Judgment at Alcatraz by Dave Edlund (carter reed .txt) 📕

She edged around the rear of the vehicle. The gunman was on one knee, fumbling to stuff cartridges into the magazine.

“Stop! Drop the rifle.”

He hesitated and locked his gaze with hers. It was a look she knew too well. If you fought long enough, eventually you’d run into someone who truly believed they could take you, even in an untenable situation. Certain people just wouldn’t accept they’d been beaten. They believed that somehow, by shear malevolent will, they could emerge victorious.

That wasn’t going to happen today. She fired, placing the round into the earth inches from his boot.

“Next one kills you. Understand? Now drop it.”

He held fast to the rifle, sneering. Danya applied pressure to the trigger.

“That’s enough, lady. Drop your gun.”

Any thoughts she had of resisting evaporated with the sound of a hammer cocking at the back of her head. She raised her left hand and slowly lowered the pistol to the ground.

The driver strode in front of her. He was holding a short-barrel revolver, his shirt hung up on a black hip holster where the gun had no doubt been concealed. His partner rammed the rifle bolt home, chambering another round.

Staring into the muzzles of two guns, Danya had no choice. She raised her hands in surrender.

Chapter 30

The inside of the old blue truck was vintage 1980s. The upholstery was held together with so much cloth tape that only the sides revealed the original blue vinyl. Both windows were rolled down, and they’d kicked out the windshield since the maze of cracks made it near to impossible to see through the glass.

Danya sat between the two men, hands on her lap and secured at the wrists with a couple wraps of gray duct tape. They bounced along secondary roads for about three quarters of an hour, she estimated, before stopping at a lone ranch house. It was the first building she’d seen since leaving the dirt road that encircled Sheep Creek Reservoir.

The house had a couple front-facing windows to the left of the entry door. Draperies covered the windows, blocking any view inside. Cement blocks, with paint peeling from years of neglect, formed the lower three feet of the exterior walls. The roof was clad in decades-old, weathered asphalt shingles curling along the exposed edges. A compacted gravel driveway led up to the double-car garage.

Inside, Leonard was standing before a beat-up old cast-iron wood stove. He was holding a photo of his mother and father, but his thoughts were elsewhere, imagining a newborn swaddled in a soft blanket and cradled in his arms. He longed for a family with Sacheen, but he had no time for such indulgences. He was at war. Later, he told himself. When the fighting was over.

His mind was drawn back to the present by the sound of crunching gravel. The pickup parked beside two rusted sedans, both with flat tires and sun-faded paint.

“Let’s get her inside,” the driver said. “Leonard wants to talk to her.”

“What about?” his partner said.

“Hell if I know. You know, sometimes you ask too many questions.”

The driver got out and strode toward the house, while the other man held the door open so Danya could slide across the seat and exit. She dangled her feet out the opening, but the truck was too high, and her feet wouldn’t reach the ground.

She rolled her eyes. “A little help…”

He reached forward, squeezing her bicep in a tight grip, and steadied her while she dropped a couple inches and planted her feet, legs slightly bent at the knees. As soon as he released his grip, she uppercut him in the chin with both fists. His head snapped back, and his teeth crunched together. Before he could stagger backwards and away, she thrust her knee into his groin. He doubled over, and she yanked her pistol from his lower back where he’d tucked it inside his belt, figuring to sell the gun later for a few hundred dollars.

She landed a brutal kick that whipped his head to the side, knocking him out. It all happened within the span of three heartbeats—too fast for the driver to realize the gravitas of the situation.

Gripping the SIG with both hands, she spun sideways and brought her sights to bear on the driver. The sound of the scuffle had drawn his attention, but too late.

“Drop the gun,” she said.

“Okay, okay.” He slowly removed the revolver from his holster.

The front door flew open, and a shotgun blast split the air. Danya dropped behind the front wheel. She needed to get her hands free.

She fired two shots around the front grill and then darted alongside the body of the truck, angling toward the back and a rusted corner of steel bumper. The ragged metal wasn’t exactly sharp, but it didn’t need to be. She rubbed the edge of the binding against the bottom of the bumper. As soon as a nick was formed in the tape, it rapidly spread, and she separated her wrists. Hands free, she made herself small behind the rear wheel.

The shotgun roared again, sending a cluster of buckshot through both rear fenders, narrowly missing her. Then the driver fired, sending a bullet through the body of the truck above her head. She lowered her face, and peering underneath the vehicle, spotted a pair of legs only a few yards away. It was the driver, and he was searching above the pickup, not under it.

She squeezed off a trio of shots. The rounds smashed through both legs below the knees. He fell forward, writhing in agony on the gravel. She fired once more into his prone body, the bullet entering his shoulder and tearing a massive wound cavity down through his chest, and eventually stopped at his pelvis. His death was quick, if not painless.

The shotgun fired again, but as before, the load of shot was placed too high. She had glimpsed a figure within the entryway, lost in shadows. She fired at the doorway, attempting to drive the shooter deeper into the house.

Hopping to