Judgment at Alcatraz Dave Edlund (detective books to read TXT) 📖

campground. Around the shore, for a distance of about twenty feet, where the ground was reliably moist from the lake water, shrub willows created a thick hedge row. She steered off the dirt road and blazed a path well onto the finger of land. Tactically, it was a great location, as an adversary could only approach from one direction, the path she’d taken. Unless they planned an amphibious assault—possible, but unlikely. Besides, a motorboat would be heard hundreds of yards away. Even a rowboat could be heard at considerable distance—the distinctive clank and squeak of wood in the oarlocks carrying across the water.

She parked her truck sideways across the neck of land. A quick escape was not part of her plan. Then she completed a quick inventory of her arsenal—one MP5 with spare magazines, one SIG Sauer pistol, one combat axe, and one Condor Kukri machete. With an approving nod, she was ready to take on whoever came for her.

Since it was still early morning, and assuming it would take some time for word to reach Leonard, she decided to catch up on much needed sleep. Rather than remaining behind the wheel, where her silhouette would be visible from a distance, she opted to stretch out in the shade of the truck, on the far side from the road. Trusting her sixth sense to rouse her if danger was approaching, she placed the submachine gun just inside the truck door, easily accessed on a moment’s notice.

But she wouldn’t rest if unarmed, and she strapped the SIG to her thigh, secure in a tactical holster. The Kukri was nestled within a full-length wrap, high and at the center of her back. Preparations completed, she placed a rolled-up blanket on the ground as a pillow. She laid on the cool earth, wiggling her shoulder to push out a slight depression in the sandy soil. The tomahawk was at her fingertips. Laying on her side, she could view beneath the truck, toward the dirt road.

She closed her eyes and dozed off into a light sleep.

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Some hours later, Danya woke with a start, the alarm having signaled in her subconscious mind. Something was amiss. Searching forward, completely still, she listened intently for clues. Soon she heard an approaching vehicle, but it wasn’t in sight yet.

She rose to her knees and rammed the axe handle beneath her belt, at her back. Peering through the truck windows, she saw a dust cloud, and then an older pickup. Most of the body was pale blue, but the left front fender and hood were primer gray. The vehicle bounced along the bumpy road, bottoming out with a clang in the deeper depressions.

As it neared, the beater truck slowed, and then stopped. In contrast to the neglected appearance of the body, the engine purred whisper smooth. The window was rolled down, and the driver was facing her direction. She could hear him clearly.

“Think that’s the right truck?”

Another man in the passenger seat craned his head, trying to see the red pickup from a different angle.

“Maybe,” he said. “We should check it out to be sure.”

She noticed that the passenger remained inside the cab while the driver exited. As he approached, Danya stepped from behind her vehicle and into view.

“Good morning,” she said.

He stopped, returning her stare. Like the patrons in the diner where she’d eaten breakfast, he was also dressed in boots, with worn and faded blue jeans. His plaid shirt, cut in a classic western style, was untucked. Atop his head was a black cowboy hat. He seemed to notice her pistol, his gaze darting to the holster on her right thigh.

“We’re not lookin’ for no trouble,” he said.

“Neither am I.” Her arms hung at her side, leaving her fingertips to brush against the grip of her sidearm. “Sorry, but this spot is already taken. There’s bound to be more campsites farther down the road. Looks like a big lake to me. Plenty of room to have some space. If you know what I mean.”

The driver splayed his hands, palms up. “Sure thing, lady. We’ll be on our way.”

He turned back toward his rig and faced the other man, who was now standing beside hood. The driver nodded, almost imperceptibly.

Almost.

The driver dove to the ground as his partner raised a scoped rifle and snapped off a quick shot. But Danya’s pistol had already cleared her holster, and she’d taken several steps to the side, simultaneously firing three shots in rapid succession. The bullets all impacted the front fender, no doubt stopped by the engine block. But the rounds forced the rifleman down.

She continued her movement sideways, both to confuse the shooter and to flank him. He popped up, leveled the rifle across the hood, and fired. The SIG Sauer barked in return, but he was already behind cover. Even though she’d only had a glimpse of the weapon, she recognized it as a bolt-action hunting rifle—deadly at a distance if cradled in trained hands, but a supremely lousy choice for close encounters.

The driver pushed off the ground and was halfway to his knees when she said, “Stay on the ground! Hands where I can see ’em.”

He hesitated, holding his position.

“On the ground!”

This time, he complied and pressed the side of his face into the dirt.

She continued circling, pistol raised and tracking wherever her gaze pointed. It was almost certain the sporting rifle did not have a detachable magazine. Reloading would be slow. And she was counting. That’s two. Only one or two more shots before he has to reload.

The gunman rose again to fire, sweeping the muzzle as he tried to get sighted on his target. She had moved considerably toward the rear of the old truck. When he fired, the bullet smashed through the windshield. From the resulting hole, a spiderweb of cracks and fissures spread across the safety glass.

She returned fire, both bullets passing through the fractured windshield. With her ears ringing from the gunfire, she couldn’t hear if the rifle bolt had been cycled or