Snow Blind - Lori G. Armstrong [135]
The air outside wasn’t nearly as cold as the glare he 480
aimed at Jimmer. “You in on this, too?”
“I have a stake in making sure you don’t do nuthin’
stupid, Tony. Buzz and I were discussing some options.”
The wind blew an icy blast across my face, but I didn’t dare look away.
“Last I knew, I headed the Hombres. You should be talking to me, Jimmer, nobody else.”
“And now I am.”
Gunshots rent the air, pinging off metal. I didn’t know if bullets hit my truck or Martinez’s vehicle or the building behind me or the Bobcat. I didn’t stick around to match paint chips; I ran for the biggest protective structure, and that sure as hell wasn’t a man. No way would I hide out in a junkyard, which left two other choices. I made tracks for the building behind me, the one closest to the road. Buzz and Big Mike’s priority would be Martinez. Jimmer would go after the shooter. I’d be on my own. Again. As I picked my way through the snow along the north side, gun in hand, I heard more shots. I couldn’t tell where they were coming from. Or where they’d hit. I didn’t dare stop moving.
I doubted the shooter was around the side facing the street, so that’d probably be the safest place for me to hide. I stayed low, even when my black coat was a bull’s-eye against the mint green metal siding and the white snow. The effects of my hypothermia came back full force in an instant. My teeth chattered. My limbs shook. I couldn’t catch my breath. The latter was 481
probably from fear, not forced exercise. Sad, that I was beginning to recognize the difference between terror and smoker’s overexertion.
My knees locked. Each boot step through the caked snow seemed thunderous in the deadly stillness. I counted steps. One, two, three. At twelve I reached the end of the boxy structure.
Deep breath, Julie. Probably nothing around the corner but an air conditioner unit and a Dumpster. Either would make a fine hiding place.
What was safety protocol? Did I poke my head around first? Or lead with the gun? I’d seen enough old PI and cop TV shows; I should remember. As I contemplated how Remington Steele would’ve done it, I tripped over an extended downspout and face planted into a hard pile of snow. My fingers were stiff as frozen fish sticks and I couldn’t keep the grip on the Sig. It skidded out of sight. Took every ounce of restraint not to yell, fuck!
Freezing, scared, and unarmed. Great. Could this get worse? I pushed to my knees, sat back on my heels, and swiped the dirty snow from my face. When I looked up, Jackal’s “gotcha” grin swam into view. Along with the muzzle of the gun he’d aimed at me.
My survival instincts scrambled for dominance, but my body remained inert.
Jackal made a single step my direction and a barrage of gunfire echoed around us. Jackal’s cruel mouth did a twisty thing and half his head exploded as he 482
jerked and twitched. Before I saw anything else, a flying tackle broadsided me, forcing the air from my lungs while my face slammed into the snowdrift. I didn’t complain. I didn’t move. Actually, I couldn’t move with Buzz on top of me. I heard Jimmer’s voice.
“She all right?”
“Knocked the wind out of her.”
“How’s Martinez?”
“I knocked the wind out of him, too.”
“Why? How the fuck did that happen?”
Buzz pushed up and muttered, “He was ignoring protocol, trying to get to her.”
Oh crap. That wasn’t good.
“Let’s worry about protocol with this asswipe.”
“He finally dead?”
“Yeah. Seems a waste of bullets even now.”
No more Jackal. I slumped with a sick sense of complete relief.
“Where we dumpin’ him?”
Mumbled male voices gave instructions I didn’t care to hear.
More footsteps. I lifted my head slightly and surveyed the scene. Cal and Bucket stood in front of Jackal’s body, each holding a shovel. An arc of blood sprayed across the snow. Not pretty like red sugar crystals on vanilla cookie dough, but ugly; the bloody finality of death. Jimmer pointed to the Bobcat, the junkyard, then at a can of gasoline. Buzz helped me to my feet. “Bossman is waiting for you with Big Mike.” I attempted to turn around,