But I was shot by a rifle bullet, not a shotgun pellet or slug. It is unlikely to have been Tori. My money is on Tiff, using a scoped rifle.

Why the Dillon sisters want me dead manages to be simultaneously of great importance and not at all urgent.

In a crisis, Charley’s voice reminds me, you must focus on the urgent.

The heavy firearm in my hands is the urgent matter requiring my immediate attention.

As I expected, the shotgun is a black tactical model. But it’s neither of the makes I had expected; not a Remington, nor a Mossberg. It’s a Benelli M4 Super 90 which retails for close to two grand and is the standard-issue combat shotgun of the United States Military. It has a semi-automatic action, which means I don’t need to rack another shell into the action after I have fired. There is a pistol grip beneath the shoulder stock for me to close my right hand around and improve my aim. The rail mounted atop the receiver is fitted with after-market “green dot” night-sight inserts: glowing radioactive tritium to assist with target acquisition. The flashlight is side-mounted to the magazine tube.

The Benelli M4 wasn’t designed to shoot geese from a blind or to use stalking deer in the misty hours of dawn.

This gun is purpose-built to be a man killer.

And as blasphemous as the thought is, I can’t help feeling like the weapon is a gift to me from God.

I do a quick check of the action. Tori fired two shots at me. This model holds up to six shells, if I remember correctly: five in the magazine plus one in the chamber. So I should have four left.

But if there is one thing I have learned about firearms, it is never to assume anything.

I eject the shells to get an accurate count, and yes, there are four of them. The ammunition is the same Federal Law Enforcement Tactical 00 Buck I use in my Mossberg. Each plastic casing contains primer, a wad, and nine lead pellets. When fired at close range, a burst is capable of cutting a man—or a woman—in half.

I waste no time reloading.

I do not engage the safety.

I lift the butt to my shoulder, press my index finger against the trigger guard, and raise the barrel so I’m looking through the sights. The beam coming from the side-mounted light is dead-steady as I sweep the now motionless balsams.

“Tori?”

The wind has died, but it is snowing again, harder than before. The flakes fall straight down, sparkling in the cone of light. I hear nothing except the stomach-rumbling of the river.

It occurs to me that Tori might have a second firearm on her. A small pistol, for instance. Again, I can’t assume anything.

If I were her, what would I do?

Call for help.

Especially if her sister is nearby.