Gregg Hurwitz - Last shot

Wes said in a fierce whisper. "I thought we had a deal. You can't be hauling perps through here."

Tim said, "We need tonight's schedule."

Wes fought a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed sweat from his forehead but made no move toward the computer. "Come on, guys. Come back after hours, I'll get you whatever you need. But you're freaking my clients. Again."

Outside, Kenny waited for the sluggish soft top to accordion out of his way, then hefted a crate from Wes's car. Wes crossed his arms, ready to cause a scene. Bear shoved past him, stepping around the counter. The tabby stuck her head up from the Cutlass's passenger seat, then jumped up onto the hood, her orange coat rippling.

Wes shook his head at Bear's rudeness, then said, "The schedule's on the clipboard by the preserve entrance." He went to get it, mumbling.

The cat padded across the front of the Cutlass, her breath wisping, then curled at the end of the hood above the warmth of the engine.

The oversize hood ornament.

Bear looked up from the monitor, brow twisted with consternation. "This says the next appointment's a hunt-off. Metal Jacket and-"

The clues aligned at once, pulling together in the instant Tim's hand dove for his Smith amp; Wesson. The low-rider-the Cutlass with the top peeled back. Wes's own words-I'm a computer guy at heart. He'd posed as the Piper in one of the chat rooms-ones that guys like us can't even find-and snaked the contract. The hit itself-highly competent but not meticulous, the imperfect work of a well-read and — practiced wannabe.

Before Bear could utter his name, Wes Dieter slipped through the gauze, disappearing into the green-tinted shadows of the preserve. The four-time course champion, trying for a getaway but inadvertently heading into the lion's den. Given the recent fallout from Tess's murder, Tim had to assume that a real gun lurked in one of Wes's innumerable holsters and cargo pockets.

Bear seized Xavier, steering him for the door. Tim ran for the curtain, shouting over his shoulder, "Clear the whole building! When backup gets here, have them seal off the preserve's perimeter!"

He slipped through, dropping low on a knee, his revolver clutched tight in both hands. A muddy trail went a few feet before splitting in three directions. Fronds fluttered. Cottonwood, sagebrush, willow, and coyote bush broke his sight line. A coarse cawing. The silhouette of a great white egret scanned across the roof of the black netting, strobe-flickering against the dark gray sky beyond. The netting encasing the fifteen-acre preserve brought a kind of night-within-night. Tim eased forward, boots shoving into the mud, then stepped off the trail. He turned down the volume on his radio, cutting himself off from his backup. Noises all around.

Tim melded into the imported foliage, listening for the sounds of human movement-headlong progress through brush, metallic clinks, leaves whispering across fabric. He and Walker were like sharks squaring off in a kiddy pool.

Advancing on hands and knees could help him reduce his noise signature, but it would also slow him down. Since concealment options were copious, there was no need to maintain a low-to-ground profile. He was within an enclosed space with three potentially armed men, all of them killers, all of them hunting and being hunted. Time was of the essence if he wanted to play a role in the outcome. And prevent the naked corpse of a well-siliconed woman from making tomorrow's page one. To strike the balance between caution and pursuit, he opted for a slow upright patrol, stop-move-stop.

He paused, getting down on a knee in the tules to listen and feel the air.

Walker likely didn't know that Tim and Caden were present. If he had come, he'd set up to wait for the Piper. If Tim had some luck, Walker didn't realize yet that that meant this nickel-badge-wearing keyboard jockey. What would be the best tactical spot from which to observe, and execute a shot? Tim would have chosen the highest ground. A rise in the northwest quadrant seemed the best bet. Tim started to forge in that direction, through the dark heart of the preserve. If he heard anyone moving, odds were it was Caden, Wes, the girl, or one of the paintballers. Tim's first priority would be to reach the nonsuspects and direct them to safety. Then he'd try to latch on to Caden and trail and outflank him for an ambush, or stalk Wes until he drew Walker from cover.

Someone large lumbered up the trail to Tim's right, and he whipped his gun over, waiting to see who appeared. An excessively camoed man with a beer gut charged around the bend, slipping to a halt. He smiled at Tim, raised his paintball gun. "Pow." His eyes changed when he took in Tim's expression and the steel gleam of the Smith amp; Wesson. Tim flicked his barrel toward the exit to keep the guy moving; he was only too happy to comply.

In the blackness up ahead, a woman shouted, "Who the hell are you?" She yelped, and Tim ducked into the foliage. A few moments later, she ran past, naked and screaming, Afternoon no longer D-Lited.

To his left he heard two bodies startle in the leaves, then move for the exit also, the panicked movements and shouted directives telling him they were the last two paintballers. Bear could deal with them and the girl once they spilled through the curtain.

Moving briskly, Tim closed in on the area of foliage in which the regulars had stumbled upon an uninvited guest. The band of dense, shoulder-high bush crossed the base of the slope where Tim thought Walker might be bedded down. Tim steered clear of the loose rocks composing the waterfall's base, picking quiet footholds around the mud wallow. Another theme-park addition, a camouflaged heavy bag, creaked on its chain, its sway more than the net-blocked wind could have generated. Someone had shouldered it on his way past.

Tim inched upslope, letting the branches bend slowly against him to avoid snaps and backwhips. A stout sprig hung up against his ankle, and he grabbed it, stepping past then carefully releasing the tension. Through the patchwork of underbrush, his eyes picked up the faintest movement against the mud, a dark boot rising out of view. He straightened, but the foliage blotted out any movement ahead.

His stalker's instincts froze him. Someone else moved to his left just a few feet away-Tim sensed a vibration or the heat. With excruciating slowness, he pivoted to face his pursuer, his heels soundless in the mud. He lifted his. 357, dodging leaves on the rise. In the silence between the brush of leaves and the scratch of crickets, he heard it.

The faint yet undeniable click of a hammer cocking.

Behind him.

His body reacted before the sound registered as a thought. He spun, and as his own gun jerked in his grip, he saw the flare from a muzzle illuminating Walker's face, floating as if detached among the leaves. The gunshot, compounded, seemed unreasonably loud.

Before Tim could comprehend that the explosion came in surround sound-from in front of him, behind him, and his own hands-a hot streak ripped his neck. His recoil spun him around to see Caden Burke drop to the mud howling and gripping his shoulder. Walker Jameson grunted-Tim's bullet had struck home-and a Redhawk six-shooter spit from the bushes, knocked loose. Walker's furious retreat sounded like a beast fleeing.

Tim couldn't go after him right away because he still had Caden loose and who he guessed was Wes up ahead. Putting his knee in Caden's back, Tim frisked him, pocketing his Ruger and a quaint switchblade. Walker's shot had missed Tim and embedded in the ball of Caden's shoulder, pulling Caden's shot off center and inadvertently saving Tim's life. When Tim cuffed him, Caden screeched with pain.

Tim scrambled back to reclaim the Redhawk. The stock was still warm and felt familiar somehow, molded to his hand. He stiffened at a sudden footfall, turning to source the noise. With a whooshing of leaves, Wes charged out of the brush-he'd circled during the commotion and come in from the west. Tim went airborne, extended in a sideways dive, using Walker's Redhawk to sight on Wes's substantial critical mass. A slow-motion clarity came over Tim as it often did in a close exchange. He saw the black hole of Wes's mouth looming behind the smaller black hole of a handgun muzzle. The moonlight's sheen on the glossy leaves misted from the waterfall. Caden bucking against the cuffs, snarling with pain and a sort of dumb puzzlement. Tim flashed on Tess, made to sit at gunpoint on her bed, made to wait as Wes Dieter-the man at the receiving end of the Redhawk that Tim now clutched-pressed steel to her temple. Her last-second, turned-head recoil before the shot, when fear turned to dumb instinct. Tim's finger tensed, and the trigger inched back, hammer ready to fall on one of Walker's titanium bullets. At the last instant before he struck mud, Tim moved the barrel three millimeters left and put a bullet through Wes's forearm.