Tequila’s first gun rang a quick staccato, and each shot banged home with a clang as the plate fell. Then came the switch of guns; it was fast, and again the five shots were fast but-he missed one! The agonizing seconds ticked by as Tequila reloaded one round, spun the cylinder, and fired, taking down the last target. Then he was on the run, reloading each gun as he went. He got to the corral, and Red heard the shots, lickety-split, each completed by the Gong Show sound of the plate struck at six hundred feet per second by a large lump of lead and-God, he missed another. Quickly the old gunslinger finished the string and decided to reload and fire rather than accept a ten-second penalty for a missed target, and he probably got the reload in and the shot off (clang!) in seven seconds.
Oh God, thought Red, I have a chance. I just can’t miss a target. Slow, calm, collected, the gun reset just right. It’s there. It’s for me. I can do it.
He took a deep breath, trying to keep himself calm as he stepped into the loading area. He showed guns empty to the range officer running the stage, then, one at a time, slipped the cartridges in-one, skip one, four more-then cocked and gently lowered the hammer, keeping the muzzle downrange. Did it twice.
Turned to face the reset plates.
“Do you understand the course, shooter?”
“I do.”
“Are you ready, shooter?”
“Yes.”
“All right then-”
“Mr. Constable! Mr. Constable!”
Aghhhh! There went his concentration. It was Susan Jantz, his secretary. What could she want? Aghh, he could get disqualified.
He turned and saw the range officer trying to push her gently back to the cordoned crowd area. But Susan was persistent, slipped by him, and raced to her boss with his cell phone.
“What on earth-”
“You have to take this call.”
“Shooter,” said the range officer, “I’m going to have to call a ‘spirit of game’ infraction if you don’t-”
Red put the phone to his ear.
“Constable.”
“Mr. Constable, you don’t know me. My name is Randall Jeffords. I’m an accountant in your New York office.”
“Why the hell are y-”
“Sir, I came in to catch up and the place was being torn apart by federal agents. I asked, and they wouldn’t say, but there were some cops with them, and one of them said-I know you won’t believe this-felony murder one. I just can’t believe it. Against you, sir. I’ve been trying for hours to get your number. I thought you ought to know.”
“You did the right thing,” Texas Red said, clicking the cell closed.
He had a moment of disbelief, of stunned nothingness. His first cogent thought: where the fuck is Bill Fedders? He’s supposed to be wired into that system. I’m supposed to know in advance when-
But quickly enough he saw the pointlessness of that line of inquiry. He realized a decision had just been made for him; he had to instantly accept its reality and deal with it first and fastest. There was but one answer: he had to get clear of the country, now. Nothing else mattered. From Costa Rica, he could sort things out, but the deal now was to avoid custody-the circus, the humiliation-and to see what they knew and didn’t.
“Okay,” he said to his number one bodyguard, who had by this time bullied his way forward, violating the rules, and stood waiting near him, “we’ve got to get out of here. Call the plane, tell them we’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“Yes sir.”
“Thanks, Susan, you’re the best,” he said to his loyal secretary and daily sex servant.
He started to walk off the event stage.
“Shooter, you cannot leave without showing empty, you cannot leave, I will DQ you if you do not immediately return to the loading area and make your weapons safe.”
Tom turned.
“Fuck you,” he said, and walked off.
“DQ! DQ! Shooter is DQed!” shouted the range officer but made no step forward as the three beefy guards closed in behind Texas Red and the crowd parted in the thrust of the armed man and his armed bodyguards as they headed down the main street of the town of Cold Water, through the corridor of stunned competitors and fans.
And then a tall gunman stepped into the empty street ahead of him, raising one hand.
“A cowboy!” said Nick. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“It’s the Cold Water Cowboy Action Shoot, Cold Water, Colorado. I saw something on CNN about it this morning and realized I’d heard the Irishmen talk about the boss being off playing cowboy. So being Sherlock Holmes, I put one and one together and came up with Cold Water. It was only a hundred miles from where we was. I had my pal Chuck drive me hell-for-leather over here, but since it was a gun crowd and I wanted to fit in, we stopped off. Chuck’s an ex-lawman; he could buy a gun without no wait. We picked up a nice used Colt in a pawnshop. At a gas station I bought a hat, and when I got here, I picked up a holster and some black powder forty-fours. I wanted to see this guy face to face.”
“You haven’t called him out or something insane like that?”
“Of course not. I only look stupid. I just wanted to see him. He don’t know nothing about me.”
“Boy, was that ever the right decision. I am one lucky little federal flunky today. Just a second.”
Bob waited as he assumed Nick was shouting orders to his people to get the information to the closest field office to Cold Water, Colorado, and get a SWAT team gunned up and on the way by helicopter.
Nick came back, sounding breathless.
“Okay,” he said, “I’ve gotten Denver. They’re on the way. They were on the runway because of an earlier alert. I’m told it’ll be less than half an hour. Just stand by and-”
“Oh, shit,” said Bob. “Something’s going on. He’s up there to shoot but all of a sudden his gal comes over, hands him a phone. He talks real urgent into it. Now he’s breaking away, his mob of boys. They’re getting out of town, Nick. He’s going to his plane.”
“Oh, Christ,” said Nick. “How many?”
“It’s him, three bodyguards, heavy guys. I don’t see no guns but I’m guessing they’re carrying.”
“Oh, shit,” said Nick.
“I can stop them,” said Bob.
“Oh, God,” said Nick, as if envisioning details of a terrible shootout in a huge crowded area, dozens dead, the whole thing a complete fuck-up, his career, just saved, trashed beyond redemption.
But then he thought, I rode this far with the gunman. Might as well go all the way.
“Okay,” he said, “use your best judgment. If you think following them is the way to go, then-”
“You better give me some kind of verbal authorization to shoot damn quick, ’cause they’s a hundred feet away and coming toward me.”
He heard Nick whisper to others, “Witness this and record it,” then he said loudly, “Do it. Take him down.”
It took a second for the situation to dawn on the crowd, but then they all seemed to get it at once. Two gunslingers facing each other in a western town under a blaze of sun, shooting for blood. They backed off-not away, but off, cordoning themselves along the streets of Cold Water, witnesses to that which had not been seen for real in a century. Nobody was going to get them to look away.
“Kill him,” said Texas Red to his bodyguard.
“Sir,” said the man, “I am a bonded employee of Graywolf Security, and I am not empowered to open fire unless fired upon. I cannot engage unknown civilians, particularly in a crowded area. I have no idea who this guy is.”