Evan kicked the gun free. Xalbador charged him, coming over the top of him, beating at his back with bony elbows. Evan held him low around the waist in a football tackle, Xalbador’s big gold belt buckle grinding his cheek. Gathering his legs beneath him, Evan unhooked the belt and reared back. He kicked Xalbador’s hip while tearing at the buckle, spinning the guard into an off-kilter 180, a string-pull top being launched.

Before Xalbador could reorient himself, Evan whipped the rodeo belt buckle at his face, clipping his chin. As Xalbador reeled back, Evan threaded the belt through the buckle, slung the makeshift noose over his head, and ripped him off his feet. Xalbador got a hand beneath the band of leather, his legs churning for traction.

Evan shot a glance at the blown-out back wall, his apprehension mounting. How many steps had René taken toward freedom by now? Twenty? Thirty?

Xalbador jackhammered himself back into Evan, and they tripped over a protruding floorboard, sprawling in opposite directions. Xalbador flung the belt off from around his head, but already Evan was on him, arm drawn back for the kill blow.

Electricity sparked at Evan’s neck, the charge knocking him off Xalbador. He convulsed on the floor, fresh-fallen snow icing his cheek. Twitching, he clawed at the shock collar.

Xalbador sat up, aiming the transmitter at Evan, his finger depressing the button.

When the explosion had thrown Evan across the vault, the bunched trash liner must have pulled free from beneath one of the contact points. Pain radiated, grinding through his collarbones, his ribs, the base of his skull. He forced himself to focus through the static dancing across his eyes, willing his body to move. A moment later his legs listened, scissor-kicking him into a spin on the floor, one boot weakly striking Xalbador’s arm. It was enough to dislodge the transmitter from Xalbador’s grip.

The jolt in Evan’s neck subsided. Snowflakes blew across his face, no salve for the burn circling his throat. Somewhere through the clouds of dust and ash, he registered the dogs’ barks. They sounded louder.

Louder was not good.

Evan shoved himself onto all fours, crawling toward the AK-47, his knees and hands skidding on the snow-slick floorboards. Behind him he sensed Xalbador rising, stumbling the opposite way after the fallen transmitter. Evan pulled himself forward with one hand, using the other to try to stuff the trash liner back into place. He had to put Xalbador down and get after René.

Evan got one hand on the AK when the shock hit. The pain was blinding, blurring his vision. He rolled onto his back, dragging the gun across his chest.