Chapter 15
DAWSON NEEDED to get Keely and her stupid words to him out of his head before he got someone hurt. Because everything inside him had started to whir, and yes, he got it.
He had PTS. And maybe a temporary gig, but still . . .
Even his dog had figured it out. He put a hand to his chest, did a little deep breathing, trying to quell the chaos inside.
She was safe. That was all that mattered.
Really. Send her home, safe and sound, keep his promise.
“We’re going to need to let the barn burn itself out,” Deke said, standing back from the flames, watching as the barn caved in on itself. Black smoke darkened the air, ash and cinder falling on the snow, melting it. Deke was right.
They’d have to wait until it burned to the ground before they could root around for a body.
Unless . . . and that was just the thing—Dawson couldn’t help the feeling that the barn didn’t explode by accident.
A Sorros brother haunted the woods. He could nearly feel the man’s gaze on him now from the snowy forest, laughing.
Winning.
A voice came over Deke’s radio—Dodge, in his chopper, still scouting the area for a fugitive. “I’m at Bingo. Returning to Copper Mountain.”
Deke glanced at Dawson. “You want to hop a ride?”
He frowned.
“Dude, you spent the last twelve hours unraveling over this woman, and you’re going to just let her get away? I’m not a detective, but even I can see that doesn’t add up.”
“We’re not done here,” Dawson said.
“You’re limping. And we need a statement from her, if you need an excuse.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t need a hero, Dawson.”
“She made her intentions pretty clear. And my knee is fine. I’m going to walk a perimeter around the barn, see if I can find tracks.”
Deke glanced at him, then pulled out a walkie and handed it to him. “Don’t get dead. I’m going to check on what my guys are finding in the house.”
He took the walkie. “Any update from Vic?”
“No. But she’s made of leather. She’ll be fine.” He headed toward the house, and Dawson didn’t disagree.
Flynn had left with her over an hour ago, and shortly after, Keely peeled out of his life. Maybe he should have gone with them—his knee did ache. But the sting of Keely’s words kept him from getting in the car and giving in to the temptation of running after her.
Mostly because she was right. He had wanted to be a hero. Had totally seen her leaping into his arms and holding on.
She had, in fact, for a moment there.
The fire turned the snow soggy and hard around the blaze, now dying as the barn walls collapsed in on each other.
He headed into the snowy banks around the structure, breaking through the surface of the glistening layer, now littered with char and ash.
The air stank of burned oil and wood, rubber from whatever they’d kept in here.
Reminded him of the fire at the community. Clearly an MO.
Dawson reached the back of the barn, where it sat near the forest. Here, the tall birch stood blackened, but not burning. He looked for footprints, but fallen logs and animals marred any sign.
Maybe the shooter really had died in the fire.
Still, his senses buzzed, something not quite—
Movement in his periphery. He turned, scouted the forest. Nothing—so maybe the wind had moved a branch.
Or he could be stalked by a moose.
He stood, quiet for a long moment, then kept searching. Worked his way around the barn and stood at the edge of the forest. In the distance, he made out the faint hush of the river, half frozen, running along the back of the property. Overhead, the smoke had turned the sky hazy.
Deke’s voice came through the walkie. “Anything?”
Dawson keyed his mic. “Nothing. I think—”
Movement again, this time in the forest near the river and—
A shot. The bullet hit a tree, scrubbed off bark, and he turned.
There. Some sixty feet away, through the cluttered woods—a man in a grimy canvas coat, bearded, a hat—holding a pump-action shotgun.
Yeah, well he was armed too, thank you, Deke. Dawson shoved the walkie onto his belt and ducked behind a tree, then looked and managed to pull off a shot toward the shooter, now running through the woods.
Dawson got up, ignored his limp, kept his eye on him, and followed. He picked up the radio. “I got him—he’s headed to the river—”
Then he pocketed it, and slapped away a branch, ducking as Sorros looked back.
Another shot—wide.
Dawson waited, looked—no shot, but he spotted the man breaking through to the river.
He took off, fighting his own grunts as he stumbled through the snowy forest. Sorros had vanished—if he got over the river to the forest beyond, they’d lose him.
Bursting out to the shoreline, Dawson stopped, searched downstream. The river ran dark and swift in the middle, the shoreline crusted with snow, ice embedding boulders that sat in the river like stepping stones.
No Sorros.
Dawson scanned the opposite shore, his breath sharp in his lungs. He reached for his radio—
Boots crunched in the snow, and he turned just in time to get a hand up to block the clubbing blow.
Clearly the man had run out of bullets.
Dawson caught the gun, but the hit threw him off-balance, and he staggered.
The river roared, as if hungry, the waves white-capped as Dawson spun, stepped out to catch himself.
His foot caught in a rock, wedged, and he jerked around, freeing it just as Sorros tackled him. Knee in his back, hand behind his head.
“Dawson!” Deke’s voice crackled through the radio. “Where are you?”
As Sorros shoved Dawson’s face into the snow, Dawson plunged his hand into the icy slush at the river’s edge, and he got his grip on a rock. Slammed it back.
A grunt, and bingo—Sorros’s grip loosened.
Dawson rolled, backhanded the man.
Sorros barely grunted, but blood dripped from a gash on his face. Dawson grabbed his jacket and knifed the front of his neck with the side of his hand.
The man gasped, his trachea bruised. He gripped his neck, rolled off, airless, like a fish.
Dawson got up—and his knee buckled. He pitched forward, his knee on fire.
Get up. Get up—
He caught himself with his hands, but Sorros’s boot exploded into his ribs. He shouted, the blow sending him onto his back.
Sorros was scrambling up, and Dawson struggled to his feet.
Not fast enough. Sorros slammed his foot into Dawson’s bad leg, and it was over. Dawson shouted, the pain eclipsing him, and he crumpled, half landing in the water.
The icy water shook him, and he looked up then to see Sorros standing over him. He’d grabbed a rock—maybe the same one Dawson had used to hit him. Blood dripped from his chin, and Sorros licked his lips, then spat at Dawson.
“She’s next,” he said and lifted his arm.
Dawson grabbed the man’s ankle and yanked. Sorros jerked, just a little off-balance, but it was enough for Dawson to dodge the blow, for Sorros to land on one knee in the river.
Dawson launched himself onto him, still woozy with pain. He scrabbled onto the man’s back, put him in a sleeper hold, even as they crashed into the water.
Sorros fought him, an elbow to his face, a fist to his ribs. Still Dawson held on, the water turning him numb.
Darkness didn’t win today.
Sorros managed to turn, get a fist in his nose, and Dawson tasted blood. But the momentum of the blow landed Dawson on the man’s chest.
Dawson roared, dripping blood, and grabbed the man’s throat.
He shoved him down into the frigid water.
“Daws!”
Nope.
“Dawson!”
Sorros slammed another fist into his head, and Dawson barely felt it, his adrenaline hot, his body shaking.
But Sorros grabbed a rock, even as he thrashed, and this time—
Everything blinked black, just for a second, and when it cleared Dawson lay in the water and Sorros was running down the shoreline.
His gun. He needed his gun—but the cool water turned his body to lead. He pushed up, growling—his head spinning, pulsing with heat.
A blur of movement out of the corner of his eye—Deke and a couple of his deputies running hard down the shoreline.
Deke’s linebacker build barreled into Sorros, taking him down with a thud over the river’s roar.
Sorros shouted, but the deputies descended on him.
Dawson clawed for the shore, trying to pull himself up, but his leg didn’t want to work. He lay like a beached trout, gasping.
Nice. Just perfect.
“Dawson!”
The voice was female, and he spotted Flynn running out of the forest, holding her gun, breathing hard. She ran over to him, holstered her weapon, and grabbed his jacket. “What in Sam Hill are you doing?”
He stared at her. “I dunno! Taking a dip?”
She parked her retort behind a grim slash of her mouth and dragged him onto shore. Grabbed her scarf off her neck. “You’re bleeding.”
Really? He couldn’t feel it, but when she shoved her scarf against his nose, he flinched.
Okay, so yes, Sorros might have broken something.
“When did you get back?” he asked.
“Apparently just in time. Can you walk?” She got behind him, as he held his nose, and put her hands around his shoulders and started to lift him.
Pain shafted through him, and he nearly opened his mouth like a baby and let out a shout. But he clamped it shut and managed to let only a deep moan escape. Then, “Just give me a minute.”
Down shore, Deke’s deputies were cuffing Sorros. Deke crunched his way back up shore to him.
“What took you so long?” Dawson managed, his voice rough, his breath still catching in his chest.
“Just having breakfast. What were you thinking, running after him without backup?”
Yeah, story of his life. “Wrong place, wrong time.”
Deke smiled. “Right. Good job.” He held out a hand to help Dawson up.
Shoot, but he couldn’t take it. He grimaced. “I’m going to need more than that.”
Deke raised an eyebrow but glanced at Flynn, and then he got on one side, and Flynn the other, and Dawson got his good leg under him.
And now he was an invalid again as they dragged him to Flynn’s SUV.
“Get him to the ER in Copper Mountain,” Deke said to Flynn. Then to Dawson, “We’ll take care of Conan.”
Conan. Which meant Mars, tattoo-face, was the one still at large.