to his left and had a different perspective. Plus, by not using his scope, Clay could see the entire picture.
“Looks like a woman. She’s waving, pulling parallel. Maybe Native. She’s got water barrels in her truck bed. He’s stepping out to greet her. Waving, too.”
“Contact,” he whispered. Two birds, one bullet, he thought.
Kino could see his target already rounding the front of the newly arrived pickup, rifle in hand. He fingered the trigger just as the man stepped behind the cover of the cab.
Kino muttered a curse. “No shot.”
“Might be together,” said Clay. “Or she’s part of the aid organization filling the water stations.”
“They aren’t supposed to be on Indian land, either,” said Kino.
“Tell her,” replied Clay. “Anyway, if she’s unexpected company, he’ll kill her for sure.”
Kino needed to take the shot but he couldn’t see his target. All he could see across the bed of the red pickup was the passenger door of the blue truck, scratched and dusty, window open. On the opposite side of the seat he saw a woman’s figure, the driver, sitting behind the wheel, visible from shoulder to waist through the open passenger window. Shapely, her dark hair was braided in one long plait that hung over her right shoulder. She wore a pale blue T-shirt that hugged her breasts and slim torso. Her face was obscured by the roof of the cab, but her hands were slim, cinnamon brown and bedecked with a silver-and-turquoise ring and wide-cuff bracelet, both Zuni, from the style.
“He’s lifting his rifle,” said Clay.
The woman’s hands extended and left the steering wheel.
“I’ve got no shot,” Kino repeated, his accelerating heart rate now interfering with his aim. All he could see was the man’s elbow and the barrel of the rifle.
“He’s going to shoot her,” said Clay, his voice holding a rare note of alarm.
Kino did the only thing he could think of. He took out her windshield. Glass exploded and his target vanished on the far side of the truck. The woman threw herself across the seat, hands over her head.
Kino shot out the rearview mirror and then the driver’s-side mirror for good measure.
“Where is he?” said Kino, scanning the area.
“No sign,” said Clay.
A moment later the red pickup began to roll.
“Must have gone under the truck,” said Clay, taking a shot at the red truck.
Kino had no target, but he now knew where the guy was. He started shooting, trying for a lucky hit through the cab of the truck. From beside him, Clay began shooting.
They punctured several holes before the pickup turned to drive away. Kino took out the back window but the gun rack remained in place. The driver never lifted his head.
“Driving blind,” said Clay.
And doing a darn good job, thought Kino. He’d managed to get to the road, which was lined with scrub cactus and thick with sage.
“Getting away,” said Clay.
“Try for the tires.”
Kino had one glimpse of the back of the man’s head as he popped up behind the wheel and steered onto the road. The truck veered as Kino fired and missed.
“That was some move,” said Clay.
Kino calculated the time it would take to get back to their SUV and pursue. Too long, he realized. The guy would be on the highway before they backtracked.
Kino watched the plume of dust from the truck he could no longer see. Then he directed his gaze at the blue pickup. Ten years and he finally had him, only to have this imbecile drive right into the middle of his shot.
“Call it in,” he said to Clay as he bounded down the steep incline to see about this woman, the one with the terrible timing.
Lea Altaha lay flat out on the truck seat as glass from the windshield showered over her like hard rain. She folded her arms over her head to protect herself from the falling glass. Her arms offered no defense from the bullets that shattered her rearview mirror and then something behind her.
What was going on?
First that guy in the red pickup had pointed a rifle at her and ordered her out of the truck, and the next moment the shooting had started.
Her heart jackhammered in her chest and she breathed in the tang of her terror mixed with sweat.
The engine of the other truck revved. Next came the crunch of gravel as the tires spun, sending sand and rock flying. The guy with the rifle was leaving. Had he been the target of the shooter?
She didn’t know. All she did know was that she was staying here on the seat until she knew it was safe.
The shots sounded again, but not at close range. Far off now, she could hear the familiar pop, pop, pop of someone taking deliberate aim. The sound recalled her time hunting with her father. But that was where the similarity ended.
Dust poured in through the open windows, the result of the man’s hasty retreat. She eased open the passenger’s-side door, thinking to take cover under her truck. But the sight that greeted her caused her to give a yelp of fear. Lea stared through the swirling dust at the figures on the ground. Grit coated her mouth and filled her nose. Her skin prickled as the hairs on her neck lifted. Suddenly her mouth was as dry as the desert surrounding her.
There, prone upon the sand, were bodies. All but one was facedown. That one lay with arms sprawled wide, shirt open and eyes staring sightless at the sun. No one could stare like that for long, not without risking blindness. The chest showed a dark wet stain of blood.
Had that man shot him, too?
She shivered with cold, her fingers and face feeling numb despite the heat of the day.
“What’s happening?” she whispered to no one.
She crawled forward, sending cubes of glass cascading onto the floor mats and crunching painfully under her knees. The second man lay just as still, but he was prone, his arms spread wide as if in surrender. From her new position she could make out two other bodies.
Lea reached for the door handle and pulled. The solid metal shut with a satisfying thump. She slipped into the wheel well and tucked her knees to her chest. Where was the satellite phone? She scanned the seat where it had been, found it empty and reached for the radio still clipped to the waistband of her jeans.
She got it switched on, despite the fact that her hands were shaking so badly and were so slick with sweat that she could barely hold the thing. She hit the button to transmit.
“Margie?”
Her area supervisor, Margaret Crocker, answered immediately,
