The first rifle went off. The gun made a strange, booming sound. Dan heard the bullet ricochet off the pavement. He caught a glimpse of Mike throwing himself down. Dan had his pistol up—levered the slide—two-handed grip—
The round from the second rifle slammed into his left shoulder, knocking him sideways.
His mind felt suspended. Dan had never actually fired his weapon in a live situation. But he was an instructor in police combat tactics, and had spent uncounted hours on the firing range and in simulated drills. His training took over. Using his right hand, he brought the pistol back on target.
Detached, his mind recognized that the man was wearing some kind of armor. And a helmet. Dan was an expert shot. The range wasn’t more than thirty feet. He fired. Fired again. The .40-caliber rounds practically severed the man’s neck. He flopped backward, out of sight.
Dan swung his pistol to the left. The other man was still standing on the wall, doing something with his weapon. He, too, was wearing armor. But he had no helmet. Dan fired. Fired again. Fired again. Three shots, in less than two seconds. The head which absorbed those rounds was nothing but a ruptured ruin. The man collapsed to his knees, dropping his weapon. A second later, both the man and his firearm were sliding over the wall. The firearm landed on the pavement with a clatter. The body landed with a sodden thump.
Dan felt himself slumping. He sensed that his arm—his whole body—was soaked with blood. Mike caught him and lowered him to the ground.
He was fading out now. Shock, he realized. I’m losing a lot of blood. Dimly, he recognized the face of the black doctor, looming over him. His vision was getting blurred.
There was something he had to do. Urgent.
Oh, yeah. “Mike,” he whispered. “I’m deputizing you. You and your guys. Find out what the hell—” He faded out, back in. “Just do whatever you’ve got to . . .”
Faded out.
* * *
“How is he?” Mike asked.
Nichols shook his head. The doctor had pulled out a handkerchief and was trying to staunch the wound. The cloth was already soaking through.
“I think it’s just a flesh wound,” he muttered. “But—Jesus—what did that bastard shoot him with, anyway? A shotgun slug? Damned near ripped his shoulder off. Sharon—come here. Quick!”
As his daughter hurried up, Nichols was relieved to see she was carrying a first-aid kit. Frank Jackson must have had one in his truck. The doctor spotted another miner hauling a first-aid kit out of his own vehicle. Thank God for country boys, came the whimsical thought.
While Nichols and his daughter started tending to Dan Frost, one of the other miners picked up his assailant’s weapon. Ken Hobbs, that was. He was in his early sixties and, like many of the men in the area, was an enthusiast for antique black-powder guns.
“Will you look at this thing, Mike?” he demanded, holding up the firearm. “I swear to God—this is a fucking matchlock!”
Noticing Sharon working at her father’s side, Hobbs flushed. “Sorry, ma’am. ‘Bout the bad language.”
Sharon ignored him. She was too preoccupied helping her father. Dan’s eyes were closed. His face was as pale as a sheet.
Mike turned away. Hobbs came up to him, extending the captured weapon. His wizened face, scrunched up with puzzlement, was a mass of wrinkles. “I swear, Mike. It’s a matchlock. There’s pictures of them in one of my books at home.”
Another miner, Hank Jones, came up. “You oughta be careful handling that,” he muttered. “You know. Mess up the fingerprints.”
Hobbs started to make some vulgar retort. Then, remembering Sharon, turned profanity into a simple hiss. “For what, Hank? So we can nab the culprit?” He gestured at the corpse lying at the foot of the peculiar embankment. “Case you didn’t notice, Dan already blew the SOB’s head off.”
Another miner had scrambled onto the wall, and was studying the corpse of the other man. He barked a harsh laugh. “Same here! Two rounds, right through the neck.”
Darryl McCarthy was in his early twenties. He had none of Hobbs’ old-fashioned qualms about using bad language in front of a woman. Not under these circumstances, anyway. “Only thing holding this asshole’s head to his body,” he announced loudly, “is maybe three little strips of meat.”