Too Far Gone

88

Luckily Larry Bond was a smoker. Alexa had borrowed his lighter and, crawling from the trees, slipped to the bank; using the boat for cover, she pulled herself on board. The rear of the boat had been slowly filling with gasoline since the bullet hit its motor. She opened the caps to the gas tanks and, using her knife, cut the sleeves from her shirt and stuffed them into the opening of the closest gas tank. When she was ready to light the first sleeve, she moved into view for a split second, hoping Leland would see her, and that he didn’t see Bond. For this to work, Bond had to see Leland before he had a chance to fire at her.

Bracing to run, she lit the gas-soaked sleeve. It burst into flame. She ran the length of the boat, jumped to shore, and raced into the shadows, diving to the ground. Bond’s thundering shot told her that Leland had shown himself. She was fairly sure there had been two shots, close together, but the second could have been an echo of the first.

Alexa crawled to Bond’s position on her belly, just as the first gas tank erupted, engulfing the vessel in flames. The second tank exploded seconds later. The boat became an inferno, black smoke choking the air in the channel, blowing into the tree line across the water. Bond dropped to the ground and roared his laughter into the skies.

“I hit him,” Bond said.

“Solid?”

“Good enough to have him thinking about it. We need to move while we have a smoke-screen cover.”

Bond laughed again and Alexa joined him.

“Even if it wasn’t a killing shot, the more angry he is, the more likely it is he’ll make another mistake.”

Even badly wounded, Alexa imagined Leland Ticholet would still be an extremely dangerous adversary.

They rushed to Manseur, who had managed to stand to lean against a tree, blood dripping from his mouth and jaw. With Bond at his side, Manseur’s good arm over his friend’s shoulder to support himself, Manseur managed to walk toward the cabin. Bond carried his 30-06 in his left hand, his right holding Manseur’s belt to keep the injured man balanced.

Alexa carried her shotgun, gripping the stock, finger beside the trigger guard. Manseur’s shotgun remained propped against the tree he’d been beside when he’d been shot.

“What’ll we do now, Agent Keen?” Bond asked. “Burn the cabin?”

“I’m thinking,” Alexa answered. And she was.