Bone Rattle by Marc Cameron (best ereader for pdf .TXT) 📕

“We’re here, right?” Maycomb whispered, pointing to a spot on the map just east of the ravine.

“Yep.”

She traced a line on the paper with the tip of her finger, directly uphill. “That’s a mine, isn’t it?”

Horning marked his mines with triangles – deltas. This one was blue, underscored by three blue lines and the notation: CC#2. Cutter guessed this one to be no more than a couple hundred yards away. But every yard of it was uphill, with people shooting at them while they tried to find a hole in the mountain that Horning had warned them could be almost impossible to find.

Cutter tapped Maycomb on the arm so she’d look at him. He already had the Colt in hand. He passed her the Glock. “Know how to use this?”

She nodded. “My husband had one.”

“Good,” Cutter said. “When I say, give a slow five-count, and then shoot a couple of times in their general direction. Don’t stick your head around. Don’t try to aim. Just make them shoot back at you.”

“You want them to shoot at me?”

“Stay behind the tree and you’ll be fine,” Cutter said. “As soon as you hear my first shot, run as fast as you can for the mine, finger off the trigger. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get them to put their heads down for a second or two so you can get a head start.”

“What if they don’t? Put their heads down, I mean.”

“Then we’ll have one less guy chasing us,” he whispered. “Now, go on my first shot. And remember, finger off the trigger when you move. Ready?”

Maycomb gathered herself up to run and gave a snappy nod.

She had to be terrified, but she only looked determined.

“Start counting now!” Cutter rolled to his right, coming up behind the stump. He’d just come to a stop when Maycomb took her first shot.

Black Beard returned fire first. Slick waited a beat for Maycomb to shoot again. He was more deliberate, strategic, where Black Beard appeared to act on emotion. Good to know. Tough Guy had his rifle assembled now and lay on his belly behind the scope. Maycomb’s shot had done the trick, and he was zeroed in on the hemlock, ready to pick her off as soon as she exposed herself to shoot again.

Tough Guy had found himself a trough in the forest duff, a small hillock that concealed most of his body. Only his boots and the front half of his rifle were exposed. Prone and steady, Cutter maneuvered the Colt so the front sight covered the rifle’s action. He’d thought momentarily about shooting that Tough Guy in the foot, but decided he’d rather take the rifle out of the equation and deal with three guys with handguns.

He guessed the range to be less around forty yards. A reach for the pistol as far as pinpoint accuracy was concerned, but doable.

Maycomb’s shots were already going stale, and the three men’s eyes were starting to wander, looking for targets.

Cutter took a settling breath and, holding a hair high, pressed the trigger, sending a .357 round slamming through the magazine well of the rifle.

Tough Guy cursed, crawfishing into his makeshift foxhole away from the shot. Cutter fired toward his feet, but it was a snap shot and went low, kicking up dirt and moss. He wasn’t a fan of spray and pray tactics, but sent another round into the brush where he’d last seen Slick keeping them down. Cutter dumped his three empty shells, the topped off quickly before scrambling after Maycomb.

Sprinting uphill felt interminably slow, but Cutter consoled himself that the men pursuing them were running up the same hill. He swung around a boulder the size of a car, caught sight of Maycomb through the trees, and adjusted his course toward her. She ran with purpose, and hopefully had the mine entrance in sight. If they could duck inside before the men got there, they might have a chance.

Cutter vaguely registered another shot as wood shards flew off a knee-high deadfall the same moment he hurdled over it. He cut right, keeping Maycomb in sight, no more than twenty yards ahead through the trees. She had to be getting close.

Hiding in a hole was far from optimum. Cutter could think of a dozen ways he’d assault an enemy in a tunnel, but he needed time to formulate some semblance of a plan – and outgunned and in the open, time was fast running out.

Cutter ducked right again, skirting a line of spruce trees he hoped might offer some cover, and nearly stepped into an oncoming bullet in the process. The shot sent dirt spraying at his feet. He sprang left as another round thwacked the bark next to his head. He was already running as fast as he could, but rounds snapping in from downrange had a way of adding a little adrenaline kick to his step. Digging in again, he scanned for Maycomb, who’d suddenly dropped out of sight.

More shots peppered the trees around him, forcing him to sidehill, away from where he wanted to go. A bullet slapped the ground to his left, sending him back the other direction. They were lobbing them in now, but with three people shooting, it was only a matter of time.

Two more shots popped in quick succession – from uphill.

Way to go, Lori Maycomb, Cutter thought.

Another two steps brought her into view. She’d jumped into the mine entrance and was now laying down cover fire to slow the assault on Cutter as he ran.

The Glock held only eleven rounds, and she’d already used two at the tree.

The shots behind Cutter kept coming, but they were wide and sporadic.

Maycomb rolled onto her side when Cutter approached, giving him room to slide into the narrow opening. A flat rock the size of a dinner table and covered with dirt hung over the mine’s entrance, reducing it to a black gash in the mountain less than three feet tall and half again as wide. Cutter slid on