Dawson keyed his mic. “Nothing. I think—”
Movement again, this time in the forest near the river and—
A shot. The bullet hit a tree, scrubbed off bark, and he turned.
There. Some sixty feet away, through the cluttered woods—a man in a grimy canvas coat, bearded, a hat—holding a pump-action shotgun.
Yeah, well he was armed too, thank you, Deke. Dawson shoved the walkie onto his belt and ducked behind a tree, then looked and managed to pull off a shot toward the shooter, now running through the woods.
Dawson got up, ignored his limp, kept his eye on him, and followed. He picked up the radio. “I got him—he’s headed to the river—”
Then he pocketed it, and slapped away a branch, ducking as Sorros looked back.
Another shot—wide.
Dawson waited, looked—no shot, but he spotted the man breaking through to the river.
He took off, fighting his own grunts as he stumbled throughthe snowy forest. Sorros had vanished—if he got over the river to the forest beyond, they’d lose him.
Bursting out to the shoreline, Dawson stopped, searched downstream. The river ran dark and swift in the middle, the shoreline crusted with snow, ice embedding boulders that sat in the river like stepping stones.
No Sorros.
Dawson scanned the opposite shore, his breath sharp in his lungs. He reached for his radio—
Boots crunched in the snow, and he turned just in time to get a hand up to block the clubbing blow.
Clearly the man had run out of bullets.
Dawson caught the gun, but the hit threw him off-balance, and he staggered.
The river roared, as if hungry, the waves white-capped as Dawson spun, stepped out to catch himself.
His foot caught in a rock, wedged, and he jerked around, freeing it just as Sorros tackled him. Knee in his back, hand behind his head.
“Dawson!” Deke’s voice crackled through the radio. “Where are you?”
As Sorros shoved Dawson’s face into the snow, Dawson plunged his hand into the icy slush at the river’s edge, and he got his grip on a rock. Slammed it back.
A grunt, and bingo—Sorros’s grip loosened.
Dawson rolled, backhanded the man.
Sorros barely grunted, but blood dripped from a gash on his face. Dawson grabbed his jacket and knifed the front of his neck with the side of his hand.
The man gasped, his trachea bruised. He gripped his neck, rolled off, airless, like a fish.
Dawson got up—and his knee buckled. He pitched forward, his knee on fire.
Get up. Get up—
He caught himself with his hands, but Sorros’s boot exploded into his ribs. He shouted, the blow sending him onto his back.
Sorros was scrambling up, and Dawson struggled to his feet.
Not fast enough. Sorros slammed his foot into Dawson’s bad leg, and it was over. Dawson shouted, the pain eclipsing him, and he crumpled, half landing in the water.
The icy water shook him, and he looked up then to see Sorros standing over him. He’d grabbed a rock—maybe the same one Dawson had used to hit him. Blood dripped from his chin, and Sorros licked his lips, then spat at Dawson.
