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JACK WIDOW HAD NO INTENTION of dying in the northern territory of Wyoming, and certainly not at the hands of a madman like Alex Shepard.
He hugged up close to a huge tree trunk. The bark was solid black and felt devoid of life. He heard the mechanical, cracking sound of the chain gun as bullets let loose from the helicopter. They fired out and rocketed past him. All around him, tree bark exploded, and snow burst into the air, fogging up any visibility that once existed.
Widow was relieved that the horses had run in the opposite direction. At least those poor animals would be safe from Shepard and his insanity.
Jack Widow had never known his father. All he knew was that his father was a drifter. Which was part of the reason he had decided to become a drifter. He figured it would be a way of getting to know his father. As he pressed his body tightly against the tree, thoughts flitted through his mind about what would happen if he ever ran into his father. Would he hug him like he was hugging this tree? Would he feel as hard and lifeless?
The bullets, the crackling machine, and the orange fire that haloed around the muzzle seemed to go on forever. Widow’s head rattled from the sound, and his bones vibrated. The bullets continued to assault the trees around him, piercing through everything within range. The gunfire went on and on until finally, the machine gun ran out of bullets. Widow could hear the gun rattling as the empty cylinders rotated and then stopped.
That was when he smiled. He knew guns, and he knew that the Vulcan machine gun mounted on the helicopter generally took about fifteen minutes to reload. And fifteen minutes in a firefight was a long time. The battle had changed hands. The advantage had shifted. Wars were fought and won in less than fifteen minutes.
He peered out from behind the tree, trying to locate the helicopter’s position. He spotted it easily less than twenty yards away from him and maybe fifty feet above the ground. He had two options—stay or run. If he crept away and then took off running, he might just make it.
But all hope was dashed when he saw Shepard’s next move.
The helicopter hovered, and the side door slid open. A long, black rope dropped out and hit the ground. One of Shepard’s guys leaped out of the opened door onto the rope and rappelled toward the ground. A second guy showed himself, covering his friend’s descent with his Heckler and Koch G36. The silenced barrel moved from side to side. There was no chance of Widow getting a shot at the descending guy. Not with his buddy covering him. Even if he could hit the guy, there was no guarantee of taking him out. Both guys appeared to be wearing heavy SWAT gear and probably had some serious Kevlar on underneath.
Widow would have to step out from behind the tree—fast—and fire. If he hit the guy in the head, that would kill him. The distance wasn’t a problem for such a fast shot. But the disturbed snow still filled the air and made the shot difficult because his target wasn’t completely in focus. Not to mention the fact they wouldn’t be motionless targets as they rappelled down a rope.
Before Widow could plan a second approach, the first guy was on the ground. He dropped to the ground on his knee and pointed his gun out, sweeping the area. The second guy leaped out of the open door and rappelled down. He was fast. Shepard came out last.
Now Widow had three CIA-trained opponents with superior firepower, air support, and night-vision goggles. He ducked back behind the tree and looked down at the G36. He suddenly felt outgunned.