“We’re going to get close enough to ID a plate and that’s it,” Morwood said.

“Right.”

They crept out from behind the adobe wall. The town was sunken in darkness, with a bright glow from the headlights at the opposite end. Keeping adobe walls between them and the lights, they worked their way closer.

About halfway through town, as they came around the wall of a ruined building, two additional lights suddenly switched on, pinning them in the glare. They must have been hidden, awaiting just such an intrusion: their beams seemed to come out of nowhere. Morwood heard a simultaneous racking of weapons.

A voice said: “Easy now, keep your hands visible. We’ve got three weapons on you, so don’t do anything stupid.”

Morwood froze. He could see the tiny red dots of laser sights playing on their chests.

“Keep your hands well away from those guns, Sheriff.”

“Yes, sir,” said Watts.

Now a tall man strolled out of the darkness, halfway between the two lights. He wore a duster and cowboy hat and carried a rifle and sidearm. When he reached the middle of the street, between the newcomers and the activity at the far end of town, he stopped. Morwood stared at him. Something about the man was familiar, although the voice was not. Two other figures partially emerged from the shadows on either side, rifles aimed, flashlights in hand. When one of the lights briefly flickered across the first man’s face, Morwood suddenly realized who it was.

The man wearing the duster was the MP in the hospital video.

“All right now, gentlemen,” the man said in a laconic drawl. “Sheriff, you first. Just ease out those two six-guns from their holsters, slow as molasses, just two fingers on each. Hold them out arms-length and let them fall to the ground. You understand me, pardner?”

“Yes, sir.”

With just thumb and forefinger, moving with great slowness, Watts crossed his left arm over the right, plucked the two revolvers from their holsters, and held them out, dangling.

“Now drop them.”

“Drop and roll left,” Watts murmured to Morwood out of the corner of his mouth.

Morwood tensed.

“I said drop them, pardner.”

Watts began to release the guns, but then—with a lightning-fast flick of both wrists—caught them and brought them back up, firing in two directions simultaneously, elbows tucked in. He struck both men on either side, sending them spinning into the dirt. Watts broke left and rolled, even as the man in the duster raised his rifle to fire. Morwood followed the sheriff, pulling his Glock as he rolled and fired at the man still standing.

But Morwood missed, and the man in the duster got off a shot that hit him in the right hand. It was like being clobbered with a bat, his gun spinning away. Dazed, in the dust, Morwood could hear more shots and shouting, and he felt himself grabbed and violently dragged into a small ruin. There was more shooting and the dull thud of rounds striking the adobe walls.

Watts crouched down over him, holding Morwood’s gun.

“Damned good shooting,” Morwood managed to say.

“You’re hit,” said Watts.

“Yeah.”

Watts was already tearing a strip of cloth from his shirt, which he used to bind up Morwood’s hand. By now the FBI agent’s head was clearing and the shock of the injury was turning into pain. Which, in its own way, was good. “Give me that gun. I can still shoot with my left hand,” he said.

“Damn glad of that,” said Watts.

“I just can’t hit anything,” Morwood said. There was an eruption of more gunfire, bullets whining overhead or smacking into the wall. Judging from the places where the rounds were hitting, they were pinned down in cross fire. Then came a sudden, concentrated sound of shots, not directed at them—followed by the hissing of tires and the sound of a vehicle horn, quickly silenced: the men had found their vehicle and neutralized it.

“How many?” Morwood asked.

“I’d guess half a dozen. Not counting the two guys I shot.”

Morwood grunted.

“I’ve got twenty-four rounds of ammo in my belt plus six in the cylinders,” said Watts. “You?”

“Fifteen.” Morwood took a deep breath, keeping his mind off the pain. “We’ve got to scope out their cover, locations, and fields of fire. That means putting our heads up.”

“Right.”

“Some of them have rifles,” Morwood said.

“Yeah. That’s going to be tough.”

Another fusillade of rounds slammed into the walls around them.

“Here’s what we do,” said Morwood. “We both rise and engage in suppressing fire just long enough to see what’s what. Fast, less than a second.”

“Understood.”

“On three.” Morwood counted, and they popped up, firing furiously, then dropped back down. Another monster fusillade followed in response.

“Don’t know about you,” Watts said, “but what I saw is, they’ve got good cover all around, clear fields of fire, we’re surrounded, and they’re advancing.”

Morwood grunted again.

“I’d say we’re fucked,” Watts said.

Morwood closed his eyes, mastered the pain as best he could, then reopened them. “I was thinking the same thing.” He took a deep breath, let it out. He had to focus.