“Actually, that’s a good plan. And since I know there’s no way you could have thought of it, where are your partners?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The other two guys in the stockade that night.”
“Perkins is one,” Sara blurted out. “He’s here too.”
“Shut up!” Dellasandro yelled.
“I actually knew that one. I think I can guess who the other one is.”
“Run your theories by the fish. Let’s go.”
They all started to move toward the riverbank. Fiske glanced back at Dellasandro. “Don’t even think about it, Fiske. I could blow you away from fifty yards, much less two feet. And if your plan is to have that stupid lummox jump me from the trees, well, then just bring him on.”
Since that was their plan, Fiske’s heart sank. Then a bullet hit the dirt next to Dellasandro’s leg. He shouted and moved the pistol away from Sara’s head.
Fiske hit him hard in the belly, doubling him over, and then clocked him in the head with his fist. Before Dellasandro could recover, Rufus exploded from behind a tree and hit him with the force of a runaway tank. The man sailed down the bank and into the water from the impact. Fiske pulled his gun. Rufus was about to go after Dellasandro when more shots zipped past them and everybody hit the ground.
Fiske had one protective arm over Sara. “You see anything, Rufus?”
“Yeah, but you ain’t going to like it. I think those shots came from two different places.”
“Great, both his backups are here. Shit!” He clenched his pistol. “Look, Rufus, here’s the plan. We’ll fire two shots each and draw their fire in return so we can see where the muzzle flashes are coming from. Then I’ll cover you and you take Sara and get the hell out of here. Make it to her car and go.” Before Sara could say anything, he added, “Somebody’s got to go get Chandler.”
Rufus said, “I can stay behind. I owe these suckers a lot more than you.”
“I think you’ve carried the ball long enough.” Fiske aimed his gun. “You fire left and check left, one-two-three, now!” Sara covered her ears as the shots rang out. A few seconds later their fire was returned.
Fiske and Rufus quickly analyzed the muzzle flashes. Fiske said, “One of them’s aiming wild. Maybe we hit him. Okay, I’m going to fire in both directions. Keep your gun ready, but don’t shoot. I’m going to move to my right about ten yards. I’ll draw the fire my way. Give me to the count of twenty and then when you hear the first round go, hit it.”
Fiske started to move away, but Sara clutched at his hand, unwilling to let him go.
Fiske wanted to say something confident, cocky even, to her, to show he wasn’t scared. But he was. “I know what I’m doing, Sara. And I guess fifty years of living is better than nothing.”
She stared at him as he crawled off, convinced it would be the last time she would see him alive.
A minute later the shots began. Rufus half carried Sara as they raced for the car. They made it and Rufus threw open the door and pushed Sara inside before climbing in.
Fiske moved slowly through the underbrush, the smell of hot metal and flamed gunpowder clinging to him. His spirits had faded to nothing. He had counted his shots carefully, but, unknown to him, his clip had not been full to begin with; he had no more ammo. As he heard the car crank up, he smiled grimly. With his thoughts distracted for a moment, his ears still ringing from the shots he had fired, he didn’t hear the sound behind him until it was too late.
Dellasandro, dripping filthy river water, pointed the gun at him. Fiske couldn’t speak, his mouth too dry. He also couldn’t breathe, as though his lungs had sized up the situation and decided to stop working a few seconds before the slug would force them to. Two bullet holes in him, the third would do the trick. Darnell Jackson had been facing Fiske’s gun, had been off balance after killing Fiske’s partner; Dellasandro would have no such problems. Fiske looked in the direction of the river. A week in that water and not even his father would be able to identify him. He looked back at Leo Dellasandro: his last image before death.