The third shatters the side window, throwing more glass down onto the already sparkling and booze-soaked floor.

I withdraw from the van and drop to my knees as the scattered shots become bursts of semi-automatic fire, punching through the sheet metal frame of the van.

My father speaks again from beyond the grave.

Idiot.

Despite the proof of the past hours, I keep lulling myself into a false sense of superiority; I keep assuming that the Dillons aren’t as intelligent as they have demonstrated themselves to be. Of course they’ve deduced I’ve been searching the van for a phone. Whatever else happens, I must not be allowed to call for help. The Dillons will abandon their plans to slow-roast me over a cookfire before I can identify them to a dispatcher.

Under normal circumstances, every attacker prefers the high ground, but because of the slope of the hill and with the van as an imperfect barrier, the shooters can’t get the firing angles they need. Not unless they move, which I am sure they are already doing, flanking me on both sides. One or more will skirt the tree line while another will make a circle to come at me from behind.

The suppressing fire keeps me from poking my head up to locate a target of my own.

In movies people always take cover behind car doors and wheels. In real life, most parts of a car or truck offer no more protection than an aluminum can. Just about every rifle round in common use, especially those with a metal jacket, is capable of piercing the thin sheets of steel automakers wrap around their vehicles. The only reliable shelter is behind the axles, or even better, the engine block, and that is where I throw myself.

Drunk as he is, Reynolds wants no part of this jackpot. He is crawling toward the river like some stomach-dragging reptile.

“No! This way!”

But he keeps inching away from the cover of his ruined van.

I have to fight the urge to dart into the open and pull him to safety. But if the Dillons have night-vision scopes, as they must, they’ll spot me in a second. For the moment, Reynolds is probably safer the farther he gets from me.

I try the spiderwebbed phone again. The glowing screen enrages me. I feel like I’m being mocked by a malevolent gremlin.

I push the Home button and nothing happens. Touch the cracked screen and nothing happens.

But, of course, Tori and the others don’t know the phone is broken. They have to presume that I am using these precious seconds to call dispatch for help and identify my attackers. Their one imperative is to shut me up.

Out of desperation I shout at the fractured phone, “Hey, Siri, call 9–1–1.”

To my shock, a mechanized voice answers. “Calling emergency services.”