Free Walt Longmire 07 - Hell Is Empty by Craig Johnson Page B

right, I’d probably meet the shooter somewhere out there. I leveraged up on my elbows and knees and glanced back to see if I could triangulate the rifle fire. It looked like it had come from slightly to my right—the same basic area where I’d seen somebody moving at the main lodge.
    I crouched and moved, picking up the Basquo’s backpack as I went, sliding between the van and the cabin where the cougar had been. The snow slid off the van and landed on my hat and shoulders. I didn’t wipe it off this time, in hopes that it might provide some cover from the scope, but when I turned my head, there was a SIG SAUER P226 muzzle pointed up and under my chin.
    “Move back.”
    With the shadows, it was difficult to see who was holding the semiautomatic, but hearing the Latino accent, I had a good idea. I retreated with my .45 held above my head. “Hey, Hector.”
    “Raise your arms and shut up.” As he stepped into the minimal light afforded by the parking lot lamppost, I could see the pant leg of his orange jumpsuit and the tactical boots that he must’ve taken from the dead marshal. He also wore a three-quarter-length parka, which he must’ve appropriated from the convict transport. He motioned for me to move to my right. “Step over there.”
    I did as instructed and, knowing that a little cover was better than none, was careful to place myself between the DOC van and the Suburban.
    Hector stepped around as well, carefully holding McGroder’s Sig at an angle—gangsta style. He raised a hand to his face and yelled back toward the main lodge. “Got him!” I shifted, with my hands still above my head, and his eyes darted back to me. “I said don’t move.”
    “Actually, you didn’t.”
    “Shut up!” He paused and turned slightly as we heard noises coming from the big building. “And gimme your gun.”
    I thought about my situation, how I was soon to be surrounded by some very desperate and well-armed individuals. I thought about how the odds of one-on-one were a hell of a lot better than five-on-one.
    With my hands still raised, I tossed the Colt up onto the roof of the van.
    Otero looked at me. “What the fuck?”
    I shrugged. “You said to get rid of the gun.”
    He studied me from the depths of his acrylic-lined hood. “What, you don’t think I can get up there or what?”
    “Well, you are kind of short.”
    He gestured with the .40 for me to back up, which I did with my hands still raised, as he placed a foot on the doorsill of the van and pulled himself up by the gutter rail. “Fuck you, Alexander Dumb-ass.” He really was kind of short and had to reach across the top of the snow-covered van with one hand while keeping his pistol pointed at me. It was quite a balancing act.
    I retreated another step.
    “I said don’t move!”
    The wind blew another gust from the roof of the cabins and pushed the hood of Hector’s parka against his face; he kept yanking it back, but it continued blowing forward.
    I was beginning to wonder how much movement it was going to take.
    To give her credit, she didn’t make a sound until she moved and when she did it was something to behold. She bounced once to contain her speed and swiped out with a massive paw at Hector’s hooded head. He jumped when the sound and fury came out of the alcove, and his foot slipped on the wet sill. The cougar’s lethal claws raked the cloth on the top of his head, his face was pushed forward by the force of her swipe, and he flipped backward to land at my feet. The Sig should’ve gone off, but it didn’t.
    I landed all two hundred and fifty pounds on his chest with a knee and listened to the air go out of him, which for a moment stopped the screaming, and then the semiautomatic popped from his hand.
    It was a calculated risk, turning my back to the cougar, but I figured Hector was the moment’s primary threat. I snatched the .40 from the snow and then whirled to face the mountain lion, but she’d stayed on the roof of the van and