Текст книги "Cold Blue"

Автор книги: Gary Neece

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

Having pulled his truck inside the barn, Thorpe transferred his purchases to a new duffel bag, slung it across his shoulders and thanked Deborah. He walked through the gate onto the gravel road then into the woods. Teeming with thorny underbrush, the first part of the trek was tough going. But within a couple of minutes he sped along a trail that led to his house.

Thorpe had carved out this trail through the woods as a running route. The path passed through his and several of his neighbor’s properties, with one loop being nearly two miles. Thorpe preferred the solitude of trail running, and because he’d littered the course with obstacles, it offered a total-body workout.

After a few minutes, he neared the back of his house where he could see the deck overlooking the creek. Thorpe descended into the brook, waded through a foot of water and crossed to the opposite embankment. Climbing short of the rim, he sat his bag on wet leaves, retrieved a set of binoculars, and dropped to his belly. He crawled to the top, and, elbows in dirt, peered through his optics into the woods across the road.

If a competent sniper hid in the undergrowth facing his home, the shooter would be nearly impossible to spot, a scenario Thorpe considered unlikely to occur during daylight hours. His assassins would come at night, and though it was an assumption that could get him killed, he couldn’t spend his days peering into the deep dark across the road, flinching at every windblown limb.

Thorpe rose swiftly, sprinting to the rear of the barn so as not to present an easy target for any lurking marksman. If someone were going to shoot him, by God he’d make them work for it. His footfalls elicited a volley of barks from a startled Al and Trixie, who, sequestered inside the barn, had not yet gathered his scent. When Thorpe reached the rear, he threw open the back door and greeted his dogs. Reunion complete, he ordered the animals outside with a command, “Search.” The racket of sharp nails seeking traction where none was to be had echoed off the barn’s walls, as legs moved and bodies didn’t. Once free of the concrete floor, Al and Trixie tore off toward the front of the property, finely-tuned muzzles in exploration.

As the dogs went about their work, Thorpe conducted his own search—for evidence of outdoor animals having suddenly been confined indoors. Pleasantly surprised to find a sanitary gym, Thorpe waited for the dogs to empty their bladders and finish their search before retrieving his duffel bag near the creek bed.

Thorpe summoned the dogs, opened the rear door of his house, and aware muddy paw prints would most likely be their greatest accomplishment, ordered them to search the interior. Al and Trixie scattered to opposite ends of the home, returning a minute later with wagging tails. Thorpe walked inside and dumped the contents of the duffel on the living room floor.

He had much to do before reporting to work.

Friday

February 9

Evening

OFFICER COLE DANIELSSAT IN the living room of his modest home, wringing his hands in contemplation.

Were those crazy bastards really going to kill Thorpe? He knew Phipps wouldn’t hesitate; the man always did have a mean streak and war had twisted an already-troubled mind.

They should never have tried to frame Thorpe in the first place. The plan had been set in motion without Cole’s input.

Still, hesure as hell didn’t do anything to stop it, did he?He’d tried to justify his inaction by pretending the matter was out of his hands. Then those two dumbasses killed Thorpe’s wife and daughter. Oh God, how had he gotten involved in all of this?

Even after the killings, he’d sat back and said nothing. He was afraid. Afraid of losing his wife, son and freedom. Fear had made him weak. Well, not anymore. First thing tomorrow, he’d get his family out of town, then drive to the local FBI office and tell them everything. Maybe he could even strike a deal to stay out of prison.

COLE’S WIFE, SAMANTHA, STOOD AT the stove preparing dinner. Samantha knew something was bothering her husband but had been asked to be patient while he worked matters out on his own. Having put the finishing touches on her trademark lasagna, Samantha called for her husband, announcing dinner was ready. As she carried the steaming dish from stove to table, she heard the faint but distinct sound of breaking glass followed by a thud. Samantha hurried around the corner to find her living room wall stippled with bloody bone fragments and brain tissue. Her husband lay face-down on the floor, the right side of his head an open cavity. The dish slipped from Samantha’s mitt-covered hands.

Later, it would prove difficult for detectives to determine where the lasagna ended and pieces of Cole Daniels began.

THORPE AND HIS UNIT WERE wrapping up a search warrant in East Tulsa when the emergency tone was broadcast over the radio. The tone signified an officer in distress. Everyone stopped what he was doing and tuned in to the dispatcher’s voice.

“Adam 303, Adam 303 and a car to back. Off-duty officer down at 1450 E. 56^th Street North, one-four-five-zero east five-six Street North, break. Caller reports her husband is DOA from a gunshot wound. Caller was hysterical and provided no other details. EMSA and fire are staging…”

Tyrone recognized the address. “Shit! That’s Cole Daniels’ house. What the fuck?”

Thorpe wondered the same thing. According to Leon, Daniels was one of those involved in the attempted dope planting at his home.

Why would Daniels be killed? It was too soon to speculate. Thorpe instructed Jennifer and Donnie to transport the lone prisoner. The rest of the unit would respond to the shooting scene to see if they could lend assistance. It’d provide Thorpe an opportunity to gather information.

En route, Thorpe tried to piece together what must be happening. Had Daniels become a liability to the rest of the collaborators? If so, the group was growing desperate, and they’d be coming for him sooner rather than later. They’d also inadvertently given Thorpe an airtight alibi; he’d been surrounded by fellow officers while another suspect in his family’s murder was killed. Thorpe shook his head at his own assumptions. For all he knew, Cole’s wife may have shot him—but that would be a nearly unfathomable coincidence.

Thorpe listened to the radio as responding officers arrived on scene. Their first responsibility would be to protect human life. That meant they’d check to see if the downed individual was confirmed DOA or in need of medical treatment. Then they’d clear the house of potential threats and establish a perimeter. After the area was rendered safe, the officers would focus on scene security and preserving witnesses. An inner and outer perimeter would be set up, and a crime scene recorder would document the arrival time of every person who entered the outer ambit, including officers, detectives, medical examiners, police chaplains, funeral personnel—everyone. Every officer noted by the scene recorder would be responsible for completing a supplemental to the original homicide report, documenting the actions he or she took while on location.

Thorpe arrived fifteen minutes after the alert tone was broadcast, finding nearly twenty police units parked in the drive and on the street. Daniels’ house was located on the northern edge of Tulsa’s city limits. The properties here were large, with the homes a good forty yards off the road.

Thorpe approached a patrol sergeant who had two decades with the department but had only recently been promoted.

“What you got, Mike?”

“It’s bad,” he said, glancing back at the house. “He’s down in the living room with half his head missing.”

“Cole Daniels? Gunshot, I guess?”

“Yeah…Cole. Wife says she was in the kitchen, heard a thud, ran in the living room and found her husband splayed out with his brains all over the wall. Can you imagine?” Remembering John’s family, Mike’s face reddened in an instant. “Sorry, John, I…”

“Don’t worry about it, Mike. Go on.”

“Shit. There’s a hole in the living room window. Looks like someone fired a high-caliber gun through the glass and killed him with one shot.”

Sniper, Thorpe thought, but asked, “We’re sure the wife didn’t shoot him?”

“We’re not sure of a damn thing right now; this thing’s only fifteen minutes old.”

“Okay, Mike. Some of my guys are heading this way. You need any help from us?”

“We’ve got too many people tripping over each other already. Right now we’re mainly working at keeping officers out of the crime scene. We have a canvass going, but there aren’t a whole lot of houses within view ‘round here. I guess the most I can ask of your guys is to start driving the neighborhood and cracking some heads, see what you can come up with.”

Thorpe had already noticed one thing about the crime scene that needed to be corrected. They’d cordoned off the property at 56^th Street North to prevent sightseers and the media from getting too close, but the inner perimeter only extended about twenty yards from the front of the house. He decided not to raise the issue of extending the northern radius, which was based on his concern that a sniper might have fired the round from a considerable distance. Thorpe was still speaking with Mike when he saw Hull coming up the drive.

Hull stepped up and spoke quietly. “Hey, John. Hey, Mike, fucking some week we’re having, huh?” Hull nodded toward the house. “What we got?”

Mike reiterated all he had just told Thorpe—just as he would have to do twenty more times in the next thirty minutes.

Hull listened without interruption and then asked, “So what do you think?”

“Two black officers killed two nights in a row. I don’t know what to make of it,” Mike said with a shrug of the shoulders.

“How ‘bout you, John? What do you think?”

Thorpe looked directly at Hull. “You’ve got two black police officers killed one after another in what looks like professional work. Not only that, but both officers have made multiple claims of rampant racism within the department. I think you’ve got a suspect who’s possibly a cop, and you absolutely have a political nightmare on your hands.”

Hull returned Thorpe’s gaze. “Stay out of my brain.”

“Too dark in there for me.”

“Well, Carnac, it felt like you were reading my mind. I doubt it will take long for the media to jump to the same conclusion. These are going to be some rough times ahead. Our liberal rag of a newspaper is always looking for TPD conspiracies even without this bullshit.”

“Bob, my guys are here; can you think of any way you can use them right now?” Thorpe offered.

“You can start by asking them where they’ve been for the last couple hours. We’re going to have to begin compiling information on where every officer was during these two murders so we can eliminate potential suspects. We might as well ask while it’s fresh in their minds.”

Thorpe gave Hull a hard look. “Well, you can scratch my entire evening-shift unit off your suspect list. We’ve all been together the last two hours serving a search warrant. I’ll have all my guys send you an interoffice stating their whereabouts for the last two nights.”

Thorpe turned and walked away just as Chuck Lagrone arrived at his boss’s side. Thorpe turned back and pointed his finger with feigned anger.

“And the next time the Hull-and-Skull show comes to watch me fight, sit on the front row and buy me a fucking beer afterward.”

MIKE ARCHED HIS EYEBROWS. “WHAT the fuck was that about?”

“Nothing, Mike. Let me talk to Chuck alone for a minute,” Hull said as he grabbed Skull and pulled him to the side.

“What the hell, boss! Did you tell him what we’d been discussing?”

“No. I just suggested he poll his squad about their whereabouts during these shootings. I told him every cop was going to be a suspect.”

Skull pointed a boney finger at his boss. “Yeah, but he was the first person you told to do it. No wonder he took it personally.”

“I wanted to shock him a little, see how he responded. The good news is he said his whole unit was in the middle of a search warrant when this went down. If that pans out, he’s in the clear.”

“No shit…well…good!”

“He’ll get over it—he’s got a thick skin. Besides, we’re going to piss off a lot of people before this thing is over,” Hull assured his lead detective.

INITIALLY, THORPE PLANNED TO RETURN to SID but realized it was the perfect opportunity to tie up a loose end. As he drove, he considered the feigned anger he’d directed at Hull. Thorpe wasn’t really angry with the man; the department would have to consider its own force as primary suspects—especially after tomorrow’s probable headlines. Besides, even if Hull had made an insinuation, he was absolutely correct—at least about Price’s killing.

With every North Side officer tied up on the homicide of Cole Daniels, Thorpe decided to make a brief stop at the law office of Jessie Leatherman. The man’s office sat across the street from a convenience store where crack cocaine was the commodity most often sought and sold. A restaurant with an excellent reputation sat next to the store and satisfied a different kind of addiction—barbeque. The rest of the neighborhood, however, was one “shotgun” crack house after another. Thorpe wasn’t sure why the small narrow homes were referred to as shotgun houses but thought it might have to do with the fact if you fired one of the weapons through the front door, you’d probably stand a fair chance of striking everyone inside.

He didn’t like using his assigned truck for tonight’s task but wanted to strike while officers were still busy with Daniels’ crime scene. Earlier, Thorpe had made an excuse to enter the law office during daylight hours—to get a layout of the building. Window stickers and signs warned wannabe intruders of an alarm that didn’t exist. It wouldn’t take much ingenuity to gain entry, and Thorpe’s truck contained the few tools he’d need. Apparently Jessie wasn’t too worried about burglars—and after Thorpe had a look around the office he understood why: there wasn’t a damn thing worth stealing, not even a computer.

Thorpe parked in the restaurant’s lot, removed a pellet gun from the glove box, and retrieved a wire clothes hanger from the backseat. He kept the pellet gun in his truck for a variety of reasons, primarily for search warrants when porch lights needed to be extinguished from short distances.

Wearing oversized clothing over a police radio, Thorpe stepped from his vehicle into the woody aroma of slowly smoked meat. Ignoring his mouth’s salivations, he walked behind the barbeque joint and around the rear of the convenience store.

A block to the east, he crossed the four-lane street and made his way toward the back of the law office. The building’s windows had inside levers that turned clockwise and up to unlock. Once unlocked, the windows were opened by pushing from the inside. Thorpe approached from the rear and found all levers in the locked position. Retrieving the pellet gun, he shot a tiny hole above and to the left of the lever. He then fashioned the wire into a hook and fed it through the opening, down toward the handle. Thorpe snared the lever and pulled it upward into the unlocked position. He then used his knife to break the seal on the window and pull it open.

Thorpe casually took in his surroundings before peeling off clothing so he could fit into the opening. Once inside, he rummaged through a cheap, laminate-covered metal desk before moving to a pair of unlocked file cabinets. He located a drawer labeled “K—R” and inside discovered a file with the name Leon Peterson. Along with legal papers, there were two unopened envelopes, one of which was addressed to Leon’s father, Charlie Peterson.

Could it really be this easy? Thorpe opened the sealed envelopes and found what he’d come for—handwritten statements detailing the events of his wife and daughter’s murders. They included the names of all those involved. Thorpe looked around the office a few more minutes, checking for additional documentation. Finding none, he replaced everything as he’d found it and shimmied out the window.

He doubted anyone would realize there’d been a break-in. The only evidence was a tiny hole in the glass that would most likely be attributed to vandals. If Leon’s body were discovered and Jessie went to retrieve the letters, he might chalk up the missing documents to old age and forgetfulness, if the idiot even remembered to look.

Returning to his truck, the smell of mesquite still ensnared in his nostrils, Thorpe decided to return to the office, tackle some paperwork, and then head home to rest. Tomorrow would be a long day.

Besides, he had a feeling a surprise might be waiting for him when he got home.

Saturday

February 10

Early morning

BY THE TIME THORPE ARRIVED at Deborah’s property, the temperature had plummeted, and a light sleet had begun to fall. He’d taken an unusual route to enter the neighborhood, being careful not to pass in front of his own residence; he didn’t want to endanger Deborah or her husband.

Thorpe jabbed at the numbered buttons on the keypad and was granted entry through the imposing gate. He drove his undercover truck to the large barn and pulled inside.

Thorpe shut the barn doors, turned on the interior lights and transferred his equipment to the truck’s tailgate. The most important item he carried tonight was an AR-15 equipped with a flash hider, collapsible stock, and Aimpoint red-dot scope. As he organized his gear, he heard someone lift the latch on the barn’s double doors. Thorpe quickly racked the AR’s bolt, feeding a .223 round into the chamber, shouldered the weapon and turned. Deborah let out a sharp cry as she looked down the muzzle of Thorpe’s rifle.

“Deborah, you should damn well know better!” Thorpe lowered the barrel. “Close the door; someone might see the light.”

Deborah held both hands over her heart as though she were trying to keep the organ from escaping. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were so jumpy.”

“Did I not tell you why I was using this place? Try knocking next time…I could’ve blown your head off.”

“You’re right. You have to be careful.”

“What are you doing down here? Your husband’s going to come inside and shoot us both.”

Deborah remained near the barn doors—as if afraid to approach. “He’s not here; we’ve separated.”

Trouble. “Oh…when did this happen?”

“It’s been a few days…I wasn’t going to tell you…but I’ve been thinking...”

Oh, shit. Stay strong, John. “Deborah, I’m not ready for a relationship, and technically, you’re still married.”

“Look, Thomas has been treating me like trash for years. He hasn’t been faithful since the day we married. I should’ve left him a long time ago, but I didn’t want to lose all this…” Deborah gestured with her hands, referring to her possessions. “I just put up with it. And when you and I slept together I didn’t feel bad because he has been doing the same thing to me for years. I finally had enough and confronted him; told him I knew about his affairs; told him I had one of my own. He was livid, tried to kick me out of the house. I told the drunk old bastard to get the hell out. It’s over. Even if I wanted to make things work, he wouldn’t have me back. I’ve insulted him.”

“Good for you, I guess…if that’s what you want.”

“I’m not ready for a relationship either, John. I just want to be with you…from time to time.”

Deborah wore a black ankle-length fur with matching trapper hat. She undid her belt and opened wide her coat. Underneath—other than knee-high leather boots—she was nude, her pale body in sharp contrast to the theatrical scrim behind her. Covered in gooseflesh, her nipples stood in mock salute of the frigid air.

Deborah took three catlike steps toward Thorpe, who lifted her off her feet and sat her on the tailgate, her fur coat spilling beneath her. Deborah spread her thighs and undid Thorpe’s belt. She pulled him closer as he entered her. Leaning back on a canvas bag, she raised her knees and her four-inch heels dug into the liner of her coat. Pushing Thorpe off she guided him to where she’d been lying. Straddling him, she arched her back as she rose and fell; her warm rhythmic breath visible in the chilled air.

When they’d finished, Deborah spoke breathlessly, “Don’t worry yourself about this. I’m not looking for a relationship either. And I know as well as you, it wouldn’t work between us. But that was good.”

Deborah wrapped herself in her fur and walked to the barn door where she paused and looked back at his semi-naked form.

“That’s a big gun you got there,” she said with a smile, before nodding at his assault rifle.

Damn it! Thorpe was pissed—at himself—and not for the first time with this woman. How can a man be so disciplined in some areas of his life and have absolutely no willpower in others?

From Thorpe’s personal and professional experience, he knew good sex could be an excellent indicator of a woman’s mental fitness. It seemed the better they were in bed, the crazier they were. With that reasoning, Deborah must be loonier than hell. Hopefully she’d keep her promise and not expect any commitment from Thorpe; at this point in his life he wouldn’t be able to give it, and Deborah wouldn’t be at the top of his list as a deserving recipient. He’d needed that though; he’d had enough tension building up the last few days to power a small town.

Thorpe slipped out of his remaining clothes and into Under Armour Cold Gear. He covered the thermals with several layers of clothing, topping it off with a three-dimensional RealLeaf suit, a commercial hunting accessory that breaks up the human silhouette with realistic man-made leaves. It’s a watered-down version of the ghillie suits used by military snipers. Underneath, Thorpe wore a layer of Gore-Tex and a black balaclava to protect against the falling sleet.

He stashed most his equipment in a CamelBak HAWG. The pack could carry over 1200 cubic inches of gear and was equipped with a water bladder system. Thorpe checked his watch—1:52 a.m. He grabbed his weapons, slung the pack over his shoulders and pushed open the barn’s doors as he simultaneously pushed thoughts of Deborah out of his mind.

BEFORE ANDREW PHIPPS BECAME A sniper with the Tulsa Police Department’s Special Operations Team, he’d been a “Dark Green” United States Marine. More specifically, he’d been a member of Force Reconnaissance or “Force Recon,” a special operations unit within the Corps, like the Navy’s SEALS or the Army’s Green Berets and Delta teams.

Tonight he found himself in a situation he’d been in countless times before, except he wasn’t miles behind enemy lines in some godforsaken third-world country. Instead, he was just outside Hicksville, USA, on a direct-action mission. He sat beside a gravel road with a bolt-action .30-06. The weapon paled in comparison to the rifle he carried in Recon or even with the police department but was more than adequate for tonight’s black op.

This mission’s HVI—High-Value Individual—should appear in his sights at a mere forty yards. Phipps’ far-from-optimal position was necessitated by the terrain and made acceptable by the fact that he didn’t have to worry about an enemy force returning fire. Upon arrival, he found the woods so thick that he decided to remove the rifle’s cheap scope and get up-close and personal. Unless already engaged in a firefight, he’d never take a similar shot while deployed in a military action.

No worries. He’d drop Thorpe with one high-powered, well-placed round, then casually stroll out of the woods. Thorpe, the poor clueless bastard, would probably illuminate himself with his own headlights. Phipps only real concern was the man lying beside him.

Thadius Shaw was serving as his “spotter,” though Phipps didn’t plan on using him for anything other than as an accessory to murder; Shaw’s direct involvement would help keep the man’s mouth shut.

A few hours ago, Shaw would never have agreed to come along on this undertaking. But his attitude had changed when McDonald convinced him that Thorpe had murdered his best friend, Daniels—and wouldn’t stop until they were all dead. Shaw was unaware that the man who’d actually killed his friend lay beside him. Phipps hadn’t exactly enjoyed killing Daniels…or maybe he did; he wasn’t sure anymore. He’d always gotten satisfaction from killing the enemy in combat but now wondered if he just enjoyed killing—period. He knew one thing: he’d relish putting a bullet in Thorpe’s head, and his only regret would be that Thorpe wouldn’t see it coming. In the sniper’s world, death was like a light switch; you’re dead well before the sound waves of the shot reach your corpse.

Both men were dressed in cheap camouflage. Phipps didn’t want to wear his ghillie suit and risk tearing a piece off on a branch. He’d handled the material enough that his DNA was probably all over the suit. Instead, he lay concealed in the bush, wearing discount-store camouflage, looking through the sights of a deer rifle. He was here to kill a man who’d become a threat to his freedom, and Marines had always been in the freedom-protection business. Phipps didn’t know much about Thorpe; the man seemed cordial enough, but that didn’t mean a thing. McDonald appeared to be a nice guy, too, and one would never guess the shit he was into.

Phipps looked over at a shivering Shaw and thought to himself, worthless. He’d told the dumbass to dress warm. There’s nothing colder than lying motionless on frozen ground waiting to ambush someone. He didn’t know if Shaw was shaking from the cold and sleet or from nerves; probably a combination of both. Phipps was glad this would be an easy kill because Shaw didn’t inspire much confidence. In addition, Shaw normally wore eyeglasses that Phipps had forced him to remove. He didn’t want light reflecting off the lenses and giving away their position. So, besides being an untrained, out-of-his-element shivering little bitch, he was also half blind to boot. Phipps wouldn’t be surprised to hear the man’s teeth begin to chatter.

If Phipps were to be perfectly honest, his own toes were starting to feel the cold. He wished Thorpe would get his sorry white ass home so he could put a bullet in it and return to his heated home and ESPN. While these thoughts swirled in his mind, he noticed movement in the darkness of Thorpe’s property. Two shapes ran toward the fence—dogs.

Where the fuck did they come from?

“What the…?” Shaw said loudly.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Phipps whispered.

What the hell is this? They’d been here for two and a half hours and hadn’t seen a thing—and now dogs were roaming the fence line? One of the dogs paused and looked across the road and just to the left of where he and Shaw were lying. It began to growl.

“That fucking dog sees us,” Shaw said with obvious fear in his voice.

“He doesn’t see us; he smells us…and now he probably hears us. If you open your mouth again I’m going to slit your fucking throat.”

As soon as his words came out, the trees in front, above and behind them burst with light. Shaw immediately jumped to his feet and turned to run deeper into the woods. The crack of supersonic bullets parted the air over Phipps head. The rounds were followed by a short yelp from Shaw as he continued his flight for safety.

Fucking automatic gunfire—sounded like a three-round burst from an M-4 or modified AR-15.

Phipps fired a round toward where he’d seen a muzzle flash.

A second burst came in from a different location.

Goddamnit! The son-of-a-bitch was shooting and moving! Phipps hugged the earth and crawled away from the gunfire—some of which came too close to finding its mark. When he had cover between him and the threat, he stood and began making his way deeper into the woods. He had to find that fucking Shaw.

Or maybe he didn’t.

THORPE LAY PRONE ABOVE THE creek bed using the bank as cover. Two extension cords, now connected, stretched beside him. The hot end came from his barn and the other led into the woods across the road. Thorpe had picked a trough across the gravel and buried the cord. On the opposite side, he’d connected a three-way splitter. Those cords fed several different sets of lights concealed in the trees. Thorpe had even used clear Christmas lights in the branches well above the ground.

As soon as Thorpe connected the two extension cords, the tree line had come alive with a curtain of light, and he’d caught movement several yards to the right of where his weapon was trained—something moving fast. Thorpe had let out a burst from his AR-15 toward the distant figure, then tucked his head and rolled several feet to his right. As he did so, he’d heard the distinctive high-pitched flutter of a bullet tumbling through the air to his left—ricochet. The bullet probably struck a limb before reaching his location.

There were at least two of them. One was fleeing through the woods and the other fired at Thorpe’s last position. Phipps must have a spotter accompanying him.

Thorpe raised up and let off a short burst near where he’d seen the first person rise. He fired these rounds lower anticipating that Phipps still lay on the ground. Thorpe tucked his head and moved again, noting the lack of return fire. He must have either hit Phipps or the man was retreating or relocating—waiting for Thorpe to let off another burst, a burst that’d be met with a rifle round between his eyes. Deciding he’d pushed his luck enough, Thorpe slid down into the creek bed and began running to the east. When he reached a wooded area east of his house, he left the ravine and made his way back to the gravel road, unsure if he’d struck either man with gunfire.

PHIPPS PICKED HIS WAY THROUGH the trees, then stopped and considered his options. He could call out to Shaw in an attempt to escape this debacle together. Or he could locate Shaw, keep his distance, and use the man as bait. Surrounded by dead foliage, maybe Phipps would hear Thorpe approaching—then again the sound of the sleet might cover his footfalls.

Thorpe didn’t have a military background, but it sure as hell seemed like he’d received combat training somewhere—and where the fuck did he get an automatic rifle? The more Phipps considered Thorpe’s actions, the more concerned he became. Not only did the man anticipate an ambush, but he correctly anticipated from where the attack would be launched. Then he laid down some damn accurate fire on Shaw, who’d been a moving target at considerable yardage. Plus, Thorpe shot and moved. He didn’t get tunnel vision and even anticipated there could be more than one threat in the woods. Phipps had definitely underestimated the man.