Wolfhunter River (Stillhouse Lake #3)(67)

I wait, and when the man’s passing, I step right and press the barrel of my gun to his neck. He freezes up for a bare second, and it’s just enough time for me to jam the back of his knees and send him sprawling. “Stay down,” I tell him, and grab his rifle. Then I turn and fire at his friend, who’s rolling to get a bead on me. I fire three shots, marching toward him in a neat, straight row. Clear warning. He’s a big, bearded man, and I’m hoping that if he’s a pro, if he understands his situation, he’ll drop the gun and give up.

He doesn’t. He raises it toward me and fires. It’s a wild shot, off target, but he’s made that choice, and eliminated mine too.

I shoot him in the head, and I don’t even blink. His death is just about instantaneous; I see his eyes flicker, then roll back, and his body goes limp. One spasm, and nothing.

I turn back to his friend, who’s stayed sensibly still, and I press the barrel to the back of his head. Hair sizzles. “Do not move. Understand?”

“Yeah, yeah, sure,” he says. He’s flat on his stomach, hands now outstretched. I search him from the back, roll him over, and put the still-hot muzzle against his forehead while I check for another weapon. He winces. When I finish and back off, he has a small, perfect red circle burned into his suntanned skin.

“You a marine or somethin’?” he asks me. Local accent.

“Air force,” I tell him.

“Damn. Didn’t know they taught that shit in flight school.”

“Army?” I guess. He nods. “Sorry, brother. Who sent you?”

“Who says anybody did?”

I shrug. “Not open season on kids, as far as I’m aware.”

“Man, we mistook you for a doe, that’s all.”

“Bullshit. Somebody sent you.”

“You shoot Travis?”

“If that’s your buddy, yeah. Didn’t have a choice,” I tell him. “He’s dead.”

“Then fuck you, man, I ain’t tellin’ you shit.” He’s a lean, tough guy in his midthirties, a war vet, but his eyes fill with tears, and I see genuine rage behind them. “You just killed my cousin.”

I point the gun again. “Who hired you?”

“Fuck. You.”

He’s hardened, I can see that. Grief does that to some people. I was hoping it might break him open, but instead: concrete. Maybe the cops will get something out of him. I won’t.

I hear a little metallic rustle and turn my head in that direction. Connor’s discarded his blanket, and he’s coming around the trees. I hold up a hand to stop him there. I take out my phone and dial 911 again. I tell them there’s been a fatal shooting, and I have one man held at gunpoint. That’ll get them moving, I hope.

“Won’t do you no good,” the prisoner tells me. The 911 operator’s telling me not to hang up, so I don’t. I put the phone down on the ground next to me.

“Why not?” I ask him. “You got friends in high places, man?”

He doesn’t stop glaring. He really wants to kill me; I can feel it coming off him like steam. “Not me,” he says, and suddenly bares his teeth in what is only technically a grin. “Travis was a cop. And you just fucking murdered him in cold blood. I seen it, you piece-of-shit murderer!” He’s raised his voice.

“He didn’t murder anybody,” Connor says. “And you tried to kill us.”

“You’re crazy, kid. Why the hell would two men out huntin’ try to kill you? This asshole just straight up went crazy!” I realize what’s happening. He wants it on the damn 911 recording.

I reach down and hang up the call. Too late. We’re kind of screwed. Sure, I can point to the shots Travis fired, including my shredded hunter’s orange cap, but there’s always benefit of the doubt in these things, and it weighs heavily in favor of locals, and cops. Travis is both.

I point the gun at my prisoner again. “What’s your name?”

“Fuck off.”

“Okay, Fuckoff, here’s how this is going to go. You’re going to tell the truth, because if you don’t, I’m going to bring down all the hellfire in the world on you. State police, FBI, whatever I have to do to prove you’re a damn liar who was hired to put a bullet in my head, which will get you twenty to life if you don’t get smart, fast. Who paid you?”

He shuts his mouth, lowers his chin, and gives me a hard stare that tells me he’s never going to cooperate, not with me, and probably not for any price. Paid well enough to keep his lips zipped about it. Or else he’s scared that he’s next on the list. Either could be true.

Connor says, “Can we go back to the lodge now?” He sounds exhausted, and far too shaky.

“I’m sorry, but no. We need to wait here,” I tell him. “Wrap up. Stay warm, okay? Sit down and eat something.”

He nods. In a few minutes he looks better after consuming a trail bar and washing it down with water from the canteen. He’s wrapped himself in the blanket like a shiny foil burrito. Jesus, it hits me all over again: he is a kid. And in one afternoon, he’s seen a gruesomely dead body, been shot at, and been at the scene of a killing. Even if he didn’t see me shoot Travis—and I hope he didn’t—he knows it happened.

I was supposed to protect him. This was supposed to be a walk in the woods.