Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(102)

I need to find this enemy, and I need to end him.

Plans change when I’m a few hundred yards away from the crash site, because I realize I’m not thinking straight, though the haze is finally starting to lift as pain sets in. I’m not up to stalking through the woods. I need to make him come to us. And he will. He can see the steam from the cracked radiator if nothing else.

He doesn’t know if we’re alive or dead, and he’ll need to be sure.

I crouch where I am near a tree and watch. Every second means more blood Mike is losing, and I’m pretty sure I have a couple of broken ribs. I try to breathe shallow and slow. I don’t think I’ve punctured a lung; if I have, I’m in trouble.

I hear Mike moving slightly. Then I hear another noise that comes from another direction. It’s soft, well disguised, but in this breathless stillness, it’s definitely there.

I see the man before I hear him again. He’s wearing hunter’s camo, and it’s not the cheap Vietnam-era versions that the men who ambushed me back near the lodge had; this is the good stuff, private-contractor quality. He has training and money. He moves like liquid through the forest, invisible when he pauses. I’m not invisible. I’m not a trained ghost. But I’m a smaller target than Mike, who’s moving, bleeding, and the best bait to get this man up close. But close is a relative term. I don’t know the range and power of this gun, and now isn’t the time to screw it up.

I have to get closer.

I’m not bad at this, but I’m bad enough. I get within twenty feet, and something—poor foot placement, brushing a branch, the sound of my breathing—alerts the enemy. He’s close to Mike. And aiming. Screw it. I rush forward, low and fast, and close the distance to ten feet. No time to aim; he’s turning to focus on me.

Mike saves my ass. He pumps the shotgun, even though he’s out of range to do anything effective. The sound scares the man just enough. The shot that would have killed me blows a hole in the tree beside me instead.

I drop to one knee, brace, and fire. I can’t go for his torso; I can’t tell what kind of armor he’s wearing under the camo. So I take the dangerous target, and aim for his right eye.

I’m off—nerves, the jolt that hits my broken ribs, whatever reason. Instead of the eye, I hit him in the side of the throat, but it does the job; he reels back, loses his weapon, and rolls on the incline. I scramble after him, ready to shoot him again, but he’s lost interest in the fight. When I get to him, the man’s got both hands wrapped around his throat, shaking and trying to hold in his blood. It’s a minor miracle, but I don’t think I’ve hit anything vital.

He’s a slender young guy of Asian extraction, and as much as I want to hate his guts, I can’t. He looks too much like a scared kid. I aim the gun at him anyway and say, “Keep pressure on it. You’ll live.” Maybe.

I hear sirens, but I can’t tell which direction. If they’re from Wolfhunter, Mike and I are screwed, and as dead as Detective Fairweather. If it’s the county sheriff and TBI, we’re saved. I can tell that this guy doesn’t much care.

“Help,” he whispers.

“You help me first,” I tell him. “You’re with the original crew that took Ellie?”

He nods. He’s terrified. “Ambulance,” he says. Blood’s oozing out between his fingers. “Help.”

“You know where the little girl is?”

“No,” he whispers. His lips are turning a delicate shade of purple. “Get me help.”

I pat him down for more weapons. He’s got a hunting knife, a good one, and an even better 9 mm in a Velcro holster I almost miss. I take both, toss them over beside Mike, who’s now propped himself up a little. Mike’s good eye is open and watching. “You keep that pressure on, and you’ll live. What’s your name?”

“Zhao Liu,” he says.

Mike manages a chuckle. “The John Smith of China,” he says. “Don’t think so.” He turns his head. “Where those sirens coming from?”

“Not Wolfhunter,” I say.

“You sure about that?”

Zhao’s eyelids flutter. He passes out. His hand falls away from his neck, and blood gushes out.

“Dammit. Shoot him if he tries anything.” I crouch down and apply pressure on the wound. I don’t have a phone, but Zhao does, and I dial it one-handed to get to the county sheriff’s office.

We all live to see law enforcement arrive: two county cruisers, followed almost immediately by a third, and an ambulance trailing. Fairweather’s 10-34 got action, after all. He saved us. And I left him dead on the road. Dammit. That hurts worse than my broken ribs.

The county sheriff himself arrives in the next hour, accompanied by a full van of TBI agents in identifying windbreakers. By then my ribs are wrapped, I’ve been allowed to sit down next to Mike against the wrecked car, Zhao’s in an ambulance handcuffed to a gurney, and I am so infinitely tired, but nobody’s answered my damn questions and I need to know that Gwen and our kids are okay. I make enough noise that I finally get the sheriff, who plants his booted feet in front of me, casts me in the shade of his Stetson, and says, “What the hell are you going on about?”

“Gwen Proctor and the kids. They’re with Hector Sparks,” I tell him. “In Wolfhunter. You need to get them out of there.”