow movement kept my head from swimming. I got upright and then continued at that
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