Texas Outlaw

by James Patterson

  “Did you tell anyone where you were going?” I ask Kyle.

  “No one,” he says. “I swear.”

  That means there must be a tracking device on the truck that I couldn’t find. Or there might be another possibility. Maybe McCormack figured all along that Dale would betray them. Maybe they knew him better than he knew himself and they sent him on the drug run by himself so he could unknowingly set a trap for us.

  “I saw the muzzle flash,” I say. “I have a rough idea where the shots are coming from.”

  But this information doesn’t do us much good. Between the three of us, we have two SIG Sauers and nothing else. The .223 M4 is lying in the dirt, and Kyle and I both have more guns in our trucks—if we could get to them—but they don’t have the kind of range Gareth’s M24 does. Even if we knew Gareth’s precise location, we could never hit him.

  The good news is that we have a ten-ton tanker truck to take shelter beneath.

  A bullet zips into the ground next to the tanker, puffing a cloud of dirt into the air, followed a couple of seconds later by the sound of the gunshot.

  “Think we can make it to the truck?” Kyle says.

  His truck is closest, about fifteen feet away. If we could run to it and start the engine, we might get away. Gareth would probably fill it full of holes—and one or all of us could end up hurt or dead—but it might be our only chance.

  As if Gareth can read our minds, the next bullet punctures one of the truck’s tires. Then another. He shoots a series of holes into the hood of the truck—firing as fast as the bolt action will let him—and soon oil and radiator fluid start to bleed into the dirt underneath.

  When he has completely disabled Kyle’s truck, he does the same to mine, puncturing two of the four tires and pumping bullets into the engine. Each one hits the hood, making a plink sound, followed by the rifle reports rolling over us.

  He finally stops shooting, and the air is silent.

  The smell of sagebrush is tinged with the odor of oil and gasoline.

  “He’s letting his barrel cool,” I say.

  “There’s nothing left for him to shoot at anyway,” Kyle says. “We’re at a stalemate.”

  He’s right.

  Gareth can’t get to us where we’re hiding. But we can’t move. And we sure as hell can’t get to him.

  “Where are the keys to the tanker?” Kyle asks.

  I don’t know. They’re probably in Dale’s pocket, which means they’re no good to us. Gareth would kill whoever stepped out to get them. And it wouldn’t much matter if they were in the ignition. The truck is facing the direction where the bullets are coming from. As soon as one of us climbed into the cab, bullets would come raining through the windshield. This isn’t a pickup—it would be a slow process to start it, shift it into gear, and get the vehicle moving. Whoever was in the driver’s seat would be a sitting duck and would certainly be dead before the vehicle ever hit five miles an hour.

  “What do we do?” Ariana says.

  “The only thing we can do,” Kyle says. “Wait.”

  As awful as that sounds, he’s right. We have no play here. None at all. Our only hope is to stay alive a little longer and hope our situation somehow changes.

  But then, now that the air is silent, I hear something in the distance. It’s what I heard this morning, waking me up: the whine of ATVs. The noise must not have come from my dreams after all. McCormack’s men were getting into position, staying far enough away that I could barely hear them in the morning silence.

  As the ATVs get closer, I risk a glance around the edge of the truck. I spot two ATVs climbing up over the top of distant hills, so far away they look like insects. Kyle crawls under the truck and looks at the other side. He says he sees another ATV. That makes three.

  This changes things. The four-wheelers will descend on us, their occupants armed with automatic weapons. With only a couple of pistols to fight them off, we don’t stand a chance.

  A minute ago we had a stalemate.

  This is checkmate.

  Chapter 86

  KYLE, ARIANA, AND I hunker in the dirt next to the tanker truck’s wheels.

  “We need that rifle,” I say, pointing to the .223 M4 lying over by Dale’s body. “That will give us a fighting chance when the ATVs get close.”

  All of us look over at the gun, which is a good ten feet away. Dale’s body, with his head in a swamp of red mud, serves as a reminder of the high risk of going out there.

  “I’ll go,” Ariana says. “If I keep moving, he won’t be able to get a good shot.”

  There’s truth to what she’s saying. Hitting a target at such a long range is hard enough—hitting one that’s moving is just about impossible.

  It would be like shooting a bumblebee out of midair with a pistol.

  The sniper would have to be as good with a rifle as I am with a pistol. The problem is I’ve seen Gareth in action. He might just be that good.

  “No,” I tell Ariana. “I’ll go. I’m faster.”

  This is an arguable claim—Ariana runs regularly and is just as athletic as I am. But I want to keep her safe. She saved my life already today. It’s my turn to risk my life to save hers.

  The whine of the ATVs is getting louder. I peek in their direction and see that soon they’ll be close enough to start shooting. Each vehicle has two men, one to drive, the other behind him armed with an AR-15.

  I shift into a runner’s stance, ready to burst into a sprint.

  Kyle puts a hand on my shoulder.

  “You stay,” he says. “I’ll go.”

  Kyle and I were both athletes once upon a time—his sport of choice was baseball, mine football—so it’s questionable who might be faster. There’s no good reason for him to go instead of me.

  “No, Kyle, I’ll do it. You and Ariana—”

  “I’m giving you an order, Ranger.”

  He grins, an expression that says, I know I’ve been a jerk. I’m going to make it up to you right now. Then, before I can object further, he bursts from cover and darts out toward the rifle. He scoops it up with one arm and turns around. Before I realize what Kyle is doing, the rifle is soaring through the air toward us. I reach out to catch it, then hunker back down in the cover of the tanker.

  I expect Kyle to run back, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes a few quick steps to his truck and pulls his keys from his pocket. He jams a key into the storage box. I know what he’s doing: trying to get the rifles inside.

  But he’s a sitting duck.

  I throw the rifle to my shoulder, step out from cover, and start launching bullets in the direction where I saw the muzzle flash earlier. The bullets might fly that far, but not with any real accuracy. And I’m not aiming at a specific target anyway—just throwing bullets in a general direction. All I want is to get close enough that Gareth will keep his head down and not take aim at Kyle.

  Shots start coming from the ATVs, puncturing the truck and puffing dirt from the ground. They’re just tossing lead around, like me, but with this many bullets flying, you never know where one could land.

  Kyle flips open the storage box and reaches inside. He yanks out his .223 M4, then reaches in with his other arm and pulls out an ammo can and some kind of satchel. He starts running back toward us. He has a grin on his face like he’s on the baseball field about to steal home plate.

  He’s almost made it when he winces and pitches to the side. He falls onto his knees. I’m unsure of what happened, then I hear the shot finally catching up to the bullet that knocked him down.

  He tosses the ammo can over to us, his face in agony. I catch the canister before it hits the ground, never taking my eyes off Kyle.

  Blood trickles from two bullet holes—the entrance wound under his armpit and the exit on the other side of his body at the bottom of his rib cage. The bullet would have passed through both lungs, probably clipping his heart along the way. Blood gurgles from Kyle’s mouth.

  Kyle growls through bloody teeth and uses his last bit of
strength to throw the rifle our way. It doesn’t quite make it to us, but Ariana darts out, grabs it, and hurls herself back behind the cover of the truck.

  Kyle looks at me as if he wants to say something, but when he opens his mouth, he can only cough up blood. He hunches over and collapses face-first in the dirt.

  As I stare at him, I regret every unkind thought I ever had about him. He redeemed himself in the end. And then some.

  He died a hero—a Texas Ranger—more than worthy of the star on his chest.

  As more bullets start to rain down around us, I only hope he hasn’t died in vain.

  Chapter 87

  I DON’T HAVE time to mourn. The ATVs are closing in fast.

  Ariana and I hunker down in the shelter of the tanker. I yank open the ammo can and reload my rifle. She loads Kyle’s.

  “Aim for the ATVs,” I say.

  My thinking is we need to slow their advance. And the four-wheelers will be bigger targets than individual people, easier to hit.

  Ariana crawls underneath the tanker and lies prone, aiming up the hill. I stay in a crouch and shoulder my rifle. I’m tucked back, partly underneath the tanker, out of sight for the sniper a thousand yards away. But one of the ATVs is taking a wide flank. I find the ATV in the scope and follow it as it slaloms down the hill around clumps of sagebrush. I don’t recognize the driver—just one of McCormack’s faceless mercenaries—but the man on the back has a splint on his nose.

  It’s the guy I tussled with outside my motel room and then talked to at the gate to McCormack’s property.

  I know I told Ariana to shoot for the ATV, but I figure the ATV will be useless if there’s no one alive to drive it. I put my crosshairs on the driver, lead him in relation to his speed, and squeeze the trigger as I keep my rifle moving.

  The bullet smashes through his skull. The ATV runs directly into a rock the size of a microwave, and the passenger and dead driver fly headfirst over the vehicle. As Mr. Broken Nose rises, I put the crosshairs on him. He climbs aboard the ATV and tries to start it again. I could have killed him already, but I’m hesitating. It’s not panic. Not like in my dream. It’s something else. Just a feeling.

  He pauses what he’s doing, as if he can sense he’s in my sights, and he looks my way. Even though we’re separated by a good two hundred yards and there’s no way he can see me with any clarity, I feel like we’re staring eye to eye.

  I line the crosshairs directly over the splint on his nose. One squeeze of the trigger and I would spray his brains over ten feet of sagebrush and rocks.

  When I confronted him at the gate and encouraged him to do the right thing, he didn’t say anything to suggest I made a dent in his armor. But I can’t help but hope I made some kind of impression. Maybe he’s not completely lost.

  I lower my rifle, and instead of killing him, I put two rounds into the engine block of the ATV. Mr. Broken Nose darts for cover behind a cluster of boulders.

  His retreat breaks me from my trance. I hope my mercy doesn’t come back to haunt us.

  Ariana fires on her side.

  “One ATV down,” she shouts. “The men are taking cover.”

  “I took out one ATV, too,” I say, my voice hoarse and rough.

  That leaves one more ATV. From where we are, we can’t see it. We can only hear it. The motor has slowed, and it sounds like it’s taking its time descending the hill. The two that were flanking us were easy targets, so whoever is driving this one has moved into a more direct line. That means if we step out to shoot at it, we’ll be exposed to Gareth on the hill with his sniper rifle.

  “When he gets down here,” I say, “it’s going to be a close-quarters gun battle. Get ready.”

  But the ATV doesn’t come. Instead, when it’s closer, within a hundred yards or so, it sits and idles. There is no talking among the soldiers, but I get an idea of what they’re doing. The men on foot are making their way down the hill following a more direct line between the tanker and the sniper, gaining some cover.

  “Can you get a shot on anyone?” I ask.

  “No.”

  I peek my head out to try to find Mr. Broken Nose, but a bullet zings past me from the idling ATV. I lean back to a safer position.

  We have slowed their descent, but we haven’t stopped it. They’re on a path we can’t get to without exposing ourselves. When they get to the bottom of the hill, they’ll try to rush us.

  It will be two against five.

  Semiautomatic weapons versus automatic weapons.

  And those odds don’t take into account Gareth, looming a thousand yards away with a gun so powerful and accurate that he can reach across that space with a high-velocity bullet and kill us before we even hear the report of the rifle.

  Bullets start flying into the dirt in automatic bursts, creating dust clouds around us.

  They’re not trying to hit us—they just want to keep us pinned down. I huddle under the tank and try to breathe. I need to calm my frayed nerves. Ariana crawls over and we crouch back to back.

  “Should we surrender?” Ariana asks, her voice full of fear.

  “They won’t let us live,” I say. “We know too much.”

  I glance over at Kyle and Dale lying dead and bloody in the dirt. We will be joining them in another minute or two.

  Something catches my eye.

  When Kyle was running toward us, he was carrying the gun and the ammo can, but there was something else, a satchel of some sort. I squint through the dust cloud and realize what it is.

  “Thank you, Kyle,” I say aloud, slinging my rifle over my shoulder and preparing to run. “You’re not only a hero—you’re a goddamn genius.”

  Chapter 88

  AS SOON AS there’s a lull in the AR-15s firing, I sprint from my hiding spot. I don’t even take the time to explain to Ariana what I’m doing. I’m just up and gone.

  I snag the satchel without breaking stride. Bullets strafe the dirt behind me as I dive behind Kyle’s F-150. They fire into the truck, and a metallic symphony fills the air. Jewels of glass explode from the windshield.

  I make myself as small as possible, curled up and head down like I’m in elementary school during a tornado drill. Hollywood will have you believe a bullet can’t pass through a vehicle, but that’s far from true. A round from an AR-15 could enter a driver-side door and fly right through and out the passenger door on the other side. Fortunately, I’m at the front of the truck and they’re shooting from the back, at a slightly downward angle from the hill, so there’s a whole lot of metal to go through to get to me. They have to practically shoot through the whole truck lengthwise.

  Finally, the firing stops. The silence in its aftermath is overwhelming.

  I dig into the satchel, trying to be quiet so they’ll think I’m dead. I glance over at Ariana. She has a terrified, confused expression on her face, but when I pull out a bundle of road flares from the bag, a different look comes over her features.

  A look of hope.

  I’m hiding behind Kyle’s truck—or what’s left of it—which means I’m halfway between the tanker and my truck. My truck has a large colorless puddle underneath, and the air has reeked of gasoline since the sniper first shot it up, so I assume the gas tank’s been punctured.

  I pull the cap off the flare, exposing the igniter button on the end. I hold the sandpaper surface on the igniter, ready to strike. Watching from the tanker, Ariana gives me a nod.

  As soon as I scratch the rough surface against the flare, brilliant, burning light bursts from the stick and the air is filled with the smell of sulfur. Molten chemicals spray onto my shirtsleeve.

  I rise to my knees and lob the flare up into the air toward my truck, like I’m back on the football field making a short pass over a line of defenders to a receiver across the goal line. Only instead of my tight end, I’m throwing to a puddle of gasoline.

  The flare lands right where I want it, and the effect is instantaneous: flames erupt around my truck. A column of thick black smoke rises into th
e air.

  When Kyle was digging into his storage box, he must have had the realization that if we could light one—or both—of the trucks on fire, we might create a wall of smoke that could cover our retreat.

  McCormack’s men seem to realize what’s at stake because they spring into action. The ATV motor roars, and I risk a glance to spot the gunmen charging down the hill. They’re not far away at all—fifty yards from the tanker, maybe closer.

  “Run!” I yell to Ariana, and I light the second flare.

  I back away from Kyle’s truck and give the flare a sidearm toss to squeeze it between the bumper and the ground. The gasoline underneath the truck ignites with a whoosh, and suddenly the air around me is twenty degrees warmer. I run, keeping the wall of smoke between me and the sniper on the hill. Bullets from the M24 come sailing through the cloud, but Gareth is firing blind. Without even discussing it, Ariana and I meet up and race toward a rocky ravine up ahead that bisects two hillsides and looks like it will be out of Gareth’s sight.

  The ATV roars around the tanker, carrying two of McCormack’s men, the driver gripping the wheel with both hands and another guy on the back trying to steady his AR-15. Before he can get his bearings, I draw my pistol and spin and shoot, all in one fluid motion. The gunman on the back tumbles off, his flaccid body like a sack of dead weight.

  The driver skids to a stop and reaches for the TEC-9 strapped to his chest. He swings the gun toward us, but I don’t give him the chance to pull the trigger.

  He slumps over the steering wheel, one of his eyes replaced by a bullet hole.

  Then Ariana and I continue to sprint toward the cover of the ravine. The AR-15s start up like chainsaws, ripping the air apart. Bullets fly through the smoke, tearing giant clumps of dirt from the ground. But the shooters can’t see us and don’t realize that we’ve already retreated from the spot where they’re concentrating their fire.

  We arrive in the ravine but don’t stop running. It’s a tight corridor choked with brush and cacti, but we barrel through it all, ignoring the thorns tearing our clothes and needles stabbing into our skin.