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I threw another rock, but now that he was closer, he only looked around instead of following the sound. I crouched motionless behind the blind until I heard the tramp of his feet again.
When his footfalls stopped, I peered through a hole in the blind to see he was looking in the opposite direction, bobbing and weaving as he tried to see something he thought was me.
While he walked toward the stump, I scaled the blind. I was putting my foot on my third and last piece of frame when the rotted wood gave way. I grabbed a branch overhead before I fell, but my foot knocked hard against the blind, the sound as loud as a shot.
The guy spun. I swung into the tree, getting up among the leaves. They hid me, but the guy now knew roughly where I was.
He lifted his gun. He didn't fire. A handgun isn't an MK-47--you can't just spray wide and hope to hit your target. As good as that leafy cover was, some part of me must have showed, because his head swung up, his gaze and gun lifting and--
He dropped with a bullet between his eyes. I exhaled and allowed myself a smile as I lowered my gun. While a handgun is less than ideal for sniping, it'll do the job if you can get into a clear position . . . like up a tree looking down on your target.
The gun was a Smith & Wesson 9mm, which meant I had ten rounds and no backup ammo. Not ideal, but at the risk of sounding cocky, with one remaining target and nine shots, I felt okay about it.
Now all I had to do was figure out where the other guy--
A twig crackled underfoot. Behind me. The guy was right there, ten feet away, his gun rising. I fired but I wasn't ready. My bullet hit him in the shoulder and I didn't have time for another. I jumped from the tree. He fired just as I leaped--three rapid-fire shots, the first flying over my head, the second whipping past me and the third . . .
I tried to twist in mid-flight, get out of whatever path he expected me to fall. I twisted too blindly and while the bullet only hit my arm, my head struck the blind, cracking against the frame as I went down. A moment of gray. Then a very hard landing jolted me awake.
I tried to scramble up but nearly blacked out. I crouched on the far side of the blind and blinked hard.
Damn it, focus!
Gun. Where was my gun?
I must have dropped it when I grayed out.
I looked around. I could hear my assailant tromping toward me, breathing hard, obviously injured worse than I'd thought. Good. Yet he was still coming and my damn gun must be on the other side of the blind.
I pulled out the knife I'd picked up while following Quinn's trail. Jack's rule: Never leave home with only one weapon. I just needed to get in a position to use it.
I pushed to all fours, gritting my teeth against my throbbing head as I crawled. I peeked around the blind while keeping my head as low to the ground as possible. The guy was headed my way with his gaze fixed on the blind. My gun lay three feet away, just out of reach.
My fingers clenched the knife, but I couldn't stop eying the 9mm. It was the safer bet. Getting to it, however, was not a safe bet. Nor could I leap up and charge him with my knife before he could turn and shoot. Hell, I might not be able to leap up. Blood ran down my arm. My head swam. My eyes kept losing focus.
Only one option, really, as imperfect as it was. I shifted into a sprinter's start and the world swayed.
Focus, just focus.
The thug started moving around the blind. My muscles tensed, but I held still, waiting until he was completely out of sight and then--
I dashed to my gun and swung it up as he cursed in Spanish and raced around the blind and--
A shot. As I was still squeezing my trigger. I fired and dropped. Not that it would do much good. Bullets don't move in slow motion. But then--two seconds later--I saw the thug's muzzle blast, his gun pointing up, shot going wide as he fell.
My shot had hit him in the chest. As he fell, I saw blood on his face. There had been another shot. Another shooter.
That shooter may have killed my opponent, but I wasn't lowering my weapon to high-five him, whoever he was. I ran deeper into the forest and hit the ground in a roll. I did not intentionally hit the ground in a roll. Nor did I intentionally stop running. My brain betrayed me, dipping into unconsciousness just long enough for me to stumble.
I came to on the ground and scrambled up on all fours.
"Dee?"
It was Diaz's voice. I went still and carefully shifted to sit, facing him, my gun ready.
"Obviously, I'm not here to shoot you," he called. "I just killed the guy who was trying to."
