Lee Child - MatchUp

He kept moving toward Double’s last known rear, making good time until he tripped over a fallen tree. He tried not to groan as he fell flat into the snow. Cold, sleety water went up his nose and mouth.

Over by the Malibu, Pritchard called, “Hey, Double. Let’s talk about our options.”

He was trying to locate Double, but their target wasn’t stupid enough to let him.

Jeffrey closed his eyes and listened for the crunch of snow that indicated a man was walking toward him. All he heard was the soft pat of snow hitting snow, overlaid with the tinkling sound of water freezing in the falls.

He pushed himself up.

He flexed his hands, swapping his Glock back and forth, because he knew that if he had to pull the trigger, it would take functioning fingers.

The snow gripped his legs like a child trying to play a game. The weight was enormous. His lungs were heaving by the time he forced himself into a clearing. He guessed he was maybe twenty feet to the rear of the black truck. The question now was, Were they hunting Double or was Double hunting them?

A gunshot rang out.

He dove behind a tree, realizing too late that the shot had come downrange. He spat a mouthful of snow onto the ground, wondering why in the hell he kept opening his mouth every time he fell into the snow.

He listened for another shot, some indication there was gunplay. He didn’t think Pritchard had pulled the trigger. He was too cool under pressure. Perry might have, but then again, Double could’ve been doing the same thing they were trying to do, only he’d sneaked up behind the Malibu.

The shot could’ve ended up in Pritchard’s head.

He shook off the image.

Snow flew out of his hair. It was coming down hard and steady. He flexed his hands again. When he stood up it felt like the cold was pushing him back down. Still, he trudged on, edging toward the rear of Double’s truck.

Paulson yipped like a dog.

He was behind the truck, holding on to the tailgate as he crouched down in the snow.

Jeffrey’s cold hands had no problem pressing the muzzle of his Glock to Paulson’s head. The kid was so thin that he could feel the bumps in his skull.

“Don’t move.”

Paulson flinched, giving another yip. He tried to cover his head with his hands. There was a rattling sound. In the faint moonlight, Jeffrey could see that Paulson was handcuffed to the hinge of the tailgate.

“Please, help me.”

He put his hand over the kid’s mouth, because he’d almost screamed the words. He waited until Paulson nodded before taking his hand away. Paulson was in uniform, but his gun was gone. So was his baton and mace.

“What happened?” he whispered.

“He killed Nora.” Paulson’s voice cracked on the girl’s name. “I saw it on the security video, and I was going to arrest him, but he—”

He could guess the rest.

A guy like Paulson would need a tank to go up against Double, and even then, he would’ve bet against the beanpole.

He still had the handcuff key that Pritchard had thrown at him. He gave it to Paulson and whispered, “Get back to your car. Radio for help. Not your chief, but the DEA, the GBI, the FBI, the fucking EPA—anybody you can get on the wire. Do you understand?”

Paulson, wide-eyed, could only nod.

He didn’t trust the terror in the young man’s eyes. “I swear to God, Paulson, if you leave us up here on this mountain to die, I’ll find you and put a bullet in your head. Do you understand?”

Paulson nodded in earnest this time.

His hands shook as he fumbled with the handcuff key.

Jeffrey didn’t stick around to help him. Instead, he crept toward the cab of the truck. The wheels were the waffled semitrailer variety. The cab was high off the ground, almost to his waist. Double had left the door open. He swung around, Glock drawn, ready to pull the trigger on anybody inside the truck.

Empty.

Snow covered the driver’s seat.

Double had left the keys in the ignition, which gave him a couple of options. He could turn the headlights back on, which meant he could see, but it would also signal that he was standing at the truck in case Double wanted to shoot him.

Or he could jump into the truck and drive.

Option two seemed likely to yield the biggest surprise. Double wouldn’t be expecting to have his own truck used against him, and the big wheels would cut through the snow a hell of a lot easier than exhausted legs.

He used the back of his sleeve to knock the fresh snow off the windshield. His sleeve got soaked in the process, but he was pretty sure that it wasn’t possible to get any colder than he already was. He moved the Glock to the front of his jeans and climbed into the truck. He put his hand on the key but didn’t turn it. He stared ahead at the dark expanse. Snow had already started to accumulate on the windshield again. He squinted at the Malibu. Had Pritchard seen him get into the truck? Was Perry out there somewhere tracking his movements?

He rested his other hand on the knob to turn on the lights. He turned the key, pulled the knob, and the truck roared to life. The lights came on and he saw several different things at the same time that took about a second too late for his brain to figure out.

Number one was that Antonio Childers had managed to drag his sorry ass and two broken legs into the path directly in front of the truck.

Number two was that Pritchard was no longer behind the Malibu. He was no longer anywhere that could be seen.

Number three was that Perry had managed somehow to sneak up on Double.

The scene was almost like something out of a Wile E. Coyote cartoon. Perry, frozen in the headlights, was standing behind Double with the flashlight raised in the air, ready to bring down the butt on the thug’s head.

Not just a flashlight.

A police-issue Maglite.

Twelve-inch aluminum shaft with four D-cell batteries and enough weight behind it to stop a horse.

Perry didn’t know that Paulson was neutralized, and he wanted to take out Double without making a sound.

Which Perry did.

It was like somebody hit play on a paused movie. Perry’s raised hand got unstuck, and he smashed the flashlight down, and Double fell hard into the snow.

“Christ.”

He jumped and his hand went to his gun.

But it was Pritchard who’d said the word. So much for Perry’s triangle. Pritchard had taken it upon himself to sneak up on the truck, too.

“I think I’ll keep this kid,” Pritchard muttered. “Paulson?”

“Scampered off like a giraffe with its tail between his legs.”

“I thought that might be the case. I saw you give him the key to the cuffs.” Pritchard looked around the truck. “Any reason you don’t have the heat running?”

He turned on the heater but got out of the truck. “I’ll go see if Paulson’s still around. That cruiser looked like it had snow tires.”

Pritchard smiled at the monster wheels. “I think even I can get this thing down the mountain.”

He ignored the “I” because he wasn’t about to get into a dick-measuring contest about who was going to drive.

Perry had already lifted Double, throwing him onto his back like a sack of flour. If the kid wanted to show off, Jeffrey wasn’t going to stop him. He headed toward Antonio Childers. The hostage/fugitive hadn’t gotten the memo that the struggle was over and the good guys had won. Or maybe he’d realized that the good guys winning didn’t necessarily mean he’d get a happy ending. Even as Jeffrey approached, the guy was still pulling himself on his elbows, dragging his way toward the trees like he could make a getaway.

Antonio saw Jeffrey and quickly gave up the struggle.

“Please help me.”

He glanced back over his shoulder. If Double was a sack of flour, Antonio was a sack of sheet metal. No way he was going to blow out his back for this murdering asshole. Besides, now that Antonio wasn’t a hostage anymore, he was again a fugitive. He could wait in the snow while Perry cuffed Double in the back of the pickup.