He hit Bubba hard, just as the redneck had realized his mistake and was bringing his rifle back to bear. Adam got his hands on the rifle and drove forward with everything he had. Bubba was off-balance, and as he backpedaled, he lost his balance and fell onto his back.

“Shoot, Janey!” Bubba yelled.

Adam drove his forehead into the man’s nose, launching a fountain of blood.

A gunshot split the night. A lady screamed.

Adam still had both hands on the rifle. He tried to wrench it from Bubba’s grasp, but the guy had strength that Adam hadn’t expected.

As they grappled on the forest floor, a gunshot boomed again. And again.

Adam’s guts felt like they’d exploded as a knee found his balls and he found his grip slipping. He was seconds away from losing this fight.

To hell with it.

He needed a new plan. He stopped trying to pull the rifle away, and, instead, let go of it. The sudden change startled Bubba. He ended up hitting himself in the mouth with the steel receiver. That gave Adam another half second of opportunity.

Boom-boom-boom!

Adam launched himself forward, onto Bubba’s chest, and used all his momentum to jam his thumbs into the man’s eyes.

Bubba howled as Adam felt the eyeballs shift in their sockets. Bubba’s hands moved reflexively to his ruined eyes, and Adam saw his final opportunity. He wrenched the rifle from Bubba’s hands. Holding it like a harpoon, he slammed the buttstock into Bubba’s mouth with all the force he could muster. He reset and did again. He heard teeth shatter and the wet slap of soft tissue being crushed.

Adam rose to his feet, spun the rifle in his hands, leaned the muzzle into the bloody mess of the man’s face and pulled the trigger.

Bubba’s head blew apart.

Adam levered another round into the chamber.

Bubba’s lady friend—Janey, right?—was gone. So was Emma.

“Em!” he yelled. “He’s dead! Are you okay?”

Silence.

Shit. There was no way she couldn’t have heard him yell. So, if she didn’t answer, it was either because she was in hiding or because. . . because she was in hiding.

Adam walked at a low crouch as he scanned one hundred eighty degrees in front of him—the area from which he’d heard the shots fired.

At the Bronco, he switched out the .30-30 for a Bushmaster. He knew for a fact that the AR15’s mags were loaded with thirty rounds of 5.56-millimeter hardball, but he couldn’t speak to what was in the dead man’s hunting rifle.

One of the ARs was missing. Had Emma armed herself? Had he been hearing a two-way gunfight?

He wanted to shout out again, but what would be the point? She had to have heard him. She had to know that he was still looking for her.