Teague braced his back against the rock behind him and drew his legs up, planting his feet as solidly as possible. Leaning forward, he braced his right elbow on his knee and put the heel of his palm against the wound, using his entire body to apply more pressure than he could have accomplished using just arm strength. He ignored the pain exploding in his head, holding firm and steady while he concentrated on breathing and getting through the agony.
While he sat there, he started swiping his left forearm across his face, trying to wipe the blood out of his eyes. The thing about blood was, the shit congealed, then it dried, and it was hard as hell to get off. He needed water to clean his face. There was a ton of it at the bottom of this fucking rock pile, but getting down there was something he’d think twice about attempting in broad daylight
without
a concussion. No, he had to get back to the road.
Other than applying pressure to the wound, he was limited in what he could do for himself, so that would have to be enough. The good news was, the longer he sat there, the more his head cleared. It still hurt like a son of a bitch, but he was thinking better.
The bad news was, the longer he sat there, the colder he felt. If the blood loss caused him to go into shock, he was screwed. On the other hand, the temperature had to be in the thirties, maybe even below freezing. Of course he was cold, but hypothermia wasn’t good, either. He had to get off these rocks, the sooner the better. His head was going to hurt worse when he tried to move, but what the fuck, hurting was better than dying.
He moved his hand, waiting to see if blood poured down his face again. He felt a trickle and immediately wiped it away, then pressed his hand back over the wound. The bleeding hadn’t stopped, but it had definitely slowed.
His rifle. Where was his rifle? He couldn’t leave it here. For one thing, that damn expensive thermal scope was mounted on it. For another, his fingerprints were all over it. If it had slid down the rocks toward the stream, he wouldn’t be able to retrieve it and someone else would have to come back for it, which right now meant they’d have to leave one firing position unmanned, and he didn’t want to do that.
Something about the firing positions bothered him, but he couldn’t think what it was. It would come to him, though. Forget about it for now—concentrate on finding the rifle.
Using his left hand, he felt around on the ground, but came up empty. He’d have to use the flashlight. He didn’t like doing that, didn’t want to give away his position to the fucker who’d shot him…okay, the fucker already
knew
his position, otherwise how could he have shot him? Big question: How had he known?
Teague stopped searching for the rifle to concentrate on this question, because it seemed vitally important that he think it through. He hadn’t used a flashlight to move into position, so did the shooter have night-vision goggles? The devices weren’t that hard to come by, but what were the odds that somebody in Trail Stop, of all places, would have them? Creed, maybe; he could see Creed having all kinds of shit. But Creed hadn’t shot him; Creed had been hustling some woman to cover—
Ah, fuck. The answer bloomed in his mind. That hadn’t been Creed leaving the house with the woman. Creed had already gone out the back and moved into position to provide cover for the other two. When Teague had pulled the trigger, his muzzle flash had given away his position and Creed had fired. Simple as that. No night-vision device needed.
Creed could still be out there, waiting for someone to show himself.
But he’d be on the other side of the stream, because crossing it in this area was impossible. The slope down to the river was steep, so the water roared down, strong enough to sweep even the strongest man off his feet and slam him into the boulders that dotted the streambed.
Stream
was really a misnomer in this case, because that brought to mind a slow, peaceful flow of water, which this definitely wasn’t. It was like a mini-river—and a bad one. Plus it was as cold as a well-digger’s ass, because it was fed by snowmelt from the mountains.
Teague assessed the situation. He was behind solid cover, surrounded by rocks, his head lower than the boulder in front of him. He had to risk turning on the flashlight so he could locate the rifle. He could minimize the risk, though, by covering most of the lens.
Laboriously, using his left hand, he pulled the flashlight from its loop on his belt and carefully positioned his fingers over the lens, parting two of them to allow a very thin sliver of light to pass. He had to release pressure on his wound then, using his right hand to press the button on the cylinder, but he didn’t feel any fresh blood flowing, so he didn’t bother reapplying pressure.
The amount of light was slight, barely enough to make a difference, but it made him feel better to be able to see
something
and reassure himself that his eyes were still functioning. The first thing he noticed was the amount of red around him: streaks of it running down the boulder in front of him, on the smaller rock he sat on, spattered on moss and fallen leaves. His clothes were wet and sticky with blood. He’d left a shitload of DNA evidence here, but he could hardly scoop it up and put it back into his body.
This raised the stakes. He couldn’t let the smallest suspicion fall on him now, or he was screwed. He’d have to clear out for a while, afterward, and that pissed him off.
That fucking Creed. He’d come out ahead in their first encounter, but damned if he’d do it again.
The frail light finally hit a glint of metal, and Teague played it across the site just long enough to verify he’d located his rifle; then he turned off the light. When he’d been knocked back, the rifle had been sent up and back a few feet, coming to lie wedged in the rocks above him. To reach it, he’d have to leave his protected position, but it wasn’t as if he had a choice. He couldn’t move very fast, either. He thought about it a minute, then figured, what the hell, and went for it.
Overall, moving ranked right up there with getting hit in the head with a hammer. Felt a lot like it, too. Pain exploded in his head; he was puking before he even got his hand on the rifle, but he forced himself to keep going because waiting a few more minutes wasn’t going to make it get any better. As soon as his hand was on the rifle stock, he collapsed against the rocks, gasping.
No shotgun boomed at him, but right then being put out of his misery sounded like a good idea, so he didn’t know whether to feel relieved or sorry.
After a few minutes, he straightened. It was time to get off this pile of rocks, regardless of what it cost him. Pushing himself to his feet, he swayed unsteadily; then he took a step. The pain wasn’t quite as bad as when he’d lunged for the rifle, but it still wasn’t a picnic.
He could do this, though. And before this little dance was over, he’d pay Creed back—big-time.
WHEN TEAGUE WAS NEAR THE ROAD, HE PULLED THE RADIO off his belt and keyed it. “Falcon, this is Hawk.”
Falcon
was Billy. He’d assigned bird-of-prey designators for no reason other than that was what had first come to mind. He was
Hawk,
Billy was
Falcon,
Troy was
Eagle,
and Blake was
Owl.
Come to think of it, he hoped Blake wasn’t insulted by being
Owl,
because owls had the best eyesight—shit, he was worse off than he’d thought if he was worrying about this stuff.
“Go ahead, Hawk.”
“Shotgun blasted the rock right in front of me, and I’m cut to hell and back. I could use some help here. Meet me at the bridge.” Billy was the closest, and the one it was safest to pull in. The two farthest positions were now the most critical, because they overlooked the most likely escape route. Teague had no doubt someone, maybe several someones, would get around to trying to outflank them. Maybe not tonight, but soon.
“Ten-four,” Billy replied, and Teague replaced the radio. God, he was about out on his feet, but he had to keep it going for a few more minutes, at least. He had to walk out there where Toxtel and Goss could see him, so that meant he needed to suck it up. He hadn’t given them radios because he didn’t trust them as far as he could throw their asses, plus he didn’t want them to hear everything he and the guys said. He’d be walking in on them without warning.
The bad thing was, even after he was away from them, he wouldn’t have a chance to lie down until he felt better; about the best he could do was swallow some aspirin and hope the headache eased.
Right before he emerged from the trees and underbrush, he called softly, “Incoming.” Made them feel like they were on some military op, or something. Pitiful. He’d been on some fucked-up ops in his time, but nothing as harebrained as this.
Toxtel and Goss had taken up positions within five yards of each other, which was another dumb-ass thing to do, but since Teague hadn’t figured there would be any action at the bridge, he’d let them do what they wanted, let them think they were still in charge.
Neither of them turned to look at him as he approached; they were still wired on adrenaline, muscles tight, as they waited for someone to try to sneak across the stream. He couldn’t fault them on that, though someone more experienced would have learned to relax somewhat.
“Did you get anybody?” Goss asked. “I heard a shot.”
That confirmed Teague’s impression that the shotgun blast had followed his own shot so closely they were almost simultaneous.
“I maybe got someone, but someone else got a lucky shot off at me.”
Goss glanced over his shoulder and, even in the dark, could tell that Teague’s face was mostly obscured by blood. “Fuck!” He jumped to his feet, whirling around and causing Toxtel to start in alarm. “You got shot in the fucking
head
?”
“No, it’s cuts, not a bullet wound. Someone with a shotgun blasted the rock in front of me, blew shards everywhere.” He managed to sound nonchalant.
“Shotgun?” Toxtel asked grimly, also getting up and coming over to stand with them. “I wonder if it was our boy,” he said to Goss, confirming Teague’s suspicion that one of those tough old boys over there had gotten the jump on them.
“I know who it was,” Teague told them. “A guy named Creed. Tough son of a bitch, ex-military, does some guiding around here.”
“What does he look like? Not too big, maybe five-ten, six feet, on the skinny side? Longish hair? Spooky eyes, like they’re made of glass or something?”
Huh. Teague didn’t remember anyone answering that description. One thing was for certain, though, their boy wasn’t Creed. “No. Creed’s a big, muscled guy. Short dark hair going gray. Looks like he should still be in uniform.”
“That’s not him. You sure this Creed is the one who shot at you?” Toxtel asked.
“Almost certain.” He said “almost” because he hadn’t actually seen Creed, but his gut told him it couldn’t have been anyone else.
“But you said it was a shotgun,” Toxtel persisted.
Teague barely held on to his temper. Here he was standing in front of them covered with blood, and all Toxtel could think about was the guy who’d got the jump on him. “There’s more than one shotgun in the world,” he said shortly. “And I’d guess at least ten of them are on the other side of that stream, plus assorted rifles and pistols.”
Toxtel turned back around, evidently pissed that Teague had been shot by someone other than Toxtel’s personal nemesis.
Goss looked at Toxtel, then back at Teague, and offered a shrug. “You look like shit. Need any help?”
“Nah. I’m going to the camp to clean up.” At least Goss had offered to help, which was more than that asshole Toxtel had done. Teague turned and carefully headed back up the road and around a curve. Billy stepped out of the foliage on the other side of the road and silently joined him. Once they were out of sight of Toxtel and Goss, Billy helped him the rest of the way, pulling one of Teague’s arms around his own shoulders and taking half of Teague’s weight. Since Billy wasn’t a big guy, getting to the camp was a struggle.
They had set up a small tent about a hundred yards from the bridge—or where the bridge had been—in a small, protected hollow that couldn’t be seen from the road. Common sense had said that they’d need a place to rest, to make coffee, and to eat, especially if this went on for longer than a day, which Teague sort of expected. Billy released him long enough to duck inside and light the lantern, then returned to get Teague inside, which involved bending his head down, which made the world spin even more sickeningly than it already was.
“Shit,” Teague said wearily as he sank down on the camp chair, too sick to think of a curse more inventive.
“Maybe you should lie down,” Billy suggested, busy opening a plastic sack that contained their first-aid supplies, which either Goss or Toxtel had gathered up, so he had no idea what was in there.
“If I do, I won’t be able to get up.”
“So don’t get up for a few hours. There’s nothing going on. I haven’t seen anyone moving for about an hour. They’ve pulled back and hunkered down, waiting for daylight. Nothing’s gonna happen until then. Diaper wipes,” he mused, throwing Teague into confusion until he blearily made out the plastic box Billy was holding. “I guess they got ’em to clean up with. Reckon this’d be okay to clean cuts? There are a few alcohol wipes but not many. Not enough to clean you up, anyway.”
Teague started to shrug, thought better of it. “Don’t see why not. Any aspirin in there?”
“Yeah, sure. How many you want?”
“Four, to start.” He didn’t think two pills would make a dent in this headache.
“Aspirin’s a blood thinner.”
“I’ll take the risk. I need something.”
Billy got a bottle of water and opened it, then shook four pills into his palm and gave them to Teague, who cautiously swallowed them one at a time, trying to move his head as little as possible. Then Billy set to work with the diaper wipes, cleaning the blood away so he could see the damage.
As he carefully wiped around the big cut at the top of Teague’s forehead, he murmured, “This is the most dumb-ass stunt I’ve ever seen. Tell me again why we’re doing this.”