of the air moving toward the fire, creating a vortex that pulled the sleeting snow along the ground and back up into the flames before disappearing into the conflagration. I glanced toward the lodge windows, but it was only cursory; with the DOC van missing, it was obvious where they—or, more important, Raynaud Shade—had gone.
I placed a hand on McGroder’s shoulder, and he stilled. Some of the air went out of him as I pulled him over: double-ought buck, his thigh and the oblique muscles torn to shreds. His eyes didn’t focus, and his lips hung open, but he was breathing. “Michael?”
He gargled, and his throat pulled and constricted as the blood drained from the side of his mouth. His face contorted, and it took a moment for me to realize that he was trying to speak.
“Michael? ”
With the surging noise of the fire and the continuing wind, I bent lower to hear his voice.
“Where—do . . .” He coughed, and more of the coagulated blood pushed out of his mouth. “Oh, hell . . .”
“Lie still and stop talking.” I had to get him inside. With the lack of blood pressure and the cold, he would soon go into shock if he hadn’t already; I had to get him stabilized. I glanced at the Basquo, who had approached the burning vehicle, braving the blown-out heat of the fire to check for survivors. “Sancho! ”
McGroder’s eyes wandered but then settled on me. “Who?”
“Walt Longmire, the sheriff. Remember?” It was textbook shock from blood loss. “Sancho!”
A moment later, he was beside me. “They’re all dead.”
McGroder’s eyes remained unfocused, and the pupils began clicking back and forth like a metronome. He jolted at the statement. “Oh, God . . .”
“Help me with him.” We lifted the FBI agent as carefully as we could, with me taking his shoulders and Santiago his legs. I butted the glass door open with my back and we laid McGroder on the bar to our left. I unzipped his jacket and pulled aside his shirt and thermal. The wound was gaping, but it didn’t look as if it’d gotten any of his organs, so we were just battling blood loss.
There was a stack of bar towels under the counter, and I packed them into the wound in an attempt to stanch the bleeding, hepatitis C be damned. The Basquo returned from the back with a pile of wool army surplus blankets, folding one to place under the agent’s head and then covering him with another three.
Sancho tapped numbers into his cell phone then snapped it shut in disgust and grabbed McGroder’s satellite phone from the floor, where it had fallen from the table. The weather conditions must have screwed up the cell service. I lowered my face to the wounded man. “Michael, can you hear me?”
I supported the side of his head with my hand.
He swallowed. “Procedure perfect.”
“I’m sure.”
“Don’t know what happened.”
I nodded. “They took our van?”
“Killed Benton and the other marshal, Jon Mooney, right off, shot me before I could even get my . . . Took my sidearm.”
I nodded. “Was it Shade alone?”
“Yes.” He swallowed. “He got Benton and Moody in your DOC van. I heard the report and ran out, but he was already standing there and he shot me with the marshal’s shotgun. He took my Sig, went inside, and got the keys from the table.” He tried to swallow again. “Can I have something to drink?”
“Can do, buddy. The EMTs are on the way.” I leaned in closer—his eyes were clearing a little, and the focus was returning. “When did your other vehicle show?”
“Just as he was taking off in your van. He slammed into them and then unloaded on the driver, then the passenger—Pfaff was in there.” He sighed a rattling gasp. “Set the whole thing on fire with the pumps . . .”
Saizarbitoria appeared on the other side of the wounded man with the satellite phone still in his hands. “Need to talk to you, boss.”
I glanced back at McGroder. “You’re going to be okay, just rest easy and we’ll get you
I placed a hand on McGroder’s shoulder, and he stilled. Some of the air went out of him as I pulled him over: double-ought buck, his thigh and the oblique muscles torn to shreds. His eyes didn’t focus, and his lips hung open, but he was breathing. “Michael?”
He gargled, and his throat pulled and constricted as the blood drained from the side of his mouth. His face contorted, and it took a moment for me to realize that he was trying to speak.
“Michael? ”
With the surging noise of the fire and the continuing wind, I bent lower to hear his voice.
“Where—do . . .” He coughed, and more of the coagulated blood pushed out of his mouth. “Oh, hell . . .”
“Lie still and stop talking.” I had to get him inside. With the lack of blood pressure and the cold, he would soon go into shock if he hadn’t already; I had to get him stabilized. I glanced at the Basquo, who had approached the burning vehicle, braving the blown-out heat of the fire to check for survivors. “Sancho! ”
McGroder’s eyes wandered but then settled on me. “Who?”
“Walt Longmire, the sheriff. Remember?” It was textbook shock from blood loss. “Sancho!”
A moment later, he was beside me. “They’re all dead.”
McGroder’s eyes remained unfocused, and the pupils began clicking back and forth like a metronome. He jolted at the statement. “Oh, God . . .”
“Help me with him.” We lifted the FBI agent as carefully as we could, with me taking his shoulders and Santiago his legs. I butted the glass door open with my back and we laid McGroder on the bar to our left. I unzipped his jacket and pulled aside his shirt and thermal. The wound was gaping, but it didn’t look as if it’d gotten any of his organs, so we were just battling blood loss.
There was a stack of bar towels under the counter, and I packed them into the wound in an attempt to stanch the bleeding, hepatitis C be damned. The Basquo returned from the back with a pile of wool army surplus blankets, folding one to place under the agent’s head and then covering him with another three.
Sancho tapped numbers into his cell phone then snapped it shut in disgust and grabbed McGroder’s satellite phone from the floor, where it had fallen from the table. The weather conditions must have screwed up the cell service. I lowered my face to the wounded man. “Michael, can you hear me?”
I supported the side of his head with my hand.
He swallowed. “Procedure perfect.”
“I’m sure.”
“Don’t know what happened.”
I nodded. “They took our van?”
“Killed Benton and the other marshal, Jon Mooney, right off, shot me before I could even get my . . . Took my sidearm.”
I nodded. “Was it Shade alone?”
“Yes.” He swallowed. “He got Benton and Moody in your DOC van. I heard the report and ran out, but he was already standing there and he shot me with the marshal’s shotgun. He took my Sig, went inside, and got the keys from the table.” He tried to swallow again. “Can I have something to drink?”
“Can do, buddy. The EMTs are on the way.” I leaned in closer—his eyes were clearing a little, and the focus was returning. “When did your other vehicle show?”
“Just as he was taking off in your van. He slammed into them and then unloaded on the driver, then the passenger—Pfaff was in there.” He sighed a rattling gasp. “Set the whole thing on fire with the pumps . . .”
Saizarbitoria appeared on the other side of the wounded man with the satellite phone still in his hands. “Need to talk to you, boss.”
I glanced back at McGroder. “You’re going to be okay, just rest easy and we’ll get you
Similar Books
