He could go deep into the swamps and evade any cops or searchers that showed up. But this was his place, and he wasn’t going to allow these strangers to defile his place. When you have something worth having, you do what you have to in order to keep it.
85
Detective Kennedy’s wounded leg throbbed to the rhythm of his heartbeats. It hurt like hell, but, he knew, not nearly as badly as it was going to. Bond had cut into his pant leg so he could see the tiny hole below his right knee that, thanks to the tourniquet, was merely oozing a trail of bright blood. Bond had raised Kyler’s leg using two Y-shaped limbs, with their Y’s acting as supports, their lengths forming a bipod. Kyler had set his Glock in his lap and laid the Winchester. 270 by his side.
Shortly after Bond had left to circle around to where Agent Keen and Manseur had gone, hoping to head off Leland Ticholet’s escape, several twenty-two rounds had sounded. They’d been instantly answered by two shotgun blasts.
Kyler had wanted to be a Homicide detective since joining the force, having moved up from patrol due to hard work and making the right connections.
The detective closed his eyes to better concentrate on sounds coming across the channel from the other bank. He didn’t dare use his radio, because he could give away Bond’s or Manseur’s position to Leland Ticholet. He had faith that between Bond and Manseur, things would end for Leland shortly. He knew Alexa Keen’s reputation for closing cases, but, as far as he knew, none of it involved dealing with this kind of violence.
Kyler felt a sting on his cheek and slapped the mosquito that was feeding there. He wondered why the little bloodsucker didn’t land on his leg and drink without piercing the skin. He was probably lying in poison ivy or in chigger-infested brush, and if he were being attacked by the mite-sized parasites, he’d pay a terrible price later on.
He closed his eyes and felt the cool wind on his face, and the sweat gathering underneath his clothes.
He shifted and reached for the Winchester. 270, but felt only the ground. He looked down and saw, to his horror, that his rifle had vanished. He smelled Leland Ticholet, and had the Glock in his hand a split second before the butt plate of his Winchester crashed into the side of his head, ending his panic.
86
Manseur was in excruciating pain. Kennedy was on the other point, separated from them by the inlet. Leland, who might or might not be wounded, could be anywhere. Bond and Alexa had to figure out some way to take Leland out of the picture. Bond tried to reach Kennedy by radio.
“He isn’t answering,” Bond reported. “Might have his unit turned off.”
“I hope so, but I doubt it. Leland isn’t someone to underestimate. He killed two game wardens and Deputy Boudreaux.”
“He killed those wardens?” Bond asked.
“I found a Wildlife and Fisheries badge inside the cabin. They were on Leland’s trail for selling alligators or something. They got this far, but I doubt they got out alive. We have to assume Leland flanked us and has Kennedy’s weapons,” Alexa said. “If he does, what are we facing?”
“Two-seventy rifle, shoots on the money to four hundred yards. The rounds will totally ignore these vests,” Bond answered. “He had maybe forty rounds with him, minus what he used up. Plus his Glock. 40 and three magazines.”
Alexa said, “He can pick us off as he sees us. And we can also assume he’s taken Kennedy’s vest.”
“Possible,” Bond agreed. “We’ll just shoot him in the head, or blow off one of his limbs.”
“We have to see him first,” Alexa reminded Bond.
“Any ideas?”
“He’s wired tightly, primitive emotionally. I’m going to really piss him off and see if he overreacts.”
“How?” Bond wondered.
“Boys and their toys,” Alexa replied, smiling grimly.
87
Leland put on the cop’s vest. It was a tight fit even after he loosened the straps to let it out. Once he cinched it, the vest did an admirable job holding the compress in place. Leland rubbed mud on his face, head and neck, shoulders and legs. The breeze would dry it quickly. Putting aside the 66, he lifted the pistol and the Winchester and filled his mouth with rifle bullets. Leland watched the shore across the channel from cover, looking through the rifle’s scope for movement that would give away the cops’ positions.
He moved the scope to inspect the hull and transom of his boat for holes, and to see those in the motor’s cowling. Those sons of bitches. They’ll pay dear for screwing with my boat.
He knew he could swap out his motor with the game warden’s, which he had hidden nearby under leaves and brush. He’d caulk the holes in the fiberglass hull. The vessel’s bow was lodged on the muddy bank just enough to anchor it. As he watched, he was sure he saw the boat move. He watched it more closely, knowing there wasn’t enough wind to shift the heavy vessel the way he had seen it move.
He cursed when he saw the woman cop’s head for a split second before it vanished below the transom. He could shoot through the fiberglass, and he might hit her, but he didn’t want to make any more holes in the hull. The rifle could even go through into the water and sink it. He could see a thin film of gasoline on the water, where it was leaking from the damaged motor. Probably a fuel line was ruptured.
As he watched, the woman stood, ran the length of the boat, and jumped onto the shore. He was wondering why she’d been on board, when the boat, and the gasoline he’d seen in the water, erupted in flame, light gray smoke billowing from his beloved boat. Fury seized him, and he stood, aiming at where she’d gone off into the brush.
Seeing sudden movement in the shadows, he swung the gun and saw the other cop in camo-aiming straight at him. Leland put the scope’s crosshairs on him, but the cop’s rifle went off a split second before his did, and Leland felt a punch in his left arm so hard, his shot went wide because of it.
He fell to the ground. His wounded arm was useless, and he crawled backward into the shadows, leaking blood.
He could smell his boat burning, and that infuriated him, more even than the sound of the cop that had shot him laughing over across the inlet. The woman cop had managed to flush him out so the man could fire, and Leland cursed his luck. He looked at his wounded arm, and was worried a lot by what he saw. It looked as if someone had scooped most of the meat off of his biceps; the shattered arm bone was visible in the ruined meat. Blood flowed down his limp arm. He wanted to howl, but he didn’t dare give that woman cop another shot at him.
From across the water, he heard the woman laughing melodiously. He fought the urge to howl in rage.
It began to rain, hardly more than a sprinkle. There were only two of them left, and they were going to die soon. He knew he should go back to first camo cop, get his belt, and make the bleeding stop, before he got swimmy-headed.
88
Luckily Larry Bond was a smoker. Alexa had borrowed his lighter and, crawling from the trees, slipped to the bank; using the boat for cover, she pulled herself on board. The rear of the boat had been slowly filling with gasoline since the bullet hit its motor. She opened the caps to the gas tanks and, using her knife, cut the sleeves from her shirt and stuffed them into the opening of the closest gas tank. When she was ready to light the first sleeve, she moved into view for a split second, hoping Leland would see her, and that he didn’t see Bond. For this to work, Bond had to see Leland before he had a chance to fire at her.
Bracing to run, she lit the gas-soaked sleeve. It burst into flame. She ran the length of the boat, jumped to shore, and raced into the shadows, diving to the ground. Bond’s thundering shot told her that Leland had shown himself. She was fairly sure there had been two shots, close together, but the second could have been an echo of the first.