The man was down, and Quinn had his gun. He left the man facedown and handcuffed to the root ball, moving out with what he’d confiscated: a folding knife and a fully loaded Glock 19. The other men had scattered, searching for Quinn in the woods and following the creek bed from high on the ridge, scanning the moonlit water. As they disappeared upstream, he dropped back down into the creek, the moon going back under the clouds now, raining like hell, soaking his shirt and jeans, feeling the creek’s water seep into his cowboy boots, as he looked out for more Watchmen and for a place to pull himself up out of the bed and fight his way back to Kenny.

He’d made a call. Deputies were on their way.

At a bend in the creek, he saw a little outcropping where he could lift himself up, blue lights from Kenny’s cruiser flickering over the lip of the bed. His ribs ached like hell as he pulled up, digging into the earth with his fingernails, trying to crest the hill. He spotted a gathering of Watchmen, their vehicles parked at the side of road. He spat some more blood from his mouth and gritted his teeth as he tried harder to pull himself up and out.

He heard the shots just as he felt the bullets tear into his back. His hands broke free, sending him tumbling down the muddy hill and rolling into the now rising creek, raindrops pinging the shallow water. Quinn dragged himself to the sandy bank as the big Indian tromped across the creek toward him, gun in hand, moving quick and with purpose, one of the Watchmen tagging alongside him, telling the Indian that they need to leave now, the cops had to be on their way and he was done with all this bullshit.

Quinn pushed himself up onto his elbows, trying to stand, to keep moving, but his body failed him. He gritted his teeth even more, telling himself this wasn’t nearly as bad as that night fight in Kandahar, pitch-black and hand-to-hand, with some insurgent trying to cut his throat. Or as bad as getting shot in the back of his leg and shoulder during a raid of a Taliban compound, dirty, ragged faces multiplying and waiting, peeking out from the rocks, ambushing his team and the helicopter.

“Let’s go,” the short man said to the Indian. Quinn briefly remembered grabbing that man by his nose, bringing him to his knees. Now the man was trying to stop this Indian from firing the kill shot and taking him out. Ain’t life funny.

“Sure,” the Indian said. He turned and shot the man in the head, dropping him fast and hard, then came toward Quinn, gun raised and chin high, looking to finish it.