“No,” Wade said. “I think they’ll fight their way in, spend some time blasting their boys free, assuming they haven’t got keys or some tool to override the locks, and then clear out. Since they’re going to know this route is full of hostiles, they’ll take another path. That’s where we should be waiting for them.”
“So what’s the other path?” Jericho wasn’t ready to challenge Wade’s understanding of the patterns of villainy; the plan definitely made more sense than Jericho’s version. But how was it going to work in practice? “They’ll make a run for the border? Maybe they’ll abandon their vehicles; too easy to track them. So eight miles to Canada, mostly forested—” He stopped and frowned. “Straightest line is through those back fields, then right into the damn school yard. We’ve got the building on lockdown, but is that enough? Are these fuckers going to want to take a few hostages for insurance?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Wade said, and slapped a clip into his rifle.
“So we run a rolling retreat,” Jericho said. “We start on the street, fight our way back to the building, don’t go inside, and set up an ambush between the station and the school.”
“I think we can arrange a few surprises for them inside the sheriff’s station too,” Wade said. “I’ll take care of that while the rest of you keep an eye on the street and shoot anyone who tries to rush my schedule. Sound good?”
“Are you seriously going to blow up my station?” Kayla asked.
“Parts of it.” Wade almost smiled. “I deserve to get some satisfaction out of this, don’t I?” He glanced toward the barricades, which still showed no signs of movement, and then toward Jericho. “You’d better appreciate this shit.”
“I absolutely do.” And right there, in front of God and the town and the DEA and everybody, Jericho stepped forward, caught the back of Wade’s neck in his hand, and pulled their faces together for a fast, hard kiss. “And you can do anything you want to my ass, kicking or otherwise, after we get out of this.”
And there it was, finally, Wade’s smile. Just a flash, but enough. “I’ll hold you to that, Junior,” he said, and then he turned and grabbed the gear bag in one fluid movement, lifting it to his shoulder as he jogged up the stairs into the sheriff’s station.
The crack of a hunting rifle rang down the street, and then another, and another. The townsfolk with military experience would probably be the first ones able to break the taboo against shooting at another human being. But from the sound of things, they weren’t acting alone.
Jericho turned to see militia members scrambling around the barricade, searching for cover as they took fire from the buildings on either side of the road. They were three or four hundred yards away and moving targets: he wasn’t likely going to hit much, but he could at least draw some fire away from the civilians. So he found cover behind a pickup and looked through his scope.
He was vaguely aware of the activity around him. Extra townsfolk were arriving, armed and ready, and Kayla was directing them as well as she could with all the chaos. Garron had found a pickup of his own and was setting himself up, and Hockley and Montgomery were each behind one of the big pines in the front of the station. There were still shots ringing out from down the street. Mosely was being invaded, and Mosely was fighting back.
Jericho took a deep breath, let it out, and snugged the butt of his rifle in against his shoulder. It was too familiar, and too strange, to be back in a war zone. They’re not people; they’re targets, he told himself, and he gently squeezed the trigger.
He saw the man—the target—jerk, stagger, and fall. No time to think about it, thankfully, as he scanned for his next shot. There were at least five of the invaders on the ground, and hopefully more bodies hidden behind the dump truck. But there were still a lot left and they were moving purposefully—no signs of panic.
You guys should turn around and go home. You don’t need to do this today. Or ever. Nothing you’re doing needs to be done. Turn around.
But the militia didn’t seem to pick up on Jericho’s message. They had found cover and were firing at the buildings, little clouds of brick dust puffing out wherever their bullets hit the walls. The fighters in the buildings were no longer at the windows, Jericho was happy to see. But that left the path essentially clear for the invaders, and they obviously knew it.
He saw the tube of the rocket launcher and had his rifle raised before his brain fully recognized what it was. “RPG!” he screamed so loudly something tore in his throat.
No sight line on the asshole holding the launcher, not from where Jericho was, so he broke cover, firing as he went, hoping fate would guide a bullet to his target. As soon as he was moving he saw the muzzle flashes from the barricade, at least a dozen enemies taking aim at him. Shit. He had to keep going, had to keep working his way across the road so he could get a bead on the guy with the rocket launcher. The launcher was pointed right at the upper windows of one of the buildings, and would have enough power to take out half the wall and anyone taking cover behind it. Jericho needed to stop it, but he couldn’t find a line, he wasn’t going to—
The barricade exploded, an eruption of smoke and fire and twisted metal. The man with the RPG was lost in the middle of it all.
Jericho dove for cover, bewildered, mind racing as the thunder of the explosion rolled over him. He wanted to be relieved, but what the hell had just happened? Had it been the rocket launcher, misfiring or misdirected? Was there actually some power in the universe smiling down on Mosely that day?
He flopped onto his back and glanced toward the sheriff’s office. That was where he saw Wade, standing on the front steps watching Jericho with a beatific smile. There was a little box that could only be a detonator in his hand, and as he caught Jericho’s eye he mouthed, Surprise.
“Jesus Christ,” Jericho said. The higher power wasn’t in the sky above them, it was Wade fucking Granger, which seemed perfect somehow. Wade had left explosives in the truck, and he’d detonated them.
It had to be over, didn’t it? Maybe the enemy wouldn’t have lost that many men in the explosion, but they would have lost some. And it was a clear sign that they weren’t coming up against villagers armed with BB guns. They had firepower, but so, thanks to Wade and his illicit arms, did Mosely. The militia had to see sense now. Whoever was in charge would have to order a retreat and make a plan for another day.
Then Jericho saw movement through the smoke. The explosion had been strong enough to shift the dump trunk a few paces backward, and it had practically destroyed one of the junk bins that had been the first line of the barricade. Now, through the destruction, a Humvee was rolling forward. There was a heavy gun in the turret, a live body behind the armor ready to man it.
“Fuck,” Jericho said, to himself and anyone else within earshot. The explosion had still been a good thing; it had taken out the damn rocket launcher before any townspeople had been targeted. But the militia was taking advantage of the opportunity. He jogged toward Wade, tagging people’s shoulders as he went and yelling, “Rolling retreat. Shoot as you go, but go!” He didn’t want to think about the damage that turret gunner could do if he let loose on the flimsy civilian pickup trucks.
Wade was waiting near the doorway of the sheriff’s station. Now that his life was in danger, there was none of the emotion he’d shown earlier; he seemed as calm as if he were waiting in line for a movie he didn’t particularly care about seeing. “This is going better than expected,” he said as he watched the Humvees approach. “I assumed we’d all be dead by now.”
“The explosives helped. You didn’t think to mention that to me?”
Wade looked almost hurt by the suggestion. “I told you I had toys. But giving you the details would have ruined the surprise.”
Jericho turned, and together he and Wade sprayed a few shots at the approaching Humvees. Kayla had marshalled her late-arriving troops behind cover across the street from the station, and they were taking shots as the opportunities presented themselves. Jericho hit the button on his shoulder-mounted radio—it wouldn’t work for anyone but Kayla and Garron, but at least it was something. “Stay where you are,” he directed. “Set up some cross fire and make the fuckers work for every yard.”
“Roger,” Kayla said. “I’ve got about ten guys over here, and more are still coming in from out of town. Lots of hunting rifles.”
