Too Far Gone

87

Leland put on the cop’s vest. It was a tight fit even after he loosened the straps to let it out. Once he cinched it, the vest did an admirable job holding the compress in place. Leland rubbed mud on his face, head and neck, shoulders and legs. The breeze would dry it quickly. Putting aside the 66, he lifted the pistol and the Winchester and filled his mouth with rifle bullets. Leland watched the shore across the channel from cover, looking through the rifle’s scope for movement that would give away the cops’ positions.

He moved the scope to inspect the hull and transom of his boat for holes, and to see those in the motor’s cowling. Those sons of bitches. They’ll pay dear for screwing with my boat.

He knew he could swap out his motor with the game warden’s, which he had hidden nearby under leaves and brush. He’d caulk the holes in the fiberglass hull. The vessel’s bow was lodged on the muddy bank just enough to anchor it. As he watched, he was sure he saw the boat move. He watched it more closely, knowing there wasn’t enough wind to shift the heavy vessel the way he had seen it move.

He cursed when he saw the woman cop’s head for a split second before it vanished below the transom. He could shoot through the fiberglass, and he might hit her, but he didn’t want to make any more holes in the hull. The rifle could even go through into the water and sink it. He could see a thin film of gasoline on the water, where it was leaking from the damaged motor. Probably a fuel line was ruptured.

As he watched, the woman stood, ran the length of the boat, and jumped onto the shore. He was wondering why she’d been on board, when the boat, and the gasoline he’d seen in the water, erupted in flame, light gray smoke billowing from his beloved boat. Fury seized him, and he stood, aiming at where she’d gone off into the brush.

Seeing sudden movement in the shadows, he swung the gun and saw the other cop in camo-aiming straight at him. Leland put the scope’s crosshairs on him, but the cop’s rifle went off a split second before his did, and Leland felt a punch in his left arm so hard, his shot went wide because of it.

He fell to the ground. His wounded arm was useless, and he crawled backward into the shadows, leaking blood.

He could smell his boat burning, and that infuriated him, more even than the sound of the cop that had shot him laughing over across the inlet. The woman cop had managed to flush him out so the man could fire, and Leland cursed his luck. He looked at his wounded arm, and was worried a lot by what he saw. It looked as if someone had scooped most of the meat off of his biceps; the shattered arm bone was visible in the ruined meat. Blood flowed down his limp arm. He wanted to howl, but he didn’t dare give that woman cop another shot at him.

From across the water, he heard the woman laughing melodiously. He fought the urge to howl in rage.

It began to rain, hardly more than a sprinkle. There were only two of them left, and they were going to die soon. He knew he should go back to first camo cop, get his belt, and make the bleeding stop, before he got swimmy-headed.