Something moved above me.
I scrambled back against the cabin wall and raised the big Colt.
My back thumped into the dark brown logs, and I stood there in a two-handed grip, trying to get my blood pressure under control. There was a loud snarl like the kind you hear in the movies, but this one was up close and real. I figured it was going to take a couple of hours to get the hair on the back of my neck to lie back down.
As Lonnie Little Bird would say, she was a big one, but she was thin, and I was lucky she didn’t have cubs or I might’ve been dead. She snarled down at me and backed her haunches into the cove section of the twin-peaked roof of the cabin on the other side of the van. Her eyes were the only things I could see.
I’d never been this close to a mountain lion, and I had to admit that-even snarling with a ferocity that vibrated my own lungs-she was a beauty.
Evidently, she’d taken advantage of the shelter provided by the overhang that gave her the ability to stay covered yet capable. I guess she hadn’t moved when the van had pulled in, but when I’d driven up and started poking around, she’d decided enough was enough.
I waved my sidearm at her, and I’ll be damned if she didn’t slam a paw as big as Dog’s into the roof of the cabin in order to back me off. I stood there, a little surprised. The big cats usually aren’t so tenacious when confronted with human beings. I guess she figured there was nowhere better to go, and she’d been there first.
“C’mon, get out of here. I’ll be damned if I’m going to march around waiting for you to hurdle off onto me. Scat!”
I waved the pistol again, but she pushed herself deeper into the alcove. We were at a standoff, and there wasn’t much more I could do to make her move.
With one more glance, I eased around the van and shot a breath from my nose, pulling the handle on one of the rear doors. Just as the Basquo had said, there was a Hardigg polyethylene deployment case lying there-olive drab, my favorite color, or so the Marine Corps had taught me.
I gave another look to the roof of the cabin where I hoped the cougar was still crouched, stuffed my fingertip into my mouth, and yanked the glove off with my teeth. I slipped my naked hand into the plastic handle and pulled the case toward me. I was always amazed at how light the M-series rifles were-they had always felt like plastic toys.
I flipped open the antishear latches and opened the case, revealing the foam cavities for a full cleaning kit and extra magazines and the laser sight. There was a cutout for an M203 grenade launcher with accessories, which had been filled in with foam. The attachment had obviously not been in there-the problem was, neither was the short-barreled rifle.
It was about then that I noticed, for just an instant, a tiny green dot reflected in the van’s rear window.
5
I threw myself sideways, multiplying the speed of my descent by slipping on the ice.
The report of the. 223 was very loud. I hit the ground with a grunt immediately following the sharp spak of the bullet going through the back window of the closed half of the van where I’d been standing.
I rolled over and looked at the bullet hole in the glass, small shards and snow still floating down on me as I reconsidered what an intelligent man would’ve done in this situation. I had an image of my smarter self, munching on a year-old Snickers bar, seated in the relative warmth of the Suburban, which I would have parked at the road head.
It’s a maxim that in these situations the first person to move is the first person to die. It was possible that the shooter thought he’d hit me and I could wait to see if he’d show, but that meant lying in the snow, exposed for longer than I really cared to be.
If I wanted a clear view, I was going to have to crawl out from between the two vehicles, which meant really showing myself, something I was loath to do. I reached over and picked up my hat, dusting it off and placing it back on my head.
Small comforts, but I always felt better with my hat on.
There were noises coming from the other side of the parking lot and then some voices. I couldn’t make out what any of them were saying, but they said a few things to one another and then it was silent again.
I waited for a few moments more and then looked around the passenger-side fender. With the blowing snow, it was almost like playing tag in a river. There was someone outside, and I just caught the fleeting image of a man darting past the windows on the porch of the main lodge.
It looked to me as if he were carrying one of the shotguns, which meant that someone else was probably still out there with the. 223 and that the runner was going to try and flank me from the cabins at my rear.
I had to move, but I wasn’t going to attempt crossing the lot-not with the Armalite waiting for the possibility of another lucky shot in the current conditions. If I squeezed past the DOC van and right, I’d probably meet the shooter somewhere out there. I leveraged up on my elbows and knees and glanced back to see if I could triangulate the rifle fire. It looked like it had come from slightly to my right-the same basic area where I’d seen somebody moving at the main lodge.
I crouched and moved, picking up the Basquo’s backpack as I went, sliding between the van and the cabin where the cougar had been. The snow slid off the van and landed on my hat and shoulders. I didn’t wipe it off this time, in hopes that it might provide some cover from the scope, but when I turned my head, there was a SIG SAUER P226 muzzle pointed up and under my chin.
“Move back.”
With the shadows, it was difficult to see who was holding the semiautomatic, but hearing the Latino accent, I had a good idea. I retreated with my. 45 held above my head. “Hey, Hector.”
“Raise your arms and shut up.” As he stepped into the minimal light afforded by the parking lot lamppost, I could see the pant leg of his orange jumpsuit and the tactical boots that he must’ve taken from the dead marshal. He also wore a three-quarter-length parka, which he must’ve appropriated from the convict transport. He motioned for me to move to my right. “Step over there.”
I did as instructed and, knowing that a little cover was better than none, was careful to place myself between the DOC van and the Suburban.
Hector stepped around as well, carefully holding McGroder’s Sig at an angle-gangsta style. He raised a hand to his face and yelled back toward the main lodge. “Got him!” I shifted, with my hands still above my head, and his eyes darted back to me. “I said don’t move.”
“Actually, you didn’t.”
“Shut up!” He paused and turned slightly as we heard noises coming from the big building. “And gimme your gun.”
I thought about my situation, how I was soon to be surrounded by some very desperate and well-armed individuals. I thought about how the odds of one-on-one were a hell of a lot better than five-on-one.
With my hands still raised, I tossed the Colt up onto the roof of the van.
Otero looked at me. “What the fuck?”
I shrugged. “You said to get rid of the gun.”
He studied me from the depths of his acrylic-lined hood. “What, you don’t think I can get up there or what?”
“Well, you are kind of short.”
He gestured with the. 40 for me to back up, which I did with my hands still raised, as he placed a foot on the doorsill of the van and pulled himself up by the gutter rail. “Fuck you, Alexander Dumb-ass.” He really was kind of short and had to reach across the top of the snow-covered van with one hand while keeping his pistol pointed at me. It was quite a balancing act.
I retreated another step.
“I said don’t move!”
The wind blew another gust from the roof of the cabins and pushed the hood of Hector’s parka against his face; he kept yanking it back, but it continued blowing forward.
I was beginning to wonder how much movement it was going to take.