A sudden, sharp crack rang through the air. Simultaneously, Coldmoon felt a blow, as if he’d been punched in the back with enormous force. With vast surprise, he realized he’d been shot. There was no pain, but he suddenly lost all strength; his hands released and he felt himself tumbling backward. Seconds later he landed in dark stagnant water that immediately closed over him, and all went black.
45
Pendergast swung his arm down to grab Coldmoon again, but the agent, shot in the back, was already out of reach. Clinging to a root near the top of the hole, he saw Coldmoon hit the water below and instantly vanish into the swirling murk.
A second shot rang out and he felt a massive thud strike the dirt beside his head. With a mighty heave he pulled himself up and out and rolled over into the cover of the ferns. As he did so, a third shot boomed out, the round snipping the greenery above his head as he dove behind a live oak. It was clear the shots were coming from somewhere inside the lodge, most likely the second floor. Even as he searched its façade, trying to locate the shooter, another shot rang out — and the head of the man crawling on the veranda disappeared in a gout of red and gray.
Pendergast pulled out his Les Baer — at the same time realizing he’d lost his backup Glock in the collapse — and waited behind the tree. He counted to eight and then peered around for a moment before ducking back. All was now quiet. He could not see the shooter. Coldmoon remained at the bottom of the sinkhole, shot. Taking another quick look from behind the tree, Pendergast fired two rounds at the house, then slipped through the cover of ferns to get a glimpse into the sinkhole. He could see nothing but ribbons of sand and dirt slipping downward as the edges of the hole continued to crumble. No sound from Coldmoon.
Anticipating another shot, he threw himself back toward the cover of the old oak, its knuckled branches twisted into gnarly, arthritic shapes. As he did so he heard another shot, this one so close it tore the shoulder pad from his jacket. But he managed to make out a flash of fire from an upper dormer window of the house; after killing the man on the veranda, the shooter had apparently gained elevation to get a better angle of fire. The man must have a scoped rifle, and clearly knew how to use it.
Leaning against the tree, breathing hard, Pendergast considered his situation. As he did so, he heard two more shots and wondered briefly what the man was shooting at — until he heard the dull crump of an explosion and saw a pillar of fire rising from the direction of the dock. The shooter had just destroyed their airboat.
It was obvious they’d walked into a trap. But how was that possible? Who had known they were coming here? They hadn’t even known of this location until that morning. Pendergast’s mind raced. The shooter had arranged this ambush in advance. That meant they hadn’t been followed: it could only be a person who knew they’d be examining the file on the Vance suicide/murder. That person would know they’d see Vance’s address. From there, it wasn’t much of a stretch to guess they’d want to interview the man.
There was another possibility, of course: that John Vance was, in fact, Mister Brokenhearts — and they had surprised him in his lair. But in that case, who was the elderly man lying dead on the porch?
Pendergast understood that he had only seconds to decide on a course of action. Movement in any direction would expose him to fire. The shooter was roughly a hundred yards away, which meant he was out of reach of Pendergast’s 1911 save for the luckiest of shots. And in an exchange of gunfire, he would be dead before he got lucky.
To equalize the contest, Pendergast had to get closer, get the shooter within range of his own firearm. And he had to do it fast.
He burst from the cover of the tree, heading toward the house. Another shot rang out and he threw himself down behind another tree. Between him and the house there was now only open ground. He’d have to circle the lodge and come in from the back, where the cover was denser.
But this was what the shooter would expect.
Drawing on his past experience as a hunter of big game, Pendergast decided he should follow the example of the Cape buffalo: flee, drawing the shooter out of the house in pursuit, then circle back around and take him from behind.
The island was quite narrow. In order to circle to the back, he would have to enter the water.
Moving fast, he rolled out from cover and, aiming a suppressing shot at the dormer window, zigzagged back down the path, ducking from tree to tree. Shots rang out; he returned fire even as he felt a hard tug at his thigh just before making the final turn toward the dock. The airboat was burning, sending up a plume of black smoke that had the advantage of forming a field of cover. He took a second to examine his wound — flesh only, no bone or arteries involved. Sliding into the water — feeling its sting where the bullet had nicked his thigh — he kept low. The water was shallow, and the bottom mud too thick to allow him to move fast. Another shot rang through the trees as he worked his way to the end of the dock, the mud sucking at his feet, almost fatally slowing him down.
At the far end of the dock, he took cover behind the furiously burning boat. Keeping it between him and the house, he waded farther out into the swamp to where the water was deep enough to immerse himself. He moved laterally, sinking deeper, using cypress roots as cover, staying low, his head just out of water.
Movement; a swirl of water; and then, with a sharp glance to the right, Pendergast caught a glimpse of the nostrils and eyes of an alligator, sinking out of sight. The surface still rippled with underwater movement, however, and the ripples were coming straight at him.
Pendergast kicked up and away from the mucky bottom and lashed out with his foot, making contact with the creature. It erupted from the water with terrifying speed, reptilian eyes fixed on him, long uneven lines of teeth gleaming as its mouth gaped wide, and Pendergast fired directly into the gullet, the round blowing off the back of its head. It fell backward into the water, thrashing in frantic death throes.
Another shot came from the house, a gout of water spurting up to his left.
Pendergast sank back down into the water and moved as quickly as he could, holding his breath and crawling along the bottom, eyes open, another round zipping past him and leaving a trail of bubbles. He took cover behind a cypress. At two hundred yards, the lodge did not have a direct view of the dock, but Pendergast’s thrashings would have been clearly heard and it was sheer luck he hadn’t been hit. His only choice was to move in a straight line, keeping the trees between him and the house, and increase his distance from the shooter.
As he looked around, he saw another pair of eyes peek up from the brown water, and then another. A commotion began near the end of the dock: it was the gator he’d shot, being torn apart by its compatriots.
The water got deeper, and soon he could swim freely underneath the surface. Grabbing the extra clip from his jacket and then letting the jacket go, he took a bearing toward the next tree, held his breath, and ducked under, swimming hard, eyes open in the muddy water. More distance, more intervening trees.