“Don’t move again,” Travis growled.

“Okay, fine,” I said, playing for time. “Just take your finger off the trigger, okay?”

“No. I asked you some questions, boy. If you want to leave this place alive, you better start answering them.”

“Okay, I will, I’ll answer all your questions. All I ask is you take your finger off the trigger. Just so you don’t shoot me by accident.”

I was scared at this point, and didn’t have to fake the tremor of fear in my voice. Travis glared a moment longer, then eased his finger off the trigger, keeping his fingertip poised just above it. “There, happy now?”

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. Now talk.”

I took a deep breath. “When I left San Antonio, I had two pairs of boots,” I said. “One of them wore out. This is my second pair. That’s why they look so new.”

Travis seemed to consider this. He made a small motion with the gun. “What about your skin?”

“I had a hat, but I lost it a couple of days ago. There are a couple of bottles of SPF 70 in my backpack, the spray-on stuff. It only takes a little bit once or twice a day. I put it on my face and hands. My clothes protect the rest.”

It was true I had the sunblock, but I had only used a little of it. The part about the hat was a lie, but there was no way for him to verify that. My clothes did indeed cover most of my exposed skin, being that my shirt was long-sleeved.

I waited for Travis to say something, but he remained silent. His expression was stoic, but I thought I detected a hint of uncertainty in his posture. “As for my beard,” I went on, “I hardly ever have to shave. When it starts to grow out, I smear it with olive oil and shear it off with a straight razor. Doesn’t require water, just a cloth to wipe the razor on.”

“And I suppose if I search your backpack I’ll find a bottle of olive oil and a straight razor?” Travis asked.

“You will.” It was true. I carried the oil as part of my fire-starting kit, and the straight razor had been a gift from Blake when I turned fourteen. I kept it for sentimental reasons.

Travis’ expression softened, growing regretful. He lowered the .45 and took a few steps back until the kitchen table was between us. “Okay. Sounds plausible enough. If you would be so kind as to empty your backpack.”

I almost did, then remembered the two grenades and the radio within and kicked myself for bringing them along. Should have left them behind, idiot. What the hell did you think you would need them for?

If Travis searched my bag, the game was up. The grenades could be explained away, but not the radio. I lowered my hands. “What the hell for?”

“So I can verify you’re telling the truth.”

“Fuck you, cop.” I said, growing angry. “You ain’t searching my shit.”

His eyes narrowed, his face darkening in anger. “What’s wrong, kid? Got something to hide?”

“Me? What about you, motherfucker? Why are we doing this bullshit in here and not out there?” I pointed out the window at the courtyard in the center of the compound. Something crossed Travis’ face, just a flicker, but it was all the confirmation I needed.

“What’s the matter, don’t want those people out there knowing what you’re doing in here?” I started backing toward the doorway. “Why do I get the feeling they wouldn’t approve of you shaking me down for no good reason?”

Travis squared off with me, but kept the gun at his side. “Stop where you are, kid. Don’t take another step.”

“You know what,” I said, affecting a tone of indignation, “I already answered your questions. I’m done explaining myself to you. It’s time for me to go. You want to stop me? Shoot me.” And with that, I turned my back and began walking toward the exit.

“Stop!” Travis shouted. I ignored him and kept walking, not hurrying my pace. The kind of thing a man would do when he felt he had done nothing wrong. As the light through the doorway grew brighter, I felt a burning, itching sensation between my shoulder blades. I wondered what it would feel like if a .45 hollow point mushroomed against my spine before blowing my heart out through my sternum. Would there be pain, or would there just be an impact, a moment of breathlessness, and then darkness?

Luckily, I didn’t have to find out. The doorway came and went and there was no thunder of large-caliber death along the way. I stomped angrily toward the main gate, head down, stride determined. Behind me, I heard Travis scramble after me.

“I told you to stop!”

“I told you to go fuck yourself.”

“Jerry, don’t let him out of the gate.”

The guard who had been so kind to me earlier obeyed immediately and aimed his rifle at my chest. I stopped. “What the fuck, Jerry?”

“Just doin’ my job, kid.”

Footsteps crunched behind me, then stopped. “Listen,” Travis said. “Just calm down, okay? There’s no need for this to go any further. Just let me search your pack. If you’re telling the truth, this whole thing will be over with and you’ll be free to go.”

I looked around and saw people begin to emerge from campers and stand up from seats in the shade. They wandered closer, eyes wide, no doubt wondering what all the excitement was about. Slowly, I turned and faced Travis, once again forced to squint against the sun’s glare. Shading my eyes with my right hand, I could see his pistol was holstered, but his fingers dangled close to the grip, the retaining strap unbuttoned.

Slimy son of a bitch.

“This is the last time I’m going to tell you, kid,” he said. “Drop the bag.”

I shook my head. “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen.”

My right ear didn’t itch, but I reached up with my left hand and scratched it anyway.

TWENTY-NINE

I expected Mike to shoot Travis first.

What I failed to consider was how the situation looked from his perspective, staring through the Leupold scope mounted to his M1A rifle over a hundred yards away. As overwatch, his priority would be to eliminate the most egregious threat first—Jerry, in this case.

At that range, the impact came barely a fraction of a second before the report. The 7.62mm projectile, traveling at over 2500 feet per second, hit its target with a sharp metallic THWACK.

I had a scant moment to think, Thwack?

There should have been a meaty WHAP, followed by a gurgling scream, the sound of a body collapsing, and limbs thrashing in the dirt. Instead, there was a startled cry from Jerry and the sound of a large piece of metal being dropped.

Things happened quickly after that.

In the lightning rapidity of thought, I realized Mike had directed his fire at Jerry first, but whether or not he had killed him, I had no idea. Something told me he had not, but I doubted Mike would have left him in any condition to be a threat to me either. I did not dare look over my shoulder to find out, however, because I was too busy charging headlong at Travis.

One of the many lessons my father taught me about unarmed combat is the Twenty-One Foot Rule. It goes like this: If a man is standing twenty-one feet away from you, and you have a holstered sidearm, in most cases, the attacker will be able to reach you before you can draw your weapon. I did not believe my father when he first told me this, so we did an experiment. He had me wear a holstered training pistol, took up a rubber knife, backed off exactly twenty-one feet, and told me to try to draw my weapon and aim it at him before he could get his hands on me.

After the sixth time he put the tip of the little rubber knife to my throat before I could clear my pistol, I finally believed him.

Travis had a bit of an advantage: the retaining strap that normally kept his pistol from bouncing out of its holster was not buttoned down. However, when the report reached his ears—shockingly loud in the quiet of the burned-out barrens—he whipped his head in the direction of the shot.