Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [148]
Shifting slightly, he maneuvered the scope so that Pendergast’s back was centered on the crosshairs, and readied himself for the shot.
Hayward crouched behind the rotting trunk as the light swung back and forth in the darkness, moving erratically.
Pendergast whispered in her ear. “I think that light’s on a pole.”
“A pole?”
“Yes. Look at the curious way it’s bobbing. It’s a ruse. And that confirms there’s a second shooter.” Suddenly he grabbed her and shoved her down into the shallow water, her face in the muck. Half a second later she heard a shot just overhead, the dull thud of a bullet hitting wood.
With desperate movements, she followed Pendergast as he crawled through the muck and then wedged himself up behind a tangle of roots, pulling her next to him. More shots came, this time from both forward and behind, tearing through the roots in two directions.
“This cover’s no good,” gasped Hayward.
“No, it isn’t. We can’t stay here—it’s only a matter of time until one of those bullets finds its mark.”
“But what can we do?”
“I’m going to take out the shooter behind us. When I leave, I want you to count ninety seconds, fire, count another ninety, then fire again. Don’t bother aiming—it’s the noise I require. Take care your muzzle flash is concealed… and then, only then, after the first two fake shots, shoot out the light. And then charge him—and kill.”
“Got it.”
With a flash Pendergast disappeared into the swamp. A fresh burst of gunfire rang out in response.
Hayward counted to ninety and then, keeping the rifle muzzle low, fired. The .45-70 roared and kicked back, surprising her with its noise, the sound echoing and scattering through the swamp. In answer, a fusillade of bullets tore through the roots just above her head and she burrowed down in the muck, and then she heard Pendergast’s answering fire to her left, his .45 blasting into the night. The fire shifted away from her. The light bobbed but did not advance.
She counted again, pulled the trigger, and a second roar from the heavy-caliber rifle split the air.
Once again, the fire came her way and was answered by a rapid tattoo of shots from Pendergast, this time from a different place. The light had still not moved.
Hayward turned, crouched in the muck, and took aim at the light with exquisite care. Slowly, she squeezed the trigger, the gun roared, and the light dissolved in a shower of sparks.
Immediately she was up and moving as fast as she could through the heavy, sucking mud toward where the light had been. She could hear Pendergast firing furiously behind her, pinning down the rearward shooter.
A pair of shots clipped through a stand of ferns next to her; she charged ahead, rifle at the ready, and then burst through the ferns to find the shooter crouching in a shallow-draft boat. He turned toward her in surprise and she threw herself into the water, aiming and firing as she did so. The man fired simultaneously and she felt a sharp blow to her leg, followed by a sudden numbness. She gasped and tried to rise to her feet, but her leg refused to move.
She worked the action frantically, expecting at any moment to be hit by a second, fatal shot. But none came and she realized she must have hit the shooter. With a supreme effort she half crawled, half stumbled into the shallow water and grabbed the gunwale, aiming the rifle within.
The shooter lay on the floor of the boat, blood streaming from a wound in his shoulder. His rifle lay in two pieces—the round had evidently struck it—and he was fumbling with one hand trying to pull out a handgun. He was not one of the swampers—in fact, she had never seen him before.
“Don’t move!” she barked, aiming the rifle at him and trying not to gasp with pain. She reached over, snatched away the handgun, pointed it at him. “Stand up, nice and slow. Keep your hands in sight.”
The man groaned, raised one hand. The other hung uselessly at his side.
Remembering the second shooter, Hayward kept as low as