Chapter Sixteen #3
In the conference room, Rawley, Killian, Beau, Creed, Hud and Laramie hunched over the table, their faces illuminated by the harsh fluorescent lights overhead as they reviewed their plan. Eli had to work on another case, so it was just the six of them.
“He said they planned to hit the Moore ranch tonight around one a.m. but would be there around midnight. Calder has at least five hundred head of prime Angus worth a small fortune,” Rawley said, his finger tapping on a satellite map.
“Is Calder aware?” Creed asked.
“Yes. Dave called him personally so his ranch hands wouldn’t be caught in any crossfire.”
“I bet Calder’s not happy,” Killian muttered, running a hand through his hair.
“Dave said he wasn’t, but he knows we’ll do everything possible to keep his livestock safe,” Rawley replied.
They dissected the tactical approach for another hour, before dispersing to prepare.
Stakeouts were grueling work, cold coffee, cramped muscles, and the constant threat of danger, but catching these rustlers was worth it.
Rawley didn’t trust Jared Hill’s information completely, but the snitch’s intel was all they had.
“What’s the ringleader’s name again?” Hud asked.
“Axel Roby.” Rawley slid the manila file across the table, the folder making a soft scraping sound. “Declan got photos of them.”
“Mean-looking son of a bitch. No priors though. That accurate?” Hud squinted at the photo.
“Yeah, someone’s greasing palms somewhere. He’s a pro, slips in, loads the cattle onto a semi and vanishes before the first hint of dawn.”
“Let’s hope that streak ends tonight,” Beau said.
“Parking lot at eleven-thirty sharp. That will give us time to position ourselves. This could go sideways fast. Make sure your radios and earpieces are charged. Get some shut eye if you can.”
The agents filed out, shutting down laptops, gathering documents, and retrieving their Stetsons from the racks before heading into the cold late afternoon air.
Hours later, they slithered through the tree line, boots crushing frost-covered pine needles that crackled like tiny bones beneath them.
Fingers numb, weapons gripped white-knuckles tight.
Rawley held his hand up, freezing them mid-step.
The silence wasn’t just quiet, it was predatory, a vacuum sucking at his eardrums until they throbbed.
Moonlight knifed through gnarled branches, turning the forest into a gallery of skeletal guards with twisted arms. His lungs burned with each inhale of air so cold it felt like swallowing shards of broken glass.
“I don’t trust this son of a bitch. I think he’s setting me up—”
The rifle crack exploded like thunder, the bullet’s heat searing past Rawley’s cheek before wood erupted in splinters that sliced his face as they hurled themselves behind the nearest tree trunk, but he saw Beau fall and hoped he was alright.
Rawley slammed his back into the massive oak’s rough bark, every fiber of it digging into his spine as he fought for breath. He looked to where Beau had fallen and sighed in relief when he saw Beau crawling on his stomach to the trees.
“Beau, are you alright?”
“Yes, he got me in the vest. Still hurts like a bitch though.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” Rawley said.
All at once the forest roared; automatic weapons cracked in savage bursts, the bark-shattering echoes bouncing among the trees. Voices tore through the air, mingling with the frantic rustle of men diving for cover in the underbrush.
Rawley risked a glance left. Laramie hurled himself behind a pine just as a round tore through it, splinters of pale bark spraying outward like deadly rain.
“Fuck!” Rawley hissed, teeth clenched. “Laramie, are you hit?”
“I’m good,” Laramie rasped, voice tight. “You?”
“Same.”
Another hail of fire erupted. Bullets thudded into nearby trunks with bone-shaking dullness. One round whistled past his ear so close that the rush of air stung his skin.
“Holy shit! That was too fucking close.” His heart hammered. He counted to three in the tense pause, then stepped from cover, squeezing off three rapid shots at the distant muzzle flashes before diving back behind the pine’s rough flank.
Through the haze of gun smoke and swirling leaves, he saw Laramie in sync, lean, fire, duck, eyes locking across thirty feet of open ground. Laramie’s grim shake of the head said it all.
“We’re fucking outgunned!” Laramie’s voice came through his earpiece.
Rawley’s fingers were shaking as he fished his phone from beneath his Kevlar vest. He punched in the emergency code, said their coordinates into the receiver, then jammed it back into his pocket.
“Backup’s is on the way!” he roared, hoping the attackers’ would hear. The only answer was another merciless barrage.
He swung his head right and spotted Killian crouching behind a moss-covered boulder. Killian rose, leveled his rifle, and opened fire, only to duck as bullets pinged the stone inches from his head.
“You okay?” Rawley asked.
“Still here,” Killian snapped.
Rawley gave a curt nod he knew went unseen.
When the fire slackened, he bolted out, unleashed four shots, then dove back behind the oak just as bark exploded overhead.
He caught sight of Killian again, one deft squeeze of the trigger, and a man crumpled mid-step in a spray of dirt.
Killian crouched low, rifle at the ready.
“Nice shot,” Rawley said, adrenaline burning in his veins.
“That’s one,” Laramie said as more rounds slammed into the trees.
“Son of a bitch,” Rawley muttered, heart in his throat. “I don’t think we have a chance against those AK-47s.”
“I hear sirens,” Killian’s voice came through his earpiece.
Rawley strained to listen. A distant wail grew louder, slicing through the staccato of gunfire.
“Thank God,” he breathed, relief flooding him.
“But they’re not backing off,” Laramie warned, voice dark.
Rawley pressed his forehead against the tree, sweating even as cold as it was.
Bullets pelted two feet from his head. He tasted smoke and fear.
Sirens drew closer, but he didn’t dare hope they’d arrive in time.
These attackers were locked on death’s promise, no retreat, no surrender, willing to bleed for whatever dark cause sent them here.
And Rawley knew the next moments would decide if any of them walked out alive.
As sirens wailed in the distance, Rawley locked eyes with Laramie then Killian.
Three fingers up. Three. Two. One. Go. They erupted from cover, weapons blazing, the cold air shredding with gunfire that echoed through the dense forest canopy.
Three rounds punched into his Kevlar vest with the force of sledgehammers, one at a time, each one knocking him back a step and hammering against his ribs like iron spikes.
His back slammed against the rough bark of a tree, and he collapsed onto the forest floor, just as a bullet hit the tree where his head had been.
Snow sinking into his jeans as inky darkness clawed at the edges of his vision like a hungry beast. His lungs seized.
One of the shots must have bruised or collapsed his lung.
He tried to sit up but his limbs felt like they were encased in concrete.
“Rawley!”
Laramie’s voice came through, but Rawley couldn’t speak out.
Death’s cold, skeletal fingers clawed at him, dragging him down.
Skylar’s face flashed before him, her pale blue eyes, those dimples when she smiled.
Damn it, he should have told her. Never saying the three words burning in his chest like hot coals.
Stubborn, stupid bastard. He shook his head as he tasted the metallic tang of blood flooding his mouth.
“Can’t breathe,” he rasped out, the words like sandpaper in his throat.
Killian and Laramie made their way to him and sat him up against the tree and tilted his head forward so he wouldn’t choke on his blood.
His chest felt like it was being crushed in a vise, each shallow breath a knife-twist of agony.
“Don’t talk. You probably have blunt force trauma to your lung or maybe a cracked or broken rib or two. Rawley? Backup’s here. Those fuckers ran and some of our men went after them. Stay with me!”
Killian’s face swam above him, panic in his eyes.
Rawley’s eyelids weighed tons, heavy as steel shutters dragging down despite the cold terror screaming through his veins.
Don’t close them. Don’t close them. He clawed his hand upward, fingers trembling; Killian’s grip crushed his fingers with desperate strength.
“You’re tougher than this. Stay with me, Rawley,” Killian’s voice broke.
Darkness swarmed the edges of his vision like a plague of locusts. “Trying,” Rawley whispered, then coughed on the blood in his mouth.
“Try fucking harder!” Killian’s shout echoed through the trees.
“I’m okay. Someone call Skylar to let her know,” he whispered as he tightened his fingers around Killian’s before the darkness swallowed him whole, a bottomless ocean of nothingness.
As he tried to suck air into his failing lung, he groaned as the white-hot pain ripped through him like jagged lightning.