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Sky was in motion, racing toward his fallen cousin, when a second shot rang out. Sky reeled and crumpled to the ground, clutching his side.
The firing stopped. Sky was crawling across the farmyard toward the silo, leaving a trail of blood in the dust. Too much blood.
For Beau, the shots had triggered an avalanche of nightmare memories. He forced them from his mind. Right now he had to get to Sky even though that was exactly what the mystery shooter probably wanted. Get them together in the open and finish them off. Was that why he hadn’t killed Sky outright?
Sky saw Beau start toward him. “Don’t come out here . . .” he shouted, his teeth clenching between words. “I’ll be . . . fine. Go up that hill. Get the bastard!”
But Beau knew he couldn’t do that. If he went after the shooter, Sky would likely bleed to death. He climbed back in the truck and started the engine. The cab wouldn’t be much protection against a high-powered military rifle. But it was better than nothing. His plan was to race into the open, haul Sky onto the seat, and make a run for the far side of the concrete silo. From there, the shooter would have to change his position to get a bead on them—and maybe expose himself.
Who the hell was up there with the rifle, anyway? Who would have known they’d be out in the middle of nowhere?
I’ll phone the sheriff.
Bernice’s parting words, which hadn’t really registered at the time, burst into his memory. Suddenly he knew.
Axelrod. Lord, it had been Axelrod all along.
Ducking low, Beau stomped the gas pedal, shot out into the open farmyard, and screeched to a halt with the truck between Sky and the shooter. A bullet shattered both side windows, missing him by inches as he bellied across the front seat, opened the passenger door, and dropped to the ground next to Sky, who looked as if he was going into shock.
“Sorry, this’ll hurt, buddy.” He seized the wounded man under the arms and hauled him upward onto the rear seat. Sky grunted with pain but didn’t speak as Beau vaulted back behind the wheel and gunned the truck the last few yards behind the tall concrete barrier of the silo.
Protected for the moment, Beau jumped to the ground and flung open the back door of the truck. Sky lay on the seat, his face ashen, blood soaking his shirt. Beau had seen similar wounds in combat. With luck the large-caliber bullet hadn’t hit any vital organs, but it had blasted an ugly hole in Sky’s body. Sky was bleeding out fast. Without medical attention, he might not last long.
Stripping off his soot-streaked shirt and wadding it inside out, he pressed it hard against Sky’s wound. With his free hand, he dialed 911 on his cell phone, requested Life Flight, and gave directions. It was the best, perhaps the only, chance of saving Sky. The helicopter would take fifteen, maybe twenty minutes to get here. Meanwhile he had to keep Sky alive and deal with the sheriff.
Sky opened his eyes. His mouth worked as he struggled to speak. “Axelrod,” he muttered.
“So you figured it out, too.”
Sky’s bloodless lips spread in a grimace. “Get the bastard,” he rasped, and closed his eyes.
Whipping off his leather belt, Beau wrapped it around his friend’s middle and buckled it tight to hold the makeshift pressure bandage in place, then retrieved his phone and the Winchester.
The air had gone quiet, even the birds and buzzing insects frozen in silence. From the hillside there was no sound, no sign of motion. Was Axelrod holding his ground, waiting for someone to step into the open, or was he circling around to get a killing shot at his prey? Forcing himself to stay calm, Beau weighed the odds. Should he hunker down with Sky and try to outwait the sheriff until the helicopter came, or take the offensive and try to lure the man out, maybe get a chance to end this once and for all?
Sky’s breathing was ragged, his pulse thready, his eyes closed. It was hard to tell whether he was still conscious, but he’d made it clear what he wanted Beau to do.
Get the bastard! he’d said.
Natalie’s plan to intercept the sheriff had fallen dismally short. She’d pushed the Toyota to its limits, but it had been too slow to catch up with the late-model Jeep flying at breakneck speed along the twisting dirt road.
With each mile she fell farther behind, until only a faint dust plume told her the way he was headed.
Spotting a shortcut, she had taken it. Now, half a mile from the Winslow place, she had gotten stuck crossing a sand wash.
In the distance she could see the Winslow place—the dilapidated barn, the burned-out house, the silo, and the low hill behind the property.
As she climbed out of the vehicle, she heard the echoing blast of a high-powered rifle. Seconds later, the first shot was followed by another, so loud that, even at a distance, it made her ears ring. That would be Axelrod’s weapon.
Grabbing the loaded shotgun from the floorboard, Natalie took off through the brush at a dead run. Now she heard a third shot and the shattering of glass. There was no return fire. Axelrod was shooting at someone—someone who wasn’t shooting back.
Natalie stumbled over a rock, caught herself, and plunged ahead, toward the deserted farm.
Beau crouched behind the open driver’s side door of the truck. “I know it’s you, Axelrod!” he shouted. “You killed Lute and Slade and probably the girl, too. And then you faked the evidence to frame me. But it’s over, hear?”
He waited for an answer. None came, which probably meant Axelrod was moving closer and didn’t want to give away his position.
“When did you turn dirty, old man?” Beau taunted him. “Was it after your wife died, or had you been that way all along? When did you decide to start killing people who knew too much? Whatever your reasons, you’re finished!”
