MatchUp by Lee Child

  only if you knew what you were looking for. Pritchard was behind the Malibu’s engine block, gun drawn. No eye contact was needed. Pritchard was doing his job and he expected everyone else to be doing theirs.

  Perry said, “We need to surround this asshole. That’s a double-barrel shotgun. He’s already wasted one round. That leaves one shot left against three people. I like those odds.”

  “The shotgun’s been modified,” Jeffrey said, because young guys in small towns hack up their guns the same way they hack up their cars. “That second round couldn’t hit a brick in a bucket, but we don’t know what else he’s got on him.”

  As if to illustrate the problem, a handgun was fired.

  The bullet snicked into the trunk of the oak, about four inches above Jeffrey’s head.

  Perry hugged the ground again.

  So did Jeffrey.

  The snow was so deep and so wet that he had trouble pushing himself back up. He sneaked a look at the black truck. Double still held the shotgun, but he also now had a handgun. Nine millimeter by the shape of it. The magazine hung way down like an extra set of balls. He’d modified the stack so that he could double the ammo.

  Perry had seen the extended magazine, too. “That ain’t good.”

  Jeffrey said, “And Paulson’s out there, too.”

  “Probably backing him up.”

  “Paulson’s not so easy with a gun. If he’s backing up Double, it’s from behind. Way behind.”

  “I’ll remember to watch my six,” Perry said. “You go up the hill, I’ll go to Double’s rear. Joe’s got the third corner of the triangle.”

  Those were good odds, because trying to sneak behind Double, maybe facing Paulson along the way, was clearly the more dangerous path.

  He told the kid, “Wrong way around,” and took off, heading away from the hill, parallel to Double and his truck. It wasn’t the plan Perry had favored, but Jeffrey trusted he would move quickly to get into position.

  Quietly, Jeffrey walked a wide circle around Double’s truck, trying to slip behind him. He kept an eye peeled for Paulson, but he had a gut feeling that Paulson would piss himself before he took a stand. Two against three was more like one against three, and Jeffrey liked the odds of the three who were highly trained law enforcement officers.

  Then again, maybe the playing field was evened out by the deep snow. His breath started to come in pants as he picked up his feet from thirty-inch drifts. He and Perry were around the same age. Jeffrey was probably in better shape, then again, he always assumed he was the guy in better shape. But Perry was probably more accustomed to moving in snow. Then again, Perry had said he was more accustomed to driving in snow too and look how that had ended.

  There were too many then agains in this mix, and if any one of them went wrong, it was going to be a fucking bloodbath.

  If they were lucky, they would get to their opposite ends of the triangle about the same time. Then it was just a matter of making Double listen to logic. Having three Glocks pointed at your head could make even the stupidest man see reason. The problem was, maybe Double was too smart to be stupid. The thug seemed to realize a move was being made. He turned off the lights on his truck and everything went black. Jeffrey felt his eyes squint in protest, but he kept them open, tracking Double as the man crouched down low, pulled the hood up over his head and somehow disappeared into the shadows.

  He felt his heart thumping inside his throat.

  Their bad situation had turned worse.

  His gun was frozen in his ice block of a hand. He couldn’t see Perry. He could barely make out the Malibu stuck in a snowdrift, let alone pick out Pritchard’s location.

  There was nothing to do but stick with the plan.

  He kept moving toward Double’s last known rear, making good time until he tripped over a fallen tree. He tried not to groan as he fell flat into the snow. Cold, sleety water went up his nose and mouth.

  Over by the Malibu, Pritchard called, “Hey, Double. Let’s talk about our options.”

  He was trying to locate Double, but their target wasn’t stupid enough to let him.

  Jeffrey closed his eyes and listened for the crunch of snow that indicated a man was walking toward him. All he heard was the soft pat of snow hitting snow, overlaid with the tinkling sound of water freezing in the falls.

  He pushed himself up.

  He flexed his hands, swapping his Glock back and forth, because he knew that if he had to pull the trigger, it would take functioning fingers.

  The snow gripped his legs like a child trying to play a game. The weight was enormous. His lungs were heaving by the time he forced himself into a clearing. He guessed he was maybe twenty feet to the rear of the black truck. The question now was, Were they hunting Double or was Double hunting them?

  A gunshot rang out.

  He dove behind a tree, realizing too late that the shot had come downrange. He spat a mouthful of snow onto the ground, wondering why in the hell he kept opening his mouth every time he fell into the snow.

  He listened for another shot, some indication there was gunplay. He didn’t think Pritchard had pulled the trigger. He was too cool under pressure. Perry might have, but then again, Double could’ve been doing the same thing they were trying to do, only he’d sneaked up behind the Malibu.

  The shot could’ve ended up in Pritchard’s head.

  He shook off the image.

  Snow flew out of his hair. It was coming down hard and steady. He flexed his hands again. When he stood up it felt like the cold was pushing him back down. Still, he trudged on, edging toward the rear of Double’s truck.

  Paulson yipped like a dog.

  He was behind the truck, holding on to the tailgate as he crouched down in the snow.

  Jeffrey’s cold hands had no problem pressing the muzzle of his Glock to Paulson’s head. The kid was so thin that he could feel the bumps in his skull.

  “Don’t move.”

  Paulson flinched, giving another yip. He tried to cover his head with his hands. There was a rattling sound. In the faint moonlight, Jeffrey could see that Paulson was handcuffed to the hinge of the tailgate.

  “Please, help me.”

  He put his hand over the kid’s mouth, because he’d almost screamed the words. He waited until Paulson nodded before taking his hand away. Paulson was in uniform, but his gun was gone. So was his baton and mace.

  “What happened?” he whispered.

  “He killed Nora.” Paulson’s voice cracked on the girl’s name. “I saw it on the security video, and I was going to arrest him, but he—”

  He could guess the rest.

  A guy like Paulson would need a tank to go up against Double, and even then, he would’ve bet against the beanpole.

  He still had the handcuff key that Pritchard had thrown at him. He gave it to Paulson and whispered, “Get back to your car. Radio for help. Not your chief, but the DEA, the GBI, the FBI, the fucking EPA—anybody you can get on the wire. Do you understand?”

  Paulson, wide-eyed, could only nod.

  He didn’t trust the terror in the young man’s eyes. “I swear to God, Paulson, if you leave us up here on this mountain to die, I’ll find you and put a bullet in your head. Do you understand?”

  Paulson nodded in earnest this time.

  His hands shook as he fumbled with the handcuff key.

  Jeffrey didn’t stick around to help him. Instead, he crept toward the cab of the truck. The wheels were the waffled semitrailer variety. The cab was high off the ground, almost to his waist. Double had left the door open. He swung around, Glock drawn, ready to pull the trigger on anybody inside the truck.

  Empty.

  Snow covered the driver’s seat.

  Double had left the keys in the ignition, which gave him a couple of options. He could turn the headlights back on, which meant he could see, but it would also signal that he was standing at the truck in case Double wanted to shoot him.

  Or he could jump into the truck and drive.
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  Option two seemed likely to yield the biggest surprise. Double wouldn’t be expecting to have his own truck used against him, and the big wheels would cut through the snow a hell of a lot easier than exhausted legs.

  He used the back of his sleeve to knock the fresh snow off the windshield. His sleeve got soaked in the process, but he was pretty sure that it wasn’t possible to get any colder than he already was. He moved the Glock to the front of his jeans and climbed into the truck. He put his hand on the key but didn’t turn it. He stared ahead at the dark expanse. Snow had already started to accumulate on the windshield again. He squinted at the Malibu. Had Pritchard seen him get into the truck? Was Perry out there somewhere tracking his movements?

  He rested his other hand on the knob to turn on the lights. He turned the key, pulled the knob, and the truck roared to life. The lights came on and he saw several different things at the same time that took about a second too late for his brain to figure out.

  Number one was that Antonio Childers had managed to drag his sorry ass and two broken legs into the path directly in front of the truck.

  Number two was that Pritchard was no longer behind the Malibu. He was no longer anywhere that could be seen.

  Number three was that Perry had managed somehow to sneak up on Double.

  The scene was almost like something out of a Wile E. Coyote cartoon. Perry, frozen in the headlights, was standing behind Double with the flashlight raised in the air, ready to bring down the butt on the thug’s head.

  Not just a flashlight.

  A police-issue Maglite.

  Twelve-inch aluminum shaft with four D-cell batteries and enough weight behind it to stop a horse.

  Perry didn’t know that Paulson was neutralized, and he wanted to take out Double without making a sound.

  Which Perry did.

  It was like somebody hit play on a paused movie. Perry’s raised hand got unstuck, and he smashed the flashlight down, and Double fell hard into the snow.

  “Christ.”

  He jumped and his hand went to his gun.

  But it was Pritchard who’d said the word. So much for Perry’s triangle. Pritchard had taken it upon himself to sneak up on the truck, too.

  “I think I’ll keep this kid,” Pritchard muttered. “Paulson?”

  “Scampered off like a giraffe with its tail between his legs.”

  “I thought that might be the case. I saw you give him the key to the cuffs.” Pritchard looked around the truck. “Any reason you don’t have the heat running?”

  He turned on the heater but got out of the truck. “I’ll go see if Paulson’s still around. That cruiser looked like it had snow tires.”

  Pritchard smiled at the monster wheels. “I think even I can get this thing down the mountain.”

  He ignored the “I” because he wasn’t about to get into a dick-measuring contest about who was going to drive.

  Perry had already lifted Double, throwing him onto his back like a sack of flour. If the kid wanted to show off, Jeffrey wasn’t going to stop him. He headed toward Antonio Childers. The hostage/fugitive hadn’t gotten the memo that the struggle was over and the good guys had won. Or maybe he’d realized that the good guys winning didn’t necessarily mean he’d get a happy ending. Even as Jeffrey approached, the guy was still pulling himself on his elbows, dragging his way toward the trees like he could make a getaway.

  Antonio saw Jeffrey and quickly gave up the struggle.

  “Please help me.”

  He glanced back over his shoulder. If Double was a sack of flour, Antonio was a sack of sheet metal. No way he was going to blow out his back for this murdering asshole. Besides, now that Antonio wasn’t a hostage anymore, he was again a fugitive. He could wait in the snow while Perry cuffed Double in the back of the pickup.

  “Bigger fish to fry,” he said, heading toward the road. “Stay here.”

  “Fucksakes,” Antonio said. “Where am I going to go?”

  Jeffrey chuckled at his own joke as he walked through the thick snow. Then he stopped chuckling because his adrenaline was ebbing and the cold was rushing back in. His shoes felt frozen to his feet. The legs of his jeans had turned into concrete. His shins ached. His thighs ached. His balls ached. Why in God’s name would somebody actually choose to live in a place where this kind of cold was a seasonal regularity?

  He ran his fingers through his wet hair.

  Tiny shards of ice came off in his hands.

  Paulson was behind the wheel of his cruiser. He reminded Jeffrey of a praying mantis as he leaned down and tried to crank the engine. The engine did not reward the effort. They were going to have to abandon the cruiser with the Malibu if there was any hope of making it back to what passed for civilization.

  He knocked on the window and made a rolling motion with his hand.

  Paulson leaned down and started pumping the crank. The window squeaked against the frozen rubber gasket. Snow fell into the car.

  “I got the GBI on the horn. They said to stay put, but I figger I should go down the mountain, bring them back up here so they know how to find you.”

  “I think we’re better off if we all go down in Double’s truck.”

  “There’s an injured man?” Paulson’s voice went up a few octaves. “I think we’ll need air rescue.”

  He looked up at the sky, which was basically like looking into the business end of a saltshaker. Suddenly, Paulson wanted to be the hero.

  Or did he?

  Jeffrey’s eyes slid over the backseat of the cruiser and he spotted two black duffel bags bulging with bricks of cocaine, a cardboard box filled with handguns, and two large stacks of cash in ClingWrap.

  He looked back at Paulson.

  Paulson had his gun pointed at Jeffrey’s chest.

  “Back up.”

  He sighed.

  His gut had told him a long time ago that this idiot was going to be a problem. “You could’ve just said that you confiscated everything from Double to take back into evidence.”

  “Shit,” Paulson mumbled, realizing his mistake. “Too late now.”

  Jeffrey thought of his Glock tucked snuggly down the front of his jeans.

  Paulson thought of it, too, reaching over and grabbing the gun. The muzzle was so cold that it took some of the skin with it.

  “What now?” he asked. “I mean past stealing Double’s guns and drugs and money?”

  Paulson snickered. “Mister, do you think Double’s smart enough to set up a Yankee as the contact for his supply?”

  He wondered if he was going to be killed by a guy who called him “mister.”

  “I didn’t kill Nora,” Paulson said.

  “I know you didn’t.”

  “That guy, Antonio, he’s the one you want for murder.” Paulson waved his gun. “But don’t go thinking I don’t know how to get rid of somebody who gets in my way.”

  He saw that his earlier guess about what went down in the alleyway was wrong.

  New version of what happened.

  Paulson had been in the parking lot that morning, too. It made sense because he’d arrived on the scene so quickly, playing Deputy Fife until Chief DuPree showed up. Probably, Paulson was waiting in his blue truck so he could do the meet with Antonio, get the coke and guns, then be on his merry way. Only Antonio had needed some coffee and his car had been jacked while he was in the Linderhof. Paulson had either seen the whole thing or rolled up just as Antonio realized that his car was gone.

  “Nora went into the alley,” he said. “You picked up Antonio in the parking lot and followed. Antonio shot her and then what?”

  “This ain’t no Batman movie, mister. I don’t got to explain myself.”