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Back This Side of Night Save as PDF
Chapters (110)
  1. Cover
  2. ALSO BY J. TODD SCOTT
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. PROLOGUE
  6. I
  7. II
  8. PART ONE
  9. ONE
  10. TWO
  11. THREE
  12. FOUR
  13. FIVE
  14. SIX
  15. SEVEN
  16. EIGHT
  17. NINE
  18. TEN
  19. ELEVEN
  20. TWELVE
  21. PART TWO
  22. THIRTEEN
  23. FOURTEEN
  24. FIFTEEN
  25. SIXTEEN
  26. SEVENTEEN
  27. EIGHTEEN
  28. NINETEEN
  29. TWENTY
  30. TWENTY-ONE
  31. TWENTY-TWO
  32. TWENTY-THREE
  33. TWENTY-FOUR
  34. TWENTY-FIVE
  35. TWENTY-SIX
  36. TWENTY-SEVEN
  37. TWENTY-EIGHT
  38. TWENTY-NINE
  39. THIRTY
  40. THIRTY-ONE
  41. THIRTY-TWO
  42. THIRTY-THREE
  43. THIRTY-FOUR
  44. THIRTY-FIVE
  45. THIRTY-SIX
  46. THIRTY-SEVEN
  47. THIRTY-EIGHT
  48. THIRTY-NINE
  49. PART THREE
  50. FORTY
  51. FORTY-ONE
  52. FORTY-TWO
  53. FORTY-THREE
  54. FORTY-FOUR
  55. FORTY-FIVE
  56. FORTY-SIX
  57. FORTY-SEVEN
  58. FORTY-EIGHT
  59. FORTY-NINE
  60. FIFTY
  61. FIFTY-ONE
  62. FIFTY-TWO
  63. FIFTY-THREE
  64. FIFTY-FOUR
  65. FIFTY-FIVE
  66. FIFTY-SIX
  67. FIFTY-SEVEN
  68. FIFTY-EIGHT
  69. FIFTY-NINE
  70. SIXTY
  71. SIXTY-ONE
  72. PART FOUR
  73. SIXTY-TWO
  74. SIXTY-THREE
  75. SIXTY-FOUR
  76. SIXTY-FIVE
  77. SIXTY-SIX
  78. SIXTY-SEVEN
  79. SIXTY-EIGHT
  80. SIXTY-NINE
  81. SEVENTY
  82. SEVENTY-ONE
  83. SEVENTY-TWO
  84. SEVENTY-THREE
  85. SEVENTY-FOUR
  86. SEVENTY-FIVE
  87. SEVENTY-SIX
  88. SEVENTY-SEVEN
  89. SEVENTY-EIGHT
  90. SEVENTY-NINE
  91. EIGHTY
  92. EIGHTY-ONE
  93. EIGHTY-TWO
  94. EIGHTY-THREE
  95. EIGHTY-FOUR
  96. EPILOGUE
  97. I
  98. II
  99. III
  100. IV
  101. V
  102. VI
  103. VII
  104. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  105. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  106. Excerpt from LOST RIVER
  107. LITTLE PARIS
  108. DILLON
  109. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  110. What’s next onyour reading list?

Chavez’s next shot didn’t even matter, because the third thing Johnnie saw was a bullet tear a fist-sized hole through the man’s armored vest and come out clean on the other side.

Goddamn.

Not a good sign at all.

Fourth, Johnnie finally figured out where all those shots were coming from: the Bronco.

It was glowing inside like a summer storm, one muzzle flash after another, like distant thunder and lightning in low clouds.

That had to be that prick Danny Ford. That was the direction Eddy Rabbit had been running. Johnnie had no idea what the deal was with those two, but Ford was going to chew up and spit out his men one at a time unless Johnnie did something about it. His orders from those goddamn indios across the river had been to shoot everyone, and if Johnnie hadn’t been so sure about that before, he had no reason to argue with it now.

Finally, number five.

Just as Johnnie was getting to his knees and flipping his H&K MP5 to full auto—to put as many bullets as possible into the Bronco, and hopefully motherfucking Danny Ford as well—the young guy in the red shirt who’d been walking toward the old Mexican and the sheriff blew up.

SEVENTY-FOUR

TEN SECONDS AFTER . . .

Chris wasn’t sure if he’d blacked out or not.

Or for how long.

His eyes were open now, though, and bits of rocks and other debris were falling all around. It was like he’d been caught outside in a heavy, dirty rain, and his ears were still ringing from thunder and lightning that had passed by too close.

They blew the kid Xavier up.

That bag had been packed with explosives, and if Fox Uno had taken it, he would have been blown sky-high, too. Instead, he was about five or six feet from Chris, facedown, still unconscious, or nearly so. Amé had already emptied the Remington, tossed it aside, and was now dragging Fox Uno back by the collar of his shirt, using her body to cover both him and Chris from two shooters—sicarios—she’d been exchanging gunfire with as Chris had fought unconsciousness. The first had slipped out of the van’s front passenger door, and although Chris had no reason to know it, he was the one who’d detonated the explosive, while the second had appeared from the Aerostar’s sliding door, pushing aside the old woman with the taped mouth.

She was stumbling, trying to run.

Both sicarios were using the open front passenger door as cover, firing through the window and the windshield with abandon. Even through the ringing in his ears, Chris could pick out their stray rounds shattering the front windows of his house, tearing through the wooden porch.