His rifle. Where was his rifle? He couldn't leave it here. For one thing, that damn expensive thermal scope was mounted on it. For another, his fingerprints were all over it. If it had slid down the rocks toward the stream, he wouldn't be able to retrieve it and someone else would have to come back for it, winch right now meant they'd have to leave one firing position unmanned, and he didn't want to do that.
Something about the firing positions bothered him, but he couldn't think what it was. It would come to him. though. Forget about it for now - concentrate on finding the rifle.
Using his left hand, he felt around on the ground, but came up empty. He'd have to use the flashlight. He didn't like doing that, didn't want to give away his position to the fucker who'd shot him... okay, the fucker already knew his position, otherwise how could he have shot him? Big question: How had he known?
Teague stopped searching for the rifle to concentrate on this question, because it seemed vitally important that he think it through. He hadn't used a flashlight to move into position, so did the shooter have night-vision goggles? The devices weren't that hard to come by, but what were the odds that somebody in Trail Stop, of all places, would have them? Creed, maybe; he could see Creed having all kinds of shit. But Creed hadn't shot him; Creed had been hustling some woman to cover -
Ah, fuck. The answer bloomed in his mind. That hadn't been Creed leaving the house with the woman. Creed had already gone out the back and moved into position to provide cover for the other two. When league had pulled the trigger, his muzzle flash had given away his position and Creed had fired. Simple as that. No night-vision device needed.
Creed could still be out there, waiting for someone to show himself.
But he'd be on the other side of the stream, because crossing it in this area was impossible. The slope down to the river was steep, so the water roared down, strong enough to sweep even the strongest man off his feet and slam him into the boulders that dotted the streambed. Stream was really a misnomer in this case, because that brought to mind a slow, peaceful flow of water, which this definitely wasn't. It was like a mini-river - and a bad one. Plus it was as cold as a well-digger's ass, because it was fed by snowmelt from the mountains.
Teague assessed the situation. He was behind solid cover, surrounded by rocks, his head lower than the boulder in front of him. He had to risk turning on the flashlight so he could locate the rifle. He could minimize the risk, though, by covering most of the lens.
Laboriously, using his left hand, he pulled the flashlight from its loop on his belt and carefully positioned his fingers over the lens, parting two of them to allow a very thin sliver of light to pass. He had to release pressure on his wound then, using his right hand to press the button on the cylinder, but he didn't feel any fresh blood flowing, so he didn't bother reapplying pressure.
The amount of light was slight, barely enough to make a difference, but it made him feel better to be able to see something and reassure himself that his eyes were still functioning. The first thing he noticed was the amount of red around him: streaks of it running down the boulder in front of him, on the smaller rock he sat on, spattered on moss and fallen leaves. His clothes were wet and sticky with blood. He'd left a shitload of DNA evidence here, but he could hardly scoop it up and put it back into his body.
This raised the stakes. He couldn't let the smallest suspicion fall on him now, or he was screwed. He'd have to clear out for a while, afterward, and that pissed him off.
That fucking Creed. He'd come out ahead in their first encounter, but damned if he'd do it again.
The frail light finally hit a glint of metal, and Teague played it across the site just long enough to verify he'd located his rifle; then he turned off the light. When he'd been knocked back, the rifle had been sent up and back a few feet, coming to lie wedged in the rocks above him. To teach it, he'd have to leave his protected position, but it wasn't as if he had a choice. He couldn't move very fast, either. He thought about it a minute, then figured, what the hell, and went for it.
Overall, moving ranked right up there with getting hit in the head with a hammer. Felt a lot like it, too. Pain exploded in his head; he was puking before he even got his hand on the rifle, but he forced himself to keep going because waiting a few more minutes wasn't going to make it get any better. As soon as his hand was on the rifle stock, he collapsed against the rocks, gasping.
No shotgun boomed at him. but right then being put out of his misery sounded like a good idea, so he didn't know whether to feel relieved or sorry.
After a few minutes, he straightened. It was time to get off this pile of rocks, regardless of what it cost him. Pushing himself to his feet, he swayed unsteadily; then he took a step. The pain wasn't quite as bad as when he'd lunged for the rifle, but it still wasn't a picnic.
He could do this, though. And before this little dance was over, he'd pay Creed back - big-time.
Chapter 21
When Teague was near the road, he pulled the radio off his belt and keyed it. "Falcon, this is Hawk." Falcon was Billy. He'd assigned bird-of-prey designators for no reason other than that was what had first come to mind. He was Hawk, Billy was Falcon, Troy was Eagle, and Blake was Owl. Come to think of it, he hoped Blake wasn't insulted by being Owl, because owls had the best eyesight - shit, he was worse off than he'd thought if he was worrying about this stuff.
"Go ahead, Hawk."
"Shotgun blasted the rock right in front of me, and I'm cut to hell and back. I could use some help here. Meet me at the bridge." Billy was the closest, and the one it was safest to pull in. The two farthest positions were now the most critical, because they overlooked the most likely escape route. Teague had no doubt someone, maybe several someones, would get around to trying to outflank them. Maybe not tonight, but soon.