first bullet whizzed by his head and ricocheted off the rock behind him. The second caught him square in the shoulder and burned like fire immediately upon impact. Pain shot down his arm, and he could feel the blood dampening his shirt as it pooled around the wound.
FBI agent Jack Mitchell took a fortifying breath, then cast a quick look around the tree and returned fire. A shootout was the last thing he’d expected when he’d come to the isolated cabin looking for a lead in his current case. But while he hadn’t been expecting the gunmen, they had clearly been expecting him.
As best he could tell, there were at least two men out there shooting at him. He fired again and heard a moan as one of his bullets struck home, eliminating one of his enemies. He took cover again behind the tree and patted his pocket to assess his ammunition stock. He still had one full clip of fifteen cartridges left. He hoped it was enough. The remaining gunman was still shooting at him, and bits of bark and leaves flew like fireworks as the bullets decimated the surrounding forest.
The shooting stopped abruptly, and Jack guessed that his opponent was reloading or changing his position. He looked quickly around the tree and saw no movement, but he knew the remaining shooter was still out there somewhere. He bent and looked carefully around the surrounding area. It was time for him to move, too—he just needed to decide which direction was safest. He grimaced as pain from his shoulder intensified and he shifted to ease the throbbing. With a short prayer, he headed up toward a boulder to his right.
He never made it.
Another bullet caught him in the thigh and he fell hard, way short of his destination. He struggled to stand again and make it to cover as agonizing pain radiated through his leg, but he could barely do more than shift himself forward. The pain on its own was nearly debilitating, and it didn’t help that he was losing blood fast.
Suddenly he heard a noise from directly in front of him and realized there was a weapon pointed straight at his chest. He glanced up to lock eyes with the man holding the gun and saw a coldness there that chilled him right to the bone. He’d known Brett Stevens since they’d gone to the academy together. They had been partners for almost five years, yet he had never suspected the man of being dirty. Stevens had hid it well. And the gun he held on Jack with no hint of regret made it clear that he planned to hide it awhile longer.
Dread washed over him. He was going to die, right here on the forest floor. Regrets flashed through his head. He wasn’t ready to die. He was only thirty years old, and the rising star in the Bureau’s local field office. There were still plenty of things he was planning to do with his life. Apparently, he wasn’t going to get the chance.
“You shouldn’t have come out here, Mitchell,” Stevens said, his voice grating like gravel. “Put your gun down now.”
Another gunman joined them in the clearing and Jack realized that there had been more men out in the woods than he had originally thought. With three guns against him he had been outmaneuvered from the beginning. He glanced at the new man, but once he realized that the guy was a stranger, Jack ignored him and focused on Stevens. Maybe he had a chance of convincing his partner that murder wasn’t the answer.
“This can all be worked out, Brett. If you give yourself up now, we can still fix this. Don’t throw your life away.”
“My life? My life has been over ever since my team lost the Super Bowl. I have debts, Jack. Colby offered me a chance to make the cash to pay what I owe. It was all working out just fine...until you decided to start digging. You brought this on yourself.” He motioned slightly with his gun, then brought it back to point at Jack’s midriff. “Besides, Jack, out of all the lives out here, the one you should be worried about is your own.”
“Don’t do this,” Jack said, shaking his head, his hands up in a motion of surrender. “I’ll help you get back on the right track. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
Stevens laughed, but it was filled with bitterness. “Nobody can help me. I’m too far down the road to turn back now.” He motioned with his pistol again. “What’s in the bag?”
Jack glanced down at the satchel he had dropped on the ground. He had found a laptop and quite a few papers in the private investigator’s cabin that he had just searched, but he needed time to analyze everything before he would know the true value of what he had discovered.
Earlier he’d hoped the laptop and papers would contain the evidence he had been hunting for that would implicate a ring of conspirators operating out of the federal courthouse. Apparently Stevens was also one of the conspirators. The knowledge was a bitter pill for Jack to swallow. He had considered that maybe someone on the FBI payroll was involved, but it had never occurred to him that Stevens would turn on his own. How had he missed that? Why hadn’t he seen the evil lurking right below the surface in this man he had worked with every day for the past five years?
He glanced up at Stevens, whose familiar eyes now looked dark and sinister. “Just a laptop and some papers,” Jack hedged, hoping that if he somehow survived this encounter he could still use the evidence to break the case.
Stevens aimed and shook his head. “Goodbye, Mitchell.”
Jack tried to dive behind a tree to escape, but it was an exercise in futility. The impact from the bullet caught him hard and spun his body around as it ripped into the flesh on his side. He was still falling when the second shot caught him in the head. For the moment, gravity had saved his life, giving him enough momentum that the bullet sliced a trail across his forehead rather than passing straight through to his brain. But how long would it take before blood loss—or another bullet from Stevens—finished the job?
His body hit the ground hard. Pain enveloped him and he struggled to stay conscious. He felt Stevens kick his ribs, but he had enough presence of mind to try to remain as still as possible. He felt another kick, and it took everything inside him not to react to the agony that radiated up his side and around the assortment of bullet wounds. He heard the other man take a few steps toward him and holster his weapon.
“Now what? This partner of yours was a pretty good shot. He managed to kill Milo down on the ridge. Now we’ve got two bodies to dispose of.”
“Let’s take care of Milo’s body first.” Stevens shifted and Jack could hear his partner’s shoes rustling the leaves as he started to pace.
His partner had always had a creative side. Jack guessed Stevens was already devising a plan in his mind to explain what had happened this afternoon. The man would probably tell just enough truth to keep him from mixing up the story if he ever got interrogated, but he would name Jack as the criminal and would try to get the conspiracy investigation closed as soon as possible. The thought made Jack sick inside.
A moment passed, then another. Suddenly Stevens stopped and a laugh erupted.
“What’s so funny?” the other gunman snarled, his voice gruff. “I don’t see anything to laugh about in two dead bodies that might somehow come back and bite me.”
Stevens secured his weapon and snapped the holster shut. “Let’s put Milo in Jack’s trunk and park his car back at his apartment. It’ll throw the local cops off our trail, and Jack won’t be around to defend himself or point the finger at us. That should keep the heat off and make such a huge stink that nobody will even think to look in our direction. After we dump Milo, we can come back up here, clean up the scene and bury Jack. My uncle has some property near here that’ll be the perfect place to hide the body. Nobody ever goes over there.”
“You’re the boss. I’ve got some plastic in my trunk for
