“Sorry about your luck,” Pritchard said, and he kept making his way in the thick snow toward the car.
Perry seemed to be itching to make a stand, but he finally got with the program when Jeffrey moved left, following their lead. He understood that the plan wasn’t to get to the car and go. The plan was to get out of the range of the shotgun because no matter what Double said, none of them were stupid enough to believe he was going to let them walk off this mountain.
“Please,” Antonio begged. “Come on, man. You can’t—”
Pritchard slipped around the side of the car.
Jeffrey darted into the woods. He heard a gun blast as he dove to the ground, the air cracking like lightning from the sky.
Perry oofed as he landed beside Jeffrey. He didn’t move for a few seconds, and he wondered if the kid had been hit, but then Perry whispered, “Is Joe clear?”
He knelt on the lee side of a large oak, checking for Pritchard.
The moon gave off just enough light to make out shapes, but only if you knew what you were looking for. Pritchard was behind the Malibu’s engine block, gun drawn. No eye contact was needed. Pritchard was doing his job and he expected everyone else to be doing theirs.
Perry said, “We need to surround this asshole. That’s a double-barrel shotgun. He’s already wasted one round. That leaves one shot left against three people. I like those odds.”
“The shotgun’s been modified,” Jeffrey said, because young guys in small towns hack up their guns the same way they hack up their cars. “That second round couldn’t hit a brick in a bucket, but we don’t know what else he’s got on him.”
As if to illustrate the problem, a handgun was fired.
The bullet snicked into the trunk of the oak, about four inches above Jeffrey’s head.
Perry hugged the ground again.
So did Jeffrey.
The snow was so deep and so wet that he had trouble pushing himself back up. He sneaked a look at the black truck. Double still held the shotgun, but he also now had a handgun. Nine millimeter by the shape of it. The magazine hung way down like an extra set of balls. He’d modified the stack so that he could double the ammo.
Perry had seen the extended magazine, too. “That ain’t good.”
Jeffrey said, “And Paulson’s out there, too.”
“Probably backing him up.”
“Paulson’s not so easy with a gun. If he’s backing up Double, it’s from behind. Way behind.”
“I’ll remember to watch my six,” Perry said. “You go up the hill, I’ll go to Double’s rear. Joe’s got the third corner of the triangle.”
Those were good odds, because trying to sneak behind Double, maybe facing Paulson along the way, was clearly the more dangerous path.
He told the kid, “Wrong way around,” and took off, heading away from the hill, parallel to Double and his truck. It wasn’t the plan Perry had favored, but Jeffrey trusted he would move quickly to get into position.
Quietly, Jeffrey walked a wide circle around Double’s truck, trying to slip behind him. He kept an eye peeled for Paulson, but he had a gut feeling that Paulson would piss himself before he took a stand. Two against three was more like one against three, and Jeffrey liked the odds of the three who were highly trained law enforcement officers.
Then again, maybe the playing field was evened out by the deep snow. His breath started to come in pants as he picked up his feet from thirty-inch drifts. He and Perry were around the same age. Jeffrey was probably in better shape, then again, he always assumed he was the guy in better shape. But Perry was probably more accustomed to moving in snow. Then again, Perry had said he was more accustomed to driving in snow too and look how that had ended.
There were too many then agains in this mix, and if any one of them went wrong, it was going to be a fucking bloodbath.
If they were lucky, they would get to their opposite ends of the triangle about the same time. Then it was just a matter of making Double listen to logic. Having three Glocks pointed at your head could make even the stupidest man see reason. The problem was, maybe Double was too smart to be stupid. The thug seemed to realize a move was being made. He turned off the lights on his truck and everything went black. Jeffrey felt his eyes squint in protest, but he kept them open, tracking Double as the man crouched down low, pulled the hood up over his head and somehow disappeared into the shadows.
He felt his heart thumping inside his throat.
Their bad situation had turned worse.
His gun was frozen in his ice block of a hand. He couldn’t see Perry. He could barely make out the Malibu stuck in a snowdrift, let alone pick out Pritchard’s location.
There was nothing to do but stick with the plan.
He kept moving toward Double’s last known rear, making good time until he tripped over a fallen tree. He tried not to groan as he fell flat into the snow. Cold, sleety water went up his nose and mouth.
Over by the Malibu, Pritchard called, “Hey, Double. Let’s talk about our options.”
He was trying to locate Double, but their target wasn’t stupid enough to let him.
Jeffrey closed his eyes and listened for the crunch of snow that indicated a man was walking toward him. All he heard was the soft pat of snow hitting snow, overlaid with the tinkling sound of water freezing in the falls.
He pushed himself up.
He flexed his hands, swapping his Glock back and forth, because he knew that if he had to pull the trigger, it would take functioning fingers.
The snow gripped his legs like a child trying to play a game. The weight was enormous. His lungs were heaving by the time he forced himself into a clearing. He guessed he was maybe twenty feet to the rear of the black truck. The question now was, Were they hunting Double or was Double hunting them?
A gunshot rang out.
He dove behind a tree, realizing too late that the shot had come downrange. He spat a mouthful of snow onto the ground, wondering why in the hell he kept opening his mouth every time he fell into the snow.
He listened for another shot, some indication there was gunplay. He didn’t think Pritchard had pulled the trigger. He was too cool under pressure. Perry might have, but then again, Double could’ve been doing the same thing they were trying to do, only he’d sneaked up behind the Malibu.
The shot could’ve ended up in Pritchard’s head.
He shook off the image.
Snow flew out of his hair. It was coming down hard and steady. He flexed his hands again. When he stood up it felt like the cold was pushing him back down. Still, he trudged on, edging toward the rear of Double’s truck.
Paulson yipped like a dog.
He was behind the truck, holding on to the tailgate as he crouched down in the snow.
Jeffrey’s cold hands had no problem pressing the muzzle of his Glock to Paulson’s head. The kid was so thin that he could feel the bumps in his skull.
“Don’t move.”
Paulson flinched, giving another yip. He tried to cover his head with his hands. There was a rattling sound. In the faint moonlight, Jeffrey could see that Paulson was handcuffed to the hinge of the tailgate.