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?
Then Danny truly was back in Afghanistan as a roar washed over him, and the sky lit up with the low, angry pass of a helicopter.
EIGHTY
Johnnie had started retreating even before the helicopter appeared, dropping out of the dusk and strafing the house.
It looked huge, with its giant rotors carving the sky and men hanging out of the open bay doors, shooting at the ground below.
Shooting at him.
By then, though, he’d already been shot, and was dying . . .
—
JUST AS HE WAS ABOUT TO PUT DOWN DANNY FORD, another vehicle’s lights had come on—some old truck rumbling down the gravel drive, driven by yet another man with a gun—and since he’d nearly caught one of Ford’s bullets with his teeth, and had no idea how many more people were running around, or who the hell was shooting at who anymore, he’d decided he’d had enough.
Fuck those indios across the river, fuck it all.
He’d turned tail in time to see Sheriff Cherry shoot Ringo. The sheriff was still down on the ground with the female deputy and the old man, firing some big-ass silver gun, some kind of gangster/narco gun, that even Ringo would have seen the humor in—hell, he would have laughed the loudest—if he’d still had the top of his head.
Following Johnnie’s lead, Roman—who’d been right next to Ringo when his head had exploded all over his snakeskin boots—had retreated, too, and they met in the same clump of yucca where they’d first stopped with Eddy Rabbit to eyeball the house, both breathing hard.
Maybe they got lucky and the old man had died in that blast? Johnnie didn’t know anymore or care. No one had warned him it was going to be like this. Not even close.
“Goddamn,” Johnnie said. “It’s a fucking mess. I think it’s just the two of us now. We gotta get the fuck out of here.”
Roman was checking his rifle, making sure he still had a few rounds left, when he said, “Oh, you’re wrong about that, amigo. It’s just the one of us.”
Then he casually shot Johnnie twice.
“What the fuck?” Johnnie screamed. The first bullet hit him in the left thigh, and the second slammed his torso and dropped him backward. He didn’t think that one had gotten through his vest, but it hurt like he’d been hit by a car . . . make that a fucking train . . . and there was no way he was running far on his wounded leg.
Tumbling backward, he dropped his MP5, but before he could do anything about it, Roman was standing over him, kicking the fallen gun away. He aimed his own weapon down at the crown of Johnnie’s head.
“Are you fucking kidding me? You’re gonna kill me over a goddamn whore? Over goddamn Rae?”