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Matt

THE BULLET JUST MISSED him.

Matt dove to his right and landed hard on the pavement. He rolled off the side of the road and down into the ditch, coming to a stop when he hit the mud. Two more shots followed, the last one disappearing in the earth no more than six inches from his left hand. Then the world went quiet; nothing but echoes.

With all three shots, the bullet struck before Matt actually heard it. That meant whoever was firing wasn’t close, but shooting at a distance, most likely with some kind of high-powered rifle. There were plenty of those in town—this was New Hampshire, after all—but most were meant for deer, and locals tended to opt for using the sights rather than a scope. There was more sport in it. Whoever had just fired on Matt had struck too close to be a missed shot at a deer. Those shots had followed his path and hit within inches of him—rapid-fire, only seconds apart. That kind of marksmanship came from a skilled sharpshooter able to fix his target while reloading, someone with a scope. He had no idea where the shots had come from; the trees and mountains distorted the sound, bounced it.

Matt reached for the radio clipped to his shoulder. “Ellie? Sally? Either of you hear me? Got shots fired out on 112. I’m pinned down. Over.”

He didn’t expect an answer, but he had to try. Even if one of them did respond, he wasn’t sure what they could do.

At a slow crawl, Matt edged up the side of the ditch until he could see over the pavement. The ditch offered little cover, and he was sure whoever was shooting could have killed him if they wanted to. They’d only fired warning shots, drove him back, but back from what? He needed to see over the hill where 112 crested, but it was still a good fifty feet off.

He scrambled a little farther up the muddy incline, got to his knees, and raised both hands above his head. “I’m a sheriff’s deputy!” Matt shouted. “Hold your fire! I’m coming out!”

Every muscle in his body tensed, and he tried to squash the thought of a small red laser dot on his forehead as he slowly got to his feet. He stood on the edge of the road, waited for a bullet to tear into him, but none came.

“I’m putting my weapon away!”

His service pistol was still in his hand, now covered in mud. He slowly lowered it and slipped it back into its holster.

He felt eyes on him, and he tried not to think about that as he took a step forward toward the crest in the hill. He got about three feet before another bullet struck the ground close enough to cover his shoes with chipped blacktop.

Matt froze.

It had come from in front of him for sure, seemed like his left side, but he couldn’t be 100 percent sure.

If they wanted you dead, you’d be dead.

That thought wasn’t very reassuring, but it was all he had.

He took another step.

Two shots this time, quick succession. One clipped the edge of his shoe, the other struck the ground to his left. Matt’s heart was pounding so hard he imagined whoever was shooting could see it throbbing in their scope. Some vein on the side of his head was beating like a snare drum. That second shot, the one that hit on his left, at least gave him a general direction. If they’d been shooting from his right, the bullet would have to have gone through him to hit there. It came from the left for sure. He looked up toward the mountains, through the trees, searched for some flash or glare giving away their position, but saw nothing.

He had two choices. He could take another step, watch for the muzzle flash, or he could step backward, retreat. Do what they wanted him to do. If he took another step forward, there was a very good chance they’d shoot him. If he ran, he wouldn’t learn anything new.

Matt knew what he had to do, but that didn’t make it any easier.

He drew in a deep breath and took another step forward.

His foot hadn’t touched the ground when two quick shots rang out.

Two muzzle flashes—one from the northeast on his right, the other from the northwest. At least a thousand yards out, maybe as much as two.

Both struck the ground on either side of him.

Multiple shooters.

The gunner on his left fired again and came within an inch of Matt’s shoe.

These weren’t some hunters clowning around. These were pros with military precision.

“All right!” Matt shouted, raising both hands higher. “I’m backing up! Don’t shoot!”

He counted silently to ten, then took a slow step back. When nobody fired, he took another. Matt was halfway back to his car when he finally turned and ran. He dove inside the cruiser, started the engine, and hit the accelerator before he even had his door closed. He skidded the car through a sloppy three-point reverse turn and raced back toward town.

At least a minute passed before he remembered to breathe.