MERCY HEARD THE GUNFIRE AND GRABBED the shotgun.
“Down,” she told Elvis. The shepherd was practically imploding with energy, the fire in his belly so hot she thought he’d never settle down. But at least he didn’t move. Just to be safe she turned on the ignition so she could roll his window up and hers down, to keep his head in and her gun out.
She considered her options. They could stay in Troy’s truck, and she’d pull it over to the side of the road, the better to chase down the thieves as they tried to make their getaway. Or she could leave it right here in the road and take cover in the trees with Elvis, and slow them down with the shotgun if Troy’s truck didn’t do the trick.
There might be another way as well. She turned off the ignition and hopped out, going around back to the bed of the truck. Everybody who drove a truck—civilian or law enforcement—carried chain in the bed, and Troy Warner was no exception. She dragged the chain out and ran to the gate. She could hear the rattle and roar of the thieves’ vehicle in the distance, growing louder and nearer.
Elvis banged his head against the window, yelping like a puppy, not unlike the way he yelped when he had a nightmare. “Steady, boy.” She hoped he wasn’t going to freak out.
He clawed savagely at the window, scratching the pane.
“Okay, okay.” Worried he’d break the glass—his nails were fierce—she let him out. He barked his approval—a low guttural non-nightmare bark—and sat by her side. Waiting for instruction.
“You got what you wanted. Now stay.”
Elvis watched her without comment while she quickly wrapped the chain through both sides of the gate, looping the doors together. One loop. Two loops. Three loops. And several more for good measure.
The white box truck made its final turn toward the entrance. It lurched along with an ungainly gait, and she saw that one of its tires was flat. She smiled. The game warden was a good shot.
Good for you, she thought.
Elvis gave a short bark, as if to say, Time to get moving.
“Agreed,” she said, and together they abandoned the Ford F-150 and raced for the stand of maple and beech trees about one hundred feet from the gate. She had the shotgun and her pack and an extra box of ammo. The warden’s keys were in her pocket, along with a pair of handcuffs. Wishful thinking, that.
Standing behind the thick trunk of a beech, she instructed Elvis with a wave of her hand to lie down. She was a good shot, one of the best in her graduating class of MPs at Fort Leonard Wood. But she hadn’t fired a shotgun since Afghanistan and hadn’t been out to the firing range for target practice since she’d come home to Vermont. Here’s hoping that she could still outshoot these guys. If they were the Herbert brothers, they were experienced night hunters and poachers. Good shots.
“Steady, boy.” She squatted down and gave Elvis a hug for good luck. They were both going to need it. This could prove the nearest thing to a battlefield that either of them had seen since Martinez died.
Now it was a year later and she didn’t know if Elvis would go crazy again. Or if she would. She’d been leery all along about adopting him, but a promise was a promise and she’d never break the one she’d made to her fiancé as he lay dying. She brought the dog home from the defense contractor to the quiet and solitude of Vermont and tried to take good care of him. All the day hikes through Lye Brook Wilderness, all those nights sleeping side by side on the couch, all that inhaling and exhaling on the yoga mat. After six months the aggressive shepherd seemed to be settling in with her—and then this happened.
When Elvis had gotten shot at the cabin, he’d run for the barn. A sensible move, if not the correct one. But if he bolted this time she might not be able to go after him.
She could only protect Martinez’s dog so much. She could only protect herself so much.
Life happened. Even in the woods. Maybe especially in the woods.
“We’re a team now, Elvis. Like it or not.” She took a couple of deep breaths, and Elvis licked her hand. She scratched his head before rising to her feet.
“We’ve got this.” She pumped the shotgun. “‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers…’”
He looked up at her as if there were no doubt.
“You seem fine.” She smiled at him. “I guess I’m the nervous one, then, huh?”
Shoulders squared, she stood within the cover of the trees and brought the shotgun up to her head. She had to be careful. She didn’t want the white box truck to catch fire and burn up all the priceless art inside. If that’s what was inside, and she’d bet her sweet bullet-scarred ass it was.
She pressed her cheek firmly to the side of the stock and then mounted the gun high on her chest.
Aimed.
Fired.
Bingo.
Blew out the left rear tire.
She grinned in spite of herself.
Elvis rose to his feet but did not bolt. He barked once, as if to congratulate her.
“Good boy,” she whispered.
The dog was alert and poised for action, but obedient. Just as he should be.
So far, so good. Maybe Martinez was his guardian angel. And hers. She hoped so.
A man in a black ski mask leaned out of the passenger window armed with a pistol, while the masked man at the wheel struggled to control his wayward vehicle.
“Now the fun is really going to start,” she told Elvis. “Sit tight.”
The electronic gates began to open, swinging away from her and Elvis and in toward the thieves and the estate.
But the chain held. The two doors did not part, they only slid about six inches away from each other, clanking against the chain but going nowhere.
The Ford F-150 still stretched lengthwise across the road between the stone gate posts. There was no getting through there without crashing through the fence and hitting Troy’s truck. Whether they rammed it head-on or pushed it nicely ahead of them, she doubted he’d be pleased.
Mercy pumped the shotgun. She could feel Elvis brace himself against her leg. She cooed “good boy” while she kept her eye on the thieves and her finger on the trigger.
Where was Troy? Where was Susie Bear? Where was Thrasher?
She hated to admit it, but Troy was right: they should have waited for backup. Elvis’s triangular ears perked, and he leaned far forward, as if he were ready to lunge.
“What is it?”
She saw Troy and Susie Bear hugging the opposite edge of the road just inside the tree line. They were on the inside of the estate grounds, behind the thieves and the gate, and she and Elvis were on the outside.
She wondered what his next move would be. If this were her operation, she’d blow out the other tires or the engine block and converge on the truck when the perps realized they weren’t going anywhere. It looked like there were at least two bad guys—maybe more inside she couldn’t see—but there were four good guys. Troy, herself, and the dogs. Good odds.
The thieves could always surrender the art, and try to steal the Ford F-150 and get out of there while there was still time. But the truck’s doors were locked and the keys were in the front pocket of her cargo pants.
It was a fairly easy shot from here. She took it and hit a tire on her side of the white box truck. Troy did the same on his side. Great minds think alike, she thought.
Elvis whimpered but stayed put. Just like he was supposed to do. The perfect working dog. The perfect partner. Her partner.
Pistols fired from two windows, and she dropped to the ground, taking Elvis with her. They retreated into the woods and farther down the drive, away from the estate. She wanted to stay ahead of them.
The truck barreled forward, proving that driving on four flat tires was possible if the driver was determined enough. But what momentum the vehicle maintained was not sufficient to break through the fence. The gate held and the truck stalled. The driver started the engine again and floored it. The white box truck jerked forward, its nose straining against the chained doors, crushing it toward the Ford F-150—a screeching of metal on metal.
The fence gave way but only by about a foot. Sirens sounded in the background.
The driver bailed and made a run for it. He was a tall man but graceful for his size.
Max Skinner, thought Mercy.
He leapt onto the hood of the truck and over the gate. Using the fence as cover, the driver ran straight along the metal and stone barricade for the woods. He was fast, and he was armed.
“Stop! Game warden!” Troy stepped out of the trees but ducked when not one but two masked men fired from the truck. They opened their doors to make their own escape but thought better of it when three police cars roared up to the gate, sirens wailing. They slammed the doors again and stayed put. A black Cadillac Escalade followed in the wake of the law enforcement vehicles and parked at a discreet distance. Must be Feinberg and his bodyguards, Mercy thought.
She and Elvis kept moving, quiet as death, padding through the forest toward the point where the driver was on track to enter. The masked man approached the edge of the tree line. Almost out of sight, and into the woods.
Running straight for them.