Widowmaker (Mike Bowditch #7)(93)

I came to rest fifteen yards from the snowbank at the end of the driveway. My parka and pants were as white as if I had rolled in powdered sugar. Snow was packed into one of my ears. I had lost my knit cap, too.

I crawled on hands and aching knees to the bottom and pulled myself over the frozen bank. I staggered out into the road, then turned in a circle. I looked up the road and down the road. I cupped my hands around my stunned ears and listened.

Two engines: a truck above me and a snowmobile below.

The truck was revving and revving. Mink must have gotten himself stuck while trying to turn around.

Meanwhile, Dyer was moving to cut us off.

I limped uphill on my gimpy knee. My right hand fell to my hip. At least I hadn’t lost my SIG, too.

The sound of the snowmobile began to grow louder. Dyer was speeding straight up the road behind me.

I came around the corner and saw, through a sheer curtain of snow, my precious patrol truck wedged sideways in the road. The headlights showed how deeply the front was buried in a snowbank. The tires spun purposely, turning snow into ice. The Sierra wasn’t going anywhere without being winched free.

Mink kept pumping the gas, revving the engine, spinning the wheels.

I staggered toward the driver’s door, when suddenly I saw my shadow stretched out before me.

The snowmobile had turned the corner, too, and now its headlights were aimed directly at us, illuminating this tragicomic scene.

I glanced over my shoulder as the sled came to a stop. I couldn’t see past the glare, but I knew what was about to happen.

“Get down!” I shouted as I grabbed the frame of the truck bed.

I pulled myself over the edge and tumbled onto the liner, my head knocking Shadow’s carrier. I could have sworn I felt something brush my pants leg, but I didn’t hear a shot. The wolf dog let out a growl.

The term most people use for suppressors is silencers, but that is a misnomer. A gun, fitted with a sound moderator, isn’t silent, nor does it make that muffled thwump that you might have heard in movies. That noise is the invention of Hollywood sound engineers. An AR-15 rifle fitted with a suppressor makes a popping sound, less intense than the typical blast of an unmuzzled barrel, but loud enough to be heard from a distance of thirty yards, which was how far Logan Dyer was from my truck when he began unloading on us.

I heard the driver’s window explode first and then a second round took out the spotlight. The third bullet pierced the door. The fourth and the fifth were directed at me. Both of them tore clean holes through the steel frame of my vehicle, mere inches from my boots.

The shooting stopped.

“Mink?”

To my right, I heard the sound of the passenger door opening and then the thud of a body falling to the ground. I heard movement, clawing in the snow. At least the truck was between Mink and the vigilante.

Inches from my face, Shadow had his fangs bared. For a moment, I wondered if the wolf had been hurt. The growl coming from deep within his chest made the hairs rise along my arms. I pulled my .357 loose from its holster and readied myself to sit up and begin squeezing off what were likely to be the last shots of my life.

Shadow growled again. The return fire was bound to strike the carrier. In my carelessness, I had doomed this hapless animal, as well. For the briefest instant, the sound transported me back into Dyer’s house as I’d charged through the door with the bite sleeve on my arm. An idea came to me.

“I have your dog, Dyer!”

There was no response.

I tried again. “Your dog is in the back of this truck with me! I have it in a carrier! Listen!”

I knocked the side of the crate with the barrel of my pistol and Shadow let out another snarl.

“You’re going to kill it if you keep firing,” I said. “Or maybe I will.”

I heard the crunch of boots on snow. Heard him advance a few more yards, then stop.

“Let her go,” Logan Dyer said.

“No way! You’ll just start shooting again.”

“I won’t! I swear.”

I pretended to mull over his promise. “I have your word on that?”

“Yes!”

Now if only the angry wolf wouldn’t bite my face off. I repositioned myself in the truck bed, made sure the grip on my weapon was secure. Then with my left hand, I reached up and squeezed the lock to open the carrier gate.

Shadow came charging out and leaped gracefully over the edge of the truck onto the road.

“What—” I heard Logan Dyer say.

As he recoiled from the shock of seeing a wolf coming toward him instead of his hound, I sat up, took aim, and fired a shot into his chest. He toppled straight back. The carbine went flying.

I pulled myself out of the truck bed and barely managed to maintain my footing. I kept my weapon leveled at the man on the ground. My knee twinged with every step. And I was pretty sure I’d popped my stitches.

Shadow had gone bounding past Dyer, seemingly intent on making his escape, but to my surprise, the wolf had stopped in the road and turned. He was now watching me as I advanced on the unmoving vigilante.

I heard footsteps behind me. “Holy moly! Did you get him?”

“I got him. Are you all right?”

“I’m all right. Is that a freaking wolf?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Holy moly!”

I kicked the AR-15 away from Dyer’s outstretched arm. I stood with my gun pointed at his heart. His foot twitched, and then his hand, and then he let out a moan. For an instant, it seemed he might be rising like a zombie from the dead.