54

HUNKERED DOWN AGAINST the wall, Morwood struggled to forget about the pain. The cloth wrapped around his hand was already soaked with blood.

Watts had been keeping the shooters at bay by shifting back and forth behind the wall and popping up at unpredictable intervals to fire a round. The idea was to keep them behind cover, making it difficult for them to advance. But the strategy could last only so long, and meanwhile it was depleting their ammo.

There came a lull in the firing, and then a voice called out. “Sheriff ?”

Morwood was startled. That was a voice he recognized: Fountain. He could see the shock in Watts’s face.

“Sheriff ? It’s Charles Fountain.”

“I know who it is,” said Watts. “And you’re a goddamned lying son of a bitch.”

“It would be foolish to deny such an obvious statement,” said Fountain. “But more to the point: You’re in a heap of trouble. Maybe I can help you get out of it.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’d hate to have to kill you, Homer. Let’s talk.”

Watts was about to reply, but Morwood touched his arm and said, in a low voice: “Keep him talking.”

After a hesitation, Watts nodded. He turned and yelled, “So talk.”

“You don’t have to die. We can work something out.”

“Like what?”

“A share in the spoils. We could use a county sheriff on our payroll.”

“Spoils? You mean like the Victorio Peak treasure?”

At this Fountain chuckled. “No need to play games with me, Sheriff. We don’t bother with fairy-tale treasures. We go for the real stuff. And I mean real.”

“Like what? Something up here?”

“Oh yes, something here. Something of tremendous value—our research is crystal clear on that. Now: Would you like to join us?”

“What about my partner?”

“We could use an FBI agent as well.”

Morwood doubted this. They might think they could turn a county sheriff, but not an FBI agent. They were going to kill him, of course, as soon as they could. And likely Watts, too.

“So what’s in it for me?” Watts asked.

“A lot more than your crappy county salary.”

“What do I have to do?”

“Toss your guns over the wall and come out of there with your hands up. We’ll treat you real nice. We’ll find what we’re looking for very soon. You’ll get your fair share, I promise.”

Your fair share of a bullet between the eyes, thought Morwood. He and Watts exchanged glances, which told him Watts wasn’t taken in, either.

“What do you say?” Fountain pressed.

“Tell me more about this thing you hope to find,” Watts asked.

“Enough talk. I’ll give you sixty seconds to make up your mind to join us—or you’re dead. Starting now.”

Watts leaned in to Morwood. “You know they’re going to kill us,” he said.

Morwood nodded.

“Thirty seconds!”

“My only thought is we rush them and take as many of the bastards out as we can,” Morwood said.

“You mean like Butch Cassidy?”

“Ten seconds!”

Watts swore under his breath, popped up, and fired in the direction of the voice. He was back down just before the guns roared all around them.

“You lost your chance, Watts!” called Fountain. “You and your family always were a bunch of self-satisfied prigs! Hear those crows? They’re going to be pecking out your eyes like maraschino cherries.”

Morwood looked at Watts. “What about it? If we rush Fountain together, we’ll get him, at least.”

Watts shook his head. “Let me give this a think.”

55

THE HELICOPTER THUDDED through the night. They were flying south: Nora could see the glowing thread of towns along the Rio Grande, a wandering ribbon of light in the darkness of the desert. They passed to the east of what Nora assumed was Socorro and headed toward the vast well of blackness that made up the White Sands Missile Range. Woodbridge was the pilot, and the general sat next to her in the copilot’s seat, while the three of them were jammed together with three armed soldiers in canvas jump seats behind.

Nora glanced over at Skip. He returned her gaze, his eyes filled with apprehension. They had broken his nose, and blood was crusting all over it and down his shirt. Corrie, on the other hand, kept her expression carefully neutral. The soldiers were alert. It was clear from their shining, eager faces that they were anticipating a big payday. And Lieutenant Woodbridge, piloting the chopper, was chilling in her efficiency and competence.

The general, Nora thought, had chosen his people well. A small, elite group, handpicked for a very secret, very unusual assignment.

Leaving the Rio Grande behind, the chopper followed the backbone of the Oscura mountains. As it came over their crest, she could see an illuminated landing zone on the desert floor. The helicopter circled and came in to land on an asphalt pad near two heavy, canvas-covered trucks. A single crew member stood on the pad, gesturing the chopper in. A moment later they had settled, the rotors thudding down. The general got out and the soldiers followed, yanking the three by their cuffs and marching them out beyond the rotor wash.