Edge

Loving would break from the brush and I’d have a perfect shot. He now approached the clearing but, instead of standing, he dropped to a crouch, still obscured by the thick brush.
    Stand up, I thought. Stand up, goddamn it! I felt a flush of anger, unusual for me, as I squintedat the darkness of his form on the other side of the brush.
    Hell, just go for it, I told myself suddenly. Empty your entire mag and reload. . . . A slow breath. Now! I went into a shooting stance and leaned forward, started applying pressure.
    I felt as if I could will the bullets to strike their target.
    I probably got to four pounds of pressure on a trigger with a pull of five and a half, then gave an inaudible sigh and lowered the gun.
    I reflected on what I’d just thought: willing the bullets.
    Shooting is physics and chemistry, vision and steady muscles, choosing the right strategy of firing position, having a clear target. There is no will involved. There’s no luck involved.
    I was a shepherd. I couldn’t afford to be emotional.
    If I’d shot and merely wounded him or missed, he would have had my position. For all I knew the partner was fifty yards behind me, waiting for me to present. Or, hearing the shot, Bill Carter and Amanda might leave cover to come see what had happened.
    Unnerved that I’d nearly given in to emotion, I checked the ground in front of me to make sure I could move silently and I started forward again.
    Still using the plants for cover, Loving slipped up to the gate and tried it gently, testing for squeaking. I saw him extract something from his pocket and he appeared to oil the hinges. Then, still halfway out of sight, he slipped through and made his way toward the house, under good cover.
    Debating, I finally picked my strategy.
    I turned away and headed for the clearing where Bill Carter and Amanda waited.
    It was one of the hardest decisions I’d ever made.
    But my goal was clear. For me, solo, to try to take Loving in the house was inefficient. A tactical move would have required at least two and ideally four others. My best strategy was to find my principals and get them out. Loving’s going inside would buy us ten minutes. I’d let Freddy and his crew run the takedown.
    I oriented myself and backed up the way I’d come, then turned left, toward where I knew the girl and Carter were hiding. It was some distance, maybe three hundred yards, across the length of the property. But I had a sense of the forest now and I noted the area ahead of me was largely coniferous—with plenty of pine needles dampening the ground, leaving resinous branches that didn’t snap when you stepped on them. One could move quickly and in virtual silence here.
    Which was why, as I took my first step forward, Loving’s partner got me from behind; I never heard his approach.
    A grunt of a whisper: “Drop that weapon. Hands out to your side.” I felt the muzzle of a gun kiss my back.

Chapter 28
    AS THE PARTNER pressed his gun harder into my spine, I thought: Is this what Abe Fallow had heard not long before Loving had gone to work on him?
    Hands out to the side. . . .
    I was about to die too.
    But not right away.
    Because like my mentor, I was valuable. I wondered if Loving had created a flytrap of his own. Maybe he’d used the girl not as an edge on her father but to get me to give up the detective, speculating that it might be logistically difficult to let Ryan know they had his daughter.
    I’d been the bait in our flytrap; Amanda was the bait here.
    “I told you. Gun. Drop it.”
    I did. You can’t spin around faster than a bullet.
    How long could I hold out? I wondered.
    Sandpaper and alcohol . . .
    Memories of Peggy and the boys, Jeremy and Sam, surfaced.
    Then the voice behind me whispered, “Wait.”
    Curious. It seemed that he was speaking to himself.
    Then I heard pleasantly, “Oh, that’s you, isn’t it, Corte?”
    My hands started shaking and I turned around slowly to see Bill Carter, holding a twelve-gauge over-under shotgun pointed directly at my chest. His finger wasn’t outside the guard. Amanda was behind him, eyes wide.
    Breathing hard now. So hard my chest hurt.
    He lowered the scattergun.
    “You didn’t go to the clearing,” I whispered.
    “No. Seemed too far. And looks like you weren’t in any big hurry to come visit either.”
    True, I reflected.
    Amanda gazed at me with cautious but steady eyes. Definitely her father’s eyes. She still had around her shoulder her plush bear