Chapters (110)
- Cover
- ALSO BY J. TODD SCOTT
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- PROLOGUE
- I
- II
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- PART TWO
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- PART THREE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- PART FOUR
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- EIGHTY-FOUR
- EPILOGUE
- I
- II
- III
- IV
- V
- VI
- VII
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- Excerpt from LOST RIVER
- LITTLE PARIS
- DILLON
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
- What’s next onyour reading list?
He struggled to sit up, tasting dirt and blood. They were exposed, out in the open, and Amé couldn’t shield herself, much less both him and Fox Uno.
He reached for his A5, but it had been blown out of his hands. It was lying too far away to get it, so he unholstered his Colt and started putting rounds downrange, as many as possible, punching the door of the van. He was using his wounded hand, the hand that had been shot clean through when he’d been ambushed the first time out here at the Far Six, so his aim wasn’t great—not as steady as he would have liked, since that hand had never regained its full strength—but from his awkward angle sprawled flat in the dust, he did have a good view of the first sicario’s boots moving back and forth beneath the door frame, and he zeroed in on them.
He was strong enough for that.
One bullet turned an ankle into powdered bone and blood, another blasted through a bended knee as the sicario dropped to the dirt.
But Chris had shot himself dry in the process, and when his slide locked back, he was useless.
Amé was leaning over him, still engaged with the other shooter by the van. The ground around them was erupting with wayward shots, dirt spraying upward and leaving behind deep divots in the caliche, each one making its way haphazardly toward them. It was a horrible, deadly game—one it was only a matter of time they’d lose.
Chris’s earpiece had fallen out, so he couldn’t hear Danny or key his mic, and it wouldn’t have mattered anyway, with the hellacious chatter of guns all around him.
He sat up to use his body to shield America, the only thing he was good for anymore, and wondered if Danny was still alive.
SEVENTY-FIVE
Danny thought . . . imagined . . . dreamed . . . he was under artillery fire.
That’s what it had felt like when the satchel exploded, and the concussion of it rocked the Bronco on its axles.
He never saw it, though, because he’d been entirely focused on Johnnie Macho. But it did force him to turn around to see if the sheriff and Amé were still alive, and that gave Johnnie enough time to recover from Danny’s suppressive fire and start unloading on the Bronco.
Now the truck was coming apart around him, one bullet at a time. Worse, in that one glance, he’d seen that the sheriff and Amé and Fox Uno were piled up near the porch—alive—but out in the open and exposed, and under serious fire as well from other shooters who must have appeared from the side of the van blocked from his view.