Cold Springs(84)

“What?” Kindra asked, bewildered.

The loud SNAP echoed off the rocks, like a tree branch cracking.

Black levels stopped working, puzzled faces turning toward the rocks—toward Chadwick.

Another frozen heartbeat, then he yelled, “Get down!”

He bowled into Mallory, crushing her against the side of the boulder as a second SNAP threw a spray of gravel into the air where Chadwick had been standing.

“What is it?” Mallory screamed.

“Quiet,” Chadwick ordered. “Don't move.”

In the clearing, kids were screaming. Leyland was barking orders, repeating Chadwick's command to get down. Kindra had scrambled behind a tree, pulling one of the black levels to the ground beside her.

Chadwick pushed Mallory further against the base of the boulder. Olsen crouched nearby, also trying to become one with the rock.

“Stay with Mallory,” he ordered.

“Where—”

“Just do it.”

Chadwick pulled Mallory's knife out of her leg sheath, rose to a crouch. He felt his pockets and realized he'd left his cell phone back at the lodge, two miles away.

Shit.

He looked around the clearing. The young counselor, Baines, was thirty yards out, crouching behind a rock that provided him absolutely no cover. Baines was hugging the med pack—which meant he had the emergency phone, the group's only contact with the outside world.

Chadwick snapped his fingers, then put his hand to his ear, miming a phone. Baines just stared at him, pleading silently.

The young man, Chadwick realized, was in shock.

Yes, idiot, it's a gun. Someone is sniping at us.

Chadwick caught Kindra's eyes, gestured toward Baines, then made 9–1–1 with his fingers.

She understood immediately, started crawling in Baines' direction.

Good girl.

Another shot rang out, and down in the clearing, a small rock exploded into a dust cloud.

The sniper was on top of the boulder pile, about twenty feet above Chadwick's head.

Kindra got to the med pack, pulled Baines into better cover, began to search for the phone. In another fifteen minutes, they might expect some help—too late for any of them.

A fourth shot.

Whimpering, one of the black levels huddled farther into her newly made lean-to, as if the branches would hide her from bullets.

Bile rose in Chadwick's throat.

The sniper was using a high-powered rifle. He had picked his location perfectly, made sure the sun was at his back, in the target's eyes. And he was shooting at Chadwick's kids.

Chadwick gripped the hunting knife, made sure Olsen was still on Mallory, then worked his way around the boulder.

Another shot, and a black level yelped—a boy's voice, crying out in pain. Chadwick's stomach turned to a lump of hot coal.

He leapt from one rock to the next, keeping low, moving in the direction of the firing. Behind him, Leyland's voice barked, “Baines, med kit, goddamn it!”

Chadwick couldn't hear Kindra talking on the cell phone. He could only hope that was happening.

Finally, he'd circled enough so that the sun was at his back. He felt soundless, an enormous, silent shadow in the dying light.

He glimpsed the shooter—a camouflaged leg first, then a boot. He made out the shape of the man lying half hidden in a clump of grass atop the limestone ridge, the ideal vantage point over the entire riverfront. The sniper wore a ski mask. His rifle was scoped. Three clips of ammunition lay at his side. He could shoot any of them. They should've all been dead.

The man fired again into the clearing.

Chadwick reached for his knife. Twenty yards, over gravel and leaves and open ground. He weighed his options, remembering his combat training—hating that he knew exactly what must be done.

The shooter sensed his presence just as Chadwick gripped the knife by the point. The rifle barrel swung toward Chadwick, but the knife was already flashing, impaling itself in the man's abdomen. The man's gun discharged into the air, as Chadwick moved in with the speed of a truck.

The sniper tried to stand, but Chadwick ripped his gun away from him, kicked him in the face and sent him toppling over the ridge, onto a boulder below, from which he rolled out of sight. The rifle was now in Chadwick's hand. A streak of the shooter's blood stained his pants.

Chadwick scrambled down the side of the hill—his heart hammering, his breathing rasping loud in his ears.

Black levels were starting to come out of hiding, despite Leyland's commands to keep down. Kindra Jones held the phone, staring wide-eyed in disbelief at the thing that had fallen into their midst, but when she saw Chadwick she managed to say, “State troopers. On the way.”

The sniper was crumpled on a ledge of limestone like an altar. He was making wet noises as he clawed for the knife in his side. Chadwick looked down into the glazed brown eyes behind the ski mask. The sniper's arms were exposed—Latino skin, the edge of a tattoo on one forearm.

Pérez, Chadwick thought.

His vision went black.

He clamped one hand around the sniper's shirt, dragging him off the ledge, slamming him into the trunk of a tree. The man screamed, began pleading in rapid Spanish that Chadwick couldn't understand. He didn't want to understand.

Leyland was next to Chadwick, trying to pull him off. “Hey, man, wait—”