Pickett nodded. “Go on.”
“It all went pear shaped when a fat guy with a WHITE PRIDE sweatshirt and a skinny guy who looked like he’d just walked off the set of Deliverance decided they’d pat me down to see if I was packing. I was, of course. I started backing off, but that didn’t sit well with Duck Dynasty over there, and the next thing I knew he was locking and loading his rifle and aiming it at me. I ran for the trees as the three others went for their weapons. I was able to throw myself into the shelter of a big root-pan, when they all opened up. It sounded like D-Day.”
“I heard it,” Pickett said.
“Finally, when they paused to reload, I was able to take out Duck Dynasty. That caused the others to strike out on foot. I chased them for a while and then decided it made more sense to see if I could find my phone and call it in. Unfortunately, that’s when you showed up.”
Pickett raised his hands in a what-are-you-gonna-do? gesture.
“But now that I’ve had time to think about it, I think I have a plan to take these guys on,” Coburn said.
“Oh, really? This should be interesting.”
He pretended not to notice Pickett’s skeptical tone. “I keep them engaged until dusk, like I’ve been doing. That way, they’re on the defensive and they won’t have the wherewithal to overrun us. Then, you’ll replace me. I’ll give you my .45 so they’ll think I’m still the one firing.”
“Then what?”
“You’ll do what I’ve been doing. Playing the . . . what was it?”
“Whac-A-Mole.”
“Right. Popping up every fifteen to twenty minutes to take a shot at them. Keep them guessing when you’ll appear and where you’ll shoot.”
“Meanwhile?” Pickett asked.
“I’ll use your cover fire to run out of this building. I’ll take your shotgun and get up into the trees and outflank them. Then I’ll take them out one by one. They’ll be dead before they know what hit them.”
Pickett seemed to remain doubtful.
“The best thing you can do to the enemy is keep him off balance,” he said. “Given the odds, they won’t expect me to take it to them.”
Pickett grinned. “I’ve got a buddy named Nate Romanowski. We butt heads from time to time. I think he’d approve of your plan. But I’m not sure I do.”
“You have a better one?” Coburn asked with some heat.
“I’m thinking.”
“That gives me absolutely no confidence.”
Pickett continued to ruminate. Why did it take this guy so long to form a thought? A glacier could have thawed by the time the game warden said, “So you’ve been hiking around these mountains all by yourself for weeks until you found these guys?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Must be running from something yourself.”
His hackles rose. Pickett might be slow, but he sure as hell wasn’t thick. “That’s none of your goddamn business.”
“What are you recuperating from?”
He didn’t respond.
“You said you were recuperating. What from?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Just wondering. Concussion? Chickenpox? Ingrown toenail?”
He gnawed the inside of his cheek and finally said, “Gunshot.”
Then he sprang to his feet and ran along the wall toward the corner of the building, his .45 at the ready. The burly white supremacist in the filthy WHITE PRIDE hoodie had just cleared the trees to the south and was working his way toward the unfinished lodge. The man carried a Ruger Mini-14 rifle with a thirty-round magazine.
“Drop it,” Coburn shouted.
WHITE PRIDE raised the rifle.
He fired and hit him center mass. WHITE PRIDE flopped straight back and landed on his butt, still.
“Two down,” he coldly said.
He heard a bang, then something hit him with the force of a mule kick and threw him flat on his back.
He couldn’t move his upper body.
But his grip on his .45 never wavered.
Pickett rushed over and dragged him along the ground to the log wall.
PICKETT WAS SURPRISED BY HOW heavy Coburn was. He was dead weight, but still alive. Proof of that was the litany of profanity that poured out as he propped the agent against the wall.
“Son of a bitch, that hurts,” Coburn hissed through gritted teeth.
“Where are you hit?”
“Chest.”
Not good. A high-velocity round through the chest could be fatal. He reached up and peeled back Coburn’s jacket. The bullet had struck just below the clavicle, closer to the shoulder than heart. It looked like a through shot because there was blood coming out from both sides. He’d seen the damage gunshots could do to big-game animals and had become inured to the sight of them. But when a human being was hit, that was different, even if it was a man he had no reason to like.
“I don’t think anything vital was hit,” he said. “I’m not sure it even broke any bones.”
“It hurts like hell.”
“You bleeding out is a worry, though.”
Coburn grunted.
Joe didn’t have access to the first aid kit. That was with Rojo and his saddlebag. “I’m going to use your shirt to bind it up. Lean forward so I can get your jacket off.”
Coburn took a deep breath and bent forward. Joe could only imagine how much it hurt to do that. He eased the arms free, pulled Coburn’s jacket over his head, then removed the bloodstained shoulder holster. Not taking the time to unbutton Coburn’s shirt, he ripped it open and the buttons popped off.
He couldn’t help but notice the scar on Coburn’s belly. Pink, puckered, recent. “Is that where you were shot?”
“No, I cut myself shaving.”
At least that wonderful personality seemed unaffected. Coburn’s arms were muscled and rippling with veins. A barbed-wire tattoo banded the left biceps, while the right displayed the words HONOR &.
The second word was missing.
“Honor and what?” he asked, as he fashioned a sling out of Coburn’s shirt that went over the left shoulder, under the right armpit, and across the chest. He hoped it would stanch the bleeding on both the entry and exit wounds. “Honor and duty? Honor and sacrifice? Or couldn’t you make up your mind?”
Coburn mumbled something incomprehensible.
“Hang on,” he said, “I’m going to cinch this tight and tie it off. It’s gonna hurt.”
Coburn gave a quick nod, the go-ahead, and Joe took that as his cue to pull the shirt as tight as he could and knot it. Coburn didn’t cry out, his jawbone locked tight.
He checked his handiwork.
The shirt was taut, but blood was still seeping through. Best he could hope for was that it would slow down the bleeding.
“I don’t suppose you can raise your right arm,” he asked.
Coburn winced as he tried, but his right hand and the .45 it held stayed in his lap.
“Didn’t think so.”
“I can shoot with my left.”
Empty boast? Hard to say. But he transferred the pistol to Coburn’s left hand.
“Just sit here. No more Whac-A-Mole for you.”
“We need to keep an eye out.”
“I’m not sticking my head up like you did.”
“This completely screws up my plan.”
“With all due respect, it was a crappy plan anyway.”
“Still haven’t heard one from you.”
He sat back. “Honor and what?”