Texas Outlaw (Rory Yates #2) - James Patterson Page 0,83
hand on my shoulder.
“You stay,” he says. “I’ll go.”
Kyle and I were both athletes once upon a time—his sport of choice was baseball, mine football—so it’s questionable who might be faster. There’s no good reason for him to go instead of me.
“No, Kyle, I’ll do it. You and Ariana—”
“I’m giving you an order, Ranger.”
He grins, an expression that says, I know I’ve been a jerk. I’m going to make it up to you right now. Then, before I can object further, he bursts from cover and darts out toward the rifle. He scoops it up with one arm and turns around. Before I realize what Kyle is doing, the rifle is soaring through the air toward us. I reach out to catch it, then hunker back down in the cover of the tanker.
I expect Kyle to run back, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes a few quick steps to his truck and pulls his keys from his pocket. He jams a key into the storage box. I know what he’s doing: trying to get the rifles inside.
But he’s a sitting duck.
I throw the rifle to my shoulder, step out from cover, and start launching bullets in the direction where I saw the muzzle flash earlier. The bullets might fly that far, but not with any real accuracy. And I’m not aiming at a specific target anyway—just throwing bullets in a general direction. All I want is to get close enough that Gareth will keep his head down and not take aim at Kyle.
Shots start coming from the ATVs, puncturing the truck and puffing dirt from the ground. They’re just tossing lead around, like me, but with this many bullets flying, you never know where one could land.
Kyle flips open the storage box and reaches inside. He yanks out his .223 M4, then reaches in with his other arm and pulls out an ammo can and some kind of satchel. He starts running back toward us. He has a grin on his face like he’s on the baseball field about to steal home plate.
He’s almost made it when he winces and pitches to the side. He falls onto his knees. I’m unsure of what happened, then I hear the shot finally catching up to the bullet that knocked him down.
He tosses the ammo can over to us, his face in agony. I catch the canister before it hits the ground, never taking my eyes off Kyle.
Blood trickles from two bullet holes—the entrance wound under his armpit and the exit on the other side of his body at the bottom of his rib cage. The bullet would have passed through both lungs, probably clipping his heart along the way. Blood gurgles from Kyle’s mouth.
Kyle growls through bloody teeth and uses his last bit of strength to throw the rifle our way. It doesn’t quite make it to us, but Ariana darts out, grabs it, and hurls herself back behind the cover of the truck.
Kyle looks at me as if he wants to say something, but when he opens his mouth, he can only cough up blood. He hunches over and collapses face-first in the dirt.
As I stare at him, I regret every unkind thought I ever had about him. He redeemed himself in the end. And then some.
He died a hero—a Texas Ranger—more than worthy of the star on his chest.
As more bullets start to rain down around us, I only hope he hasn’t died in vain.
Chapter 87
I DON’T HAVE time to mourn. The ATVs are closing in fast.
Ariana and I hunker down in the shelter of the tanker. I yank open the ammo can and reload my rifle. She loads Kyle’s.
“Aim for the ATVs,” I say.
My thinking is we need to slow their advance. And the four-wheelers will be bigger targets than individual people, easier to hit.
Ariana crawls underneath the tanker and lies prone, aiming up the hill. I stay in a crouch and shoulder my rifle. I’m tucked back, partly underneath the tanker, out of sight for the sniper a thousand yards away. But one of the ATVs is taking a wide flank. I find the ATV in the scope and follow it as it slaloms down the hill around clumps of sagebrush. I don’t recognize the driver—just one of McCormack’s faceless mercenaries—but the man on the back has a splint on his nose.
It’s the guy I tussled with outside my motel room and then talked to at the gate to McCormack’s property.