Bluehorse lay on his back on the ground. Blood stained the left side of his neck and shoulder. He stared straight up, struggling to breathe, blood leaking from his mouth.
“Hold on, buddy,” Joe said.
He stood up. A rifle round smashed into the windshield to his right.
Joe emptied his magazine, shooting into the tree line, spacing the rounds in and around the oak. No targeting. Keeping the shooter’s head down so Joe could acquire better firepower. At this distance, a rifle had the advantage. When his Glock locked back, Joe hunkered down, dropped the mag, and reloaded with the extra on his hip. As he did this, he moved around the driver’s door, staying low.
The front passenger tire exploded; the Tahoe lurched.
Joe stood and put another three shots over the windshield. Again no target. The shooter wasn’t exposing himself. Joe hit the rifle rack’s release button, reached up, and pulled the M4 from its cradle above the front seat.
Another rifle round came through the passenger window and smashed into the seat belt fixture on the driver’s side. He felt sharp, stabbing pain in his right cheek. He didn’t have time to worry about it. He charged the M4 and stood, delivering a volley of rounds: five, ten, fifteen. Jolts of pain ran down the side of his face.
A round sailed through the windshield, creasing the dashboard above Joe’s head as he reached inside and grabbed the handset of the car radio. “Officer down! Officer down!” He yelled their location, his voice high and breaking.
A round slammed into the outside corner of the driver’s seat, to the right of his head. The dispatcher was talking, but Joe wasn’t listening. He couldn’t stay where he was; it offered too little protection. He calculated the location of the shooter from the trajectory of the last round. The man was moving to his left, Joe’s right. He grabbed three M4 magazines from the pocket of the driver’s door. Then he stood and delivered the M4’s remaining rounds as he moved back behind the engine block and front tire.
When the M4’s bolt locked back, Joe dropped the mag and rammed another home. His heart raced, the sound hammering in his ears. Blood dripped from his cheek onto the stock of the rifle. He made a mental inventory of his ammunition. Two M4 mags, plus the one he’d loaded. Ninety rounds. Plus twelve left in the pistol. All this quick, mechanical. Two decades of rote training on the firing range.
The radio was chattering now. Officers en route. Voices and sirens blared through the radio speakers. The dispatcher cleared the channel for Joe.
“Help’s on the way, buddy,” he called to Bluehorse, shouting to be heard over the radio. Another shot thudded into the front fender. He needed to move. If not, the shooter would gain more of an advantage. Worse yet, he might put another round into Bluehorse.
Thoughts crowded Joe’s mind. He pushed back the fear. Time pressed down on him. Adrenaline raced through his limbs. He shook. Fight-or-flight tremors. Anticipation. Readiness. The shooter knew exactly where Joe was. Joe had only a vague idea where the shooter was.
Time to change that.
He held his hand out and willed the tremors to stop. He took a deep breath, then rose to his feet. He put five rounds in the shooter’s direction directly across from the front passenger door. Still firing, he ran into the tree line, to the left of where he thought the shooter waited. He dropped to the ground behind a juniper tree and fired several more rounds. Released the mag. Loaded a fresh one. Put the now-partial mag in his right pocket.
He studied his target area. A bush shook. He delivered three rounds.
A second later, the man stood and ran deeper into the woods. Joe fired. He got up, moved forward at a trot, the M4 up, locked into his shoulder. Ready.
He glimpsed the brown jacket and dispatched another two rounds. He kept moving forward.
Another glimpse. Another two rounds. Then two more.
The man found cover behind a tree. Fired back.
Pain ripped into Joe’s left bicep. He ignored it, firing off a volley. The M4 locked back. He took a knee, changed mags, quick and fluid despite the burning in his left arm. He slammed the charging handle forward, rose to his feet, and advanced, putting multiple rounds down range.
The man was running now, disappearing into the woods.
Sirens in the distance. Joe pressed forward.
He heard a small engine start up ahead and to his left. He ran in that direction.
A dirt bike with the man atop it tore across the woods forty yards in front of him. Joe took aim. The bike was moving fast. Too fast. One, two, three. He fired off four rounds before the bike and driver vanished.
When the sound of the engine grew too distant to hear, Joe ran back to the road, back to Bluehorse.
OCTOBER 7
THURSDAY, 7:51 P.M.
OTHMANN ESTATE, SANTA FE, NEW MEXICO
Mr. O. was pacing when Books walked into the study. Neither spoke. Books waited. The throb in his right arm was beginning to subside, the pain still intense. He was popping ibuprofen every half hour. It wasn’t helping. The drive back to Santa Fe had been excruciating. When Mr. O. finally looked at him, saw the blood, he freaked.
After Books told his story, Mr. O. yelled and carried on. He snorted three lines while Books waited, holding bath towels under his arm so the blood wouldn’t drip on Mr. O.’s precious carpet. The coke seemed to have the opposite of its usual effect on his boss. It calmed him.
“Okay. Okay. We need to think. Let’s be cool. Okay.” He sat down behind his desk. “Evers is probably alive, right?”
“I think so.”
“You think so. You fucked this whole thing up, and you think so?”
“I’ll fix it,” Books said.
“You better.”
Books had planned to come back, tell his boss the good news, and then quit. He would have been in his room that very minute, packing instead of standing here, soaking up blood with his boss’s designer bath towels. But the situation had changed. He would take care of it, of course. He’d given his word. And, on top of that, he owed Evers.
“I need antibiotics for my arm,” he said. “I can’t go to the hospital.”
“Jesus Christ, you’re worried about your fucking arm. Did he see you?”
Books shook his head.
Mr. O. got him antibiotics and Percocet that night. Not out of personal concern, Books was sure. His boss wanted him healthy enough to fix the problem.
Back in his room, Books locked his door, set his gun on the nightstand, and tried to relax. He cleaned the wound with peroxide and then packed it with gauze. Later, when his hand steadied, he stitched his arm the best he could, having learned how during his time in Philly. He’d been lucky. No arteries severed, no broken bones. He drifted off into restless sleep and dreamed of Ecuador, a little coastal town called La Libertad, and of his café. Then an El Niño hit the shore and swept it out to sea. He tried to swim out to get it all back.
He woke drenched in sweat, his arm throbbing.
OCTOBER 8
FRIDAY, 9:13 A.M.
GALLUP INDIAN MEDICAL CENTER, GALLUP, NEW MEXICO
Joe opened his eyes. A low, repetitive beep emanated from somewhere behind him. Tubes connected him to intravenous bags. The room smelled of disinfectant and urine. Sunlight streamed in through the windows, catching tiny dust motes floating in the air, giving them an iridescent glow.
The events at Jones Ranch Road flooded his mind, though the images were jumbled. Pieces really. Eventually, they organized themselves into one coherent memory. After chasing the shooter, he’d raced back to the Tahoe, sat next to Bluehorse, and held a hand on his bleeding neck wound. He told him everything would be okay. Bluehorse never spoke, only stared into Joe’s eyes. He didn’t know if his friend saw anything, but he spoke to him just the same. He tried to say the right thing, just as he had tried to say the right thing to Christine in his last minutes with her, never wanting the time to end, no matter how painful. He went through that again, sitting there by the Tahoe, watching his friend’s life seep through his finge
rs.
The young officer struggled with each breath, spitting blood. The bullet had entered through the top of his chest, at the clavicle.
So much blood.
“It’s going to be okay,” Joe kept saying. “The EMTs are almost here. You’re going to be fine. We’ll be laughing about it next week. You’ll see. Just hang in there.” He found himself repeating hang in there over and over again as he searched for the right words, any words.
Two sheriff’s deputies arrived first. After Joe told them what direction the shooter had gone when he fled the scene, one deputy stood guard, securing the tree line; the other brought over a trauma kit and applied compresses to Bluehorse’s injuries, pulling away the wadded-up cloth that had once been Joe’s shirt.
When the EMTs arrived, Joe insisted they treat Bluehorse first, threatening the one EMT who wanted to look at Joe’s wounds. Everything after that blurred. His last clear memory was of fluorescent lights passing overhead and a woman’s voice asking him if he knew his name. He couldn’t remember if he’d answered her.
Now he checked himself over, wanting to know his injuries. He tried to sit up, but a bolt of pain electrified his left arm and shoulder. For a moment, he couldn’t move. Tremors coursed through his body. His upper arm was wrapped in a bandage, preventing him from assessing the injury. He remembered very little from the previous evening in the ER and then later in surgery. He touched his cheek. His fingers caressed gauze and medical tape. He pressed the call button on the side rail of his bed. A few moments later, a nurse entered his room.
A sheriff’s deputy standing outside the door looked in.
“Glad to see you’re awake, Agent.”
Joe nodded cautiously, anticipating another jolt of pain. Not too bad. A little soreness in the neck, but that was all.
The nurse told him she, too, was glad he was awake. She checked his vitals and gave him some water. His cheek hurt with each gulp. She said the doctor would be in soon. He asked about Bluehorse. His cheek protested, but he got the words out. She told him again that the doctor would be in shortly, then left.
A few minutes later, the doctor arrived. A squat Hispanic man whose smile seemed larger than his face.
“Welcome back, Agent Evers. How are you feeling?”
Joe told him it hurt like a son of a bitch. And then he told him it hurt like a son of a bitch to tell him it hurt like a son of a bitch.
The doctor found that amusing, which hadn’t been Joe’s intention.
“How’s Randall, Doc? The other officer?”
The doctor’s smile disappeared. “I’m sorry. He didn’t make it. He died early this morning. Lost too much blood.”
Joe’s breath caught. He turned away, ignoring the pain in his cheek.
The doctor checked his patient’s chart, made some notes.
Joe used the time to get his mind right. He felt new pain, a throb in his chest. And it wasn’t from any physical injury. Twenty-two years, he’d never lost another agent—or another officer. Why now, so close to retirement? Why couldn’t it have been him? That would have been so much easier. All his miseries, over. All his time away from Christine, over. All his failures as a husband, a father, an agent … over.
But what about Melissa? How would she feel if he were gone? She would be alone.
Selfish bastard.
The doctor was talking.
“… guessing a ricochet?” He waited for a response. When Joe didn’t answer, he continued. “We found a fragment on your vest.” He stabbed a finger at the right side of his own chest. “We removed several fragments from your cheek. There will be some scarring.” He pointed to the right side of his own face, an inch or two below his temple. “There was combined soft-tissue damage, mostly to your zygomaticus muscle, which some folks call the ‘smile muscle.’ Some nerve damage, too, but I don’t think that’s as serious. The puncture wound to your left arm nicked your humerus and tore your bicep and tricep. With appropriate wound care and some restrictions for a few weeks, it should be fine. Not bad, considering. I’m actually more concerned about your cheek. We’ll give it some time, but you might consider consulting a plastic surgeon.”
Joe nodded, half-listening.
The doctor removed the bandage on Joe’s cheek and had him perform what he called a ‘facial animation test,’ requiring Joe to make expressions: a big smile and a little smile, a look of surprise and a frown, an open mouth, a closed mouth.
When he finished, the doctor said, “Some people are waiting to see you. Are you up for company?”
OCTOBER 8
FRIDAY, 9:50 A.M.
GALLUP INDIAN MEDICAL CENTER, GALLUP, NEW MEXICO
“Hey, buddy,” Stretch said. “How you feeling?”
The entire squad stood around the bed.
“Is that a smile?” Cordelli said. “You look like you’re trying to take a shit.”
Tenny laughed.
Ginny shoved a motherly elbow into Cordelli’s gut.
Cordelli pretended to double over. “What? He does.”
“The FBI sent a shooting review team out there,” Dale said. “I called and let them know you were awake. They’re sending someone over to talk to you.” Joe had never been involved in a shoot-out before, but he knew the shooting review team would consist of investigators and evidence technicians who would try to reconstruct what happened.
Joe nodded.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but do you need a lawyer?”
Joe met Dale’s eyes. “What for?”
“You were involved in a shooting. I need to ask.”
“Do you think I did something wrong?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t there.”
Tenny shook his head. “That’s kinda rude, boss. The man’s been shot.”
“I wasn’t implying anything,” Dale said. “An officer lost his life out there. I’m only covering the bases.”
Joe felt a pang in his stomach. He had screwed up. Eddie had felt wrong to him. He should have called it off. Or had more backup. They’d walked into an ambush. He needed answers.
“Is Andi out there?”
“Been out there all night. Said she won’t go home until they get every trace of the shooter collected.”
“What’d they find?” Stretch asked.
“They followed the bike tracks for several miles to truck-tire impressions. They took molds. They also collected all the shell casings and some blood. Looks like you hit the son of a bitch. Maybe you killed him. But all that may be unnecessary if you can ID the shooter.” Dale paused. “Can you?”
“He called himself Eddie. Male. Wore a cap and sunglasses.” He felt the room deflate. The squad had been hoping he could finger the shooter.
Sadi said, “Eddie? You’re not saying it was Eddie Begay, are you?”
“The guy didn’t sound native, but it was hard to tell,” Joe said. “I don’t think so.”
Sadi visibly relaxed.
“Where’s my phone?”
Everyone but Joe looked around the room. Ginny found it in the drawer of the bedside table.
Joe scrolled through the call history. He found the private number and showed it to Dale. “The guy called to set the meet.”
Dale handed the phone to Cordelli. “Get his incoming calls. Let the FBI know what you’re doing. Make sure they get copies.”
“Got it, boss,” Cordelli said. He took out a notepad and jotted down the call information.
“You made CNN,” Tenny said.
“Yeah, big news,” Dale said. “I got a call from that Chris Staples guy again. Apparently, the shooting is stirring up more conspiracy theories. I like the one about Edgerton trying to bump you off so you won’t find him. Staples’s worried. He asked me to put out a press release saying Grace Edgerton wasn’t involved.”
“Did he at least ask how I was doing?”
“Eventually.”
“Did anyone call Melissa?” Joe said in panic. “If she saw it on CNN, she’s probably freaking out. Where’s—
”
“Calm down.” Stretch put a hand on his shoulder. “I spoke to her last night and this morning. The doctor assured us you would be fine, and I told her that. She wanted to fly out right then, but I told her to wait until she spoke to you. She wants to come home. You can’t blame her, Joe.”
No, he couldn’t. “How about Bluehorse’s family?”
Several pairs of eyes avoided Joe’s.
“They were here last night,” Dale said. “They’re taking it pretty hard, of course.”
Of course.
They spoke for another half hour. Joe gave them an account of the incident. When breakfast arrived, they agreed to let him eat in peace.
“What’s up with the guard on my room?”
“The sheriff’s department offered. I accepted,” Dale said. “We didn’t know what happened and didn’t want to take chances.” He followed the others to the door. “The doctor told me you’re being released tomorrow. Stretch will pick you up.”
They filed out of the room. Stretch hung back.
“I got a call from a woman this morning. Said she was concerned about you.”
“Gillian? Did she want me to call her?”
“No. Not her. She said her name was Sierra.”
“Sierra Hannaway?”
Stretch nodded.
“Let me guess. She wanted to know who was going to work her sister’s case while I was laid up in bed.”
“Actually, she didn’t talk about the case. She asked how you were and if she could visit you.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.”
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her yes.”
Joe said nothing.
“From that stupid look on your face, I take it I made the right decision.”
“I have to call Melissa. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, I thought so. See you tomorrow.”
OCTOBER 8
FRIDAY, 1:24 P.M.
GALLUP INDIAN MEDICAL CENTER, GALLUP, NEW MEXICO
“Is it okay to come in?”
A woman’s soft voice brought Joe out of a light sleep.
Sierra Hannaway stood at the door.
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