Dark Sky (Joe Pickett #21)(32)

“And they’ll stay with us,” Earl said to him. “It’ll take you two or three days to get back down to the trailhead. We need the time in case you change your mind and start yapping.”

“I won’t change my mind,” Boedecker pleaded.

“Start walking before I change mine,” Earl threatened.

“My radio is in the pannier of my horse,” Boedecker said. “You know that one Brad told me to keep on? I might need it in an emergency.”

Joe thought, A live radio in Brock’s gear? So the Thomases had been listening to them?

“No,” Earl said to Boedecker. “You’ll need to be radio-silent so we can do what we’re here to do.”

While the two of them went back and forth, Joe noticed in his peripheral vision that Rumy had regained his wits on the ground. Although he still lay motionless on his side beneath Brad, his eyes darted around and he was carefully working on loosening and stretching out the rope on his wrists so he could get his hands free. Brad was preoccupied watching the exchange between Boedecker and Earl.

Rumy, Joe thought, was preparing to make his move.

“I want to get those horses back from you as soon as I can,” Boedecker said to Earl. “I’ve got clients coming.”

“I’ll get ’em back to you,” Earl said.

“They’re my best, you know.”

“I know. And leave that handgun. I’ll give it back to you when this is over.”

Boedecker was alarmed. “You’re kidding, right?”

“I am not. I’d prefer it if you weren’t armed.”

“What about bears?”

“Make plenty of noise.”

“Earl, this isn’t the arrangement we discussed.”

“Seems like you want to argue some more.”

Boedecker apparently thought it best to shut up. With a curse, he turned his back on Earl and began to trudge away.

At that moment, Joe saw movement from the camp and he turned his head to see Rumy roll onto his back. He kicked up at Brad with one decisive movement. His boot came up between Brad’s legs and hit with an ugly thump. Brad gasped and stepped back, doubling over. He still grasped his shotgun.

Rumy continued his roll until he was on his hands and knees. Then he launched himself up and ran through the campsite and toward the trees to the east. He didn’t even look over his shoulder as he did so. Not protecting his boss, Joe thought, but saving himself.

“Fucking Brad,” Kirby hissed behind Joe.

“Get him,” Earl ordered to Brad. “Get him before he reaches the trees.”

Brad moaned and then howled. He sounded like a wounded animal.

“Stop him!” Earl shouted.

Brad took a raggedy breath and placed his big hands on his knees and pushed himself back up to his six-foot-four height. His face was a twisted red grimace.

All eyes in the camp were on him as he raised the shotgun to his shoulder. Rumy was thirty yards away—nearly out of effective buckshot range. Five or six full strides and he’d be into the timber.

The blast split open the still morning, and Rumy’s arms shot out from his body and he tumbled forward. He was obviously wounded but likely not yet dead.

“Go finish him off,” Earl ordered. Brad grunted in pain and lumbered in Rumy’s direction. He jacked a fresh shell into the receiver of his weapon as he did so.

“Move your ass,” Kirby hissed to his brother.

At that second, Joe glanced in Price’s direction and they made eye contact. A message was exchanged.

Now.

Joe bent his knees, grasped the shoulder strap of his daypack, and came up with it as he wheeled around, surprising Kirby, who was distracted and watching his brother.

While Joe frantically unzipped the side pocket, Kirby recovered and stabbed at him. Joe raised the pack to intercept the blade, although he saw a flash of the knifepoint emerge through the nylon skin of it inches from his bare hand.

Joe yanked the canister of bear spray out of the side pocket, gripped the red plastic safety mechanism with his teeth, and pulled it free. He let the pack drop a little and he hit Kirby point-blank in the face with a blast from the canister.

Kirby screamed and backpedaled away until he tripped on a tree root and fell to his butt. His eyes were clenched tightly and his face was crimson.

Joe turned quickly toward the camp to see that Earl had heard Kirby and was now raising his carbine away from Price on the log and toward him. Joe raised the nozzle of the bear spray until it covered Earl’s upper body and he squeezed the trigger. A huge plume of red spray shot across the distance between them and engulfed Earl’s entire face and neck.

Joe didn’t let up. He kept the spray going full-blast while Earl spun, cursed, and fired without aiming in the direction where Price had been sitting just seconds before.

Price was no longer there. He was running toward Joe with his arms up over his head to shield it and to avoid the plume.

At the edge of the campsite there was another concussive boom. Brad had caught up with Rumy. He turned to check out the commotion near the tent and no doubt saw Joe and Price break for it, going in the other direction. To the west. And both his dad and brother were writhing in the grass.

“Hey!” Brad called out, running back toward the camp with his shotgun. “They’re getting away!”