The Last King of Texas - By Rick Riordan Page 0,113

persuaded him to bring it over instead, use it as evidence against Del. Unfortunately, Hector's partner got wind of what was happening. He went to Berton's house to take care of things. He wanted to leave two corpses, but he screwed up. Chich's men moved in a little faster than he expected, or maybe it was a little harder to kill George than he'd figured. The gunman retrieved the heroin for himself, killed Mara, but he left Berton alive, a loose end. The gunman figured Chicharron was good for the murder, but he couldn't wait around hoping that George would die before he ID'ed his shooter. Besides, Del was getting nervous. As dense as he was, Del was starting to realize he'd be the one on the spot if his partner cut out. So Del started talking to the police - not yet giving away his partner, but it was only a matter of time. So the gunman killed Del. Then he decided to cut his losses, take a little vacation with his winnings."

Ozzie laughed. "You definitely need to be out of the sun, kid. Let's ride back together."

"Not with you, Ozzie."

He still hadn't fired. Diliberto clicked the .357 magazine into place and was frowning back and forth between us like he wasn't exactly following the conversation.

Ozzie's pale eyes stayed on me. "What are you saying, kid?"

"I'm saying I'm not going anywhere with you because you might get a little trigger-happy, the way you did with George Berton. That social cannibalism you talked about, Ozzie? Attila the rat? The end product isn't Hector or Del or even Zeta. The end product is you. Point the .357 at him, Harold. Now."

Harold, God bless him, did not hesitate. Like everything he'd ever done for me, he did it with unquestioning loyalty and the same completely good-natured incompetence.

Ozzie swung the Remington toward Harold's chest and Harold fired first - nothing. A click, a jammed load. The deer rifle blew a hole in Harold Diliberto's gut and flung him into the door and sawhorses.

I charged into Ozzie; I might've been made of paper for all the impact I made. Ozzie grunted, threw me off, and fumbled to manually load another .243 round. I ran, made it fifteen yards when I heard the bolt action lock. I fell into a sideways roll as the blast turned a chunk of limestone on the ground to dust. Another five feet of blind panic and I hit the edge of the nearest washout - half rolled, half slid into the dry creekbed below.

Another shot cracked the air. I stumbled over river stones like marbles, scrambling to put distance between myself and Ozzie Gerson. My progress seemed insanely loud. My twisted ankle hurt like hell. I reached a turn where the washout joined the creekbed proper and stumbled on.

At a turn in the creekbed a massive live oak levitated against the clay bank on an octopus-shaped tent of roots. I flattened myself against the far side and scoped the ridge, saw nothing. The rattle of my breath was as noisy as a jet. I wanted to curl up inside the hollow underneath the tree and black out, but I knew I would merely be choosing my corner to die in.

Least you changed out of the boxers and the Wild Turkey shirt, part of me said. Better to die in flannel.

The rest of me told that part to shut up.

I forced myself to keep running.

I realized I was heading away from the farmhouse - away from the phone - then realized just as quickly that it didn't matter. Ozzie would expect me to double back to the house. He'd be able to shoot me before I ever made a call, much less got aid from one. Maybe going in the opposite direction had inadvertently bought me a few minutes.

Ozzie's rifle fired: a whiff of air puffed against my thigh. I launched forward, crashed into deadwood, got up, and kept running.

From somewhere behind me, up on the ridge, Ozzie yelled, "Bad way to play it, Tres. You think I wanted to shoot George? Don't do this. Don't force me like he did, kid."

I could hear him reloading. I staggered forward, around another washout, then another few yards before daring to scramble up the side of the bank and look back. I clung to live-oak roots and lifted my head just over the ridge. In his red-and-white Hawaiian shirt, Ozzie Gerson