The BARN SHOOTOUT - An Excerpt from A REAL PIECE OF WORK

We emerged from the woods onto a stark white landscape where the only color was the bleached gray of the barn. It sat at the top of a long rise. As we staggered up the hill toward it, I looked behind me. A few hundred yards away, three trucks stopped on the edge of Brush Hill Road. Somebody had consulted a map and determined where we’d come out. These were not amateurs. Shay was shaking. I put an arm around her and helped her through the deep snow.

Inside the barn, it was dim but not dark. Light from chinks between the boards striped the dirt floor. There was a ladder up to the hayloft. I led Shay to it.

“Up,” I said.

She went. At the top I made her hide behind some thick hay bales. I reloaded the revolver.

“Ever fired one of these?”

“Yes.”

I didn’t ask, just handed it to her.

“Kicks quite a bit. Make sure you grip it tight. Anybody comes up here, you plug ’em.”

“Dakota, who are those men?”

“Not sure,” I said, “but it’s got something to do with those paintings you forged.”

I was about to go get into position when I noticed a single tear rolling down her cheek. A feeling of protectiveness swelled up inside me, and at that moment I knew Shay was the special someone I’d been searching for. I’d defend her to my last breath.

“Hey”—I cupped her face—“where’s my little hatchet girl? You’re a fighter, Shay. Why do you think I’m with you?”

She sniffed. “For my hair?”

“Yeah, you got me.”

“Kiss me, Dakota. For luck.”

I did, finishing by running my fingers through her hair. That part was for me; it’s good luck to run your hands through the hair of a redhead. Shay wrapped herself in my jacket and clutched the pistol.

“Ready.”

“Good girl.”

I crawled over to the corner facing the road and found a spot where the slats were broken out. I flipped the case open, put in earplugs and took out the rifle. I was scared, but with the smooth stainless rifle in my hands now, not as much. Worming on my stomach up to the opening, I settled into a prone shooting position, clicked the bipod into place and peered through the scope.

There were seven of them milling around the trucks 300 yards away, each carrying a pump shotgun. I gulped down some air. If I had any talent for self-deception, now was a good time to break it out. The sun sat low in the sky, faintly glowing through the gray overcast. Another hour of daylight, maybe. And like every other day this winter, it was on the verge of snowing. My phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number.

“Is that your phone?” Shay said.

I took out an earplug, peered through the scope and picked up. It was the Voice.

“You are in quite a predicament, Mr. Stevens.”

“Yeah? You should have seen our bobsled run.”

He had to be out there. I scanned the vehicles for movement, but the windows were dark.

“You are trapped and well outnumbered,” he said.

“Not as outnumbered as you think.” I chambered a round, flicked the safety off. “Hurry up, you’re wasting my minutes.”

“I told you to stay away. I gave you a way out and you refused. A foolish choice.”

“Why are you doing this? Because of a forgery?”

“Goodbye, Mr. Stevens,” the Voice said, and hung up.

I shut off the phone and scanned the men. They were restless.

“Was that them?” Shay said.

“Shay, I have to focus now. Whatever happens, just stay down.”

I put the earplug back in and checked my gun a final time. Since the targets were only 300 yards away, and the rifle fired flat within this range, I left the elevation screw alone. The windage was negligible. With the crosshairs settled on the pack, I waited.

It wasn’t long before they headed toward the barn. My brain reeled. Okay, there were seven guys out there with guns and bad haircuts prepared to kill us. Correction, nine guys—two more wobbled out of the woods. The taller one wore my snowshoes, which rankled me. The second guy looked like the one I’d shot up on the hill. He wasn’t moving quite a fast, I noticed, but it was him. They were wearing bulletproof vests.

Nine guys with shotguns and body armor. Not good. But I had a few advantages, like the high ground, decent cover and a rifle firing 150-grain bullets traveling at 2900 ft/sec, which basically nullified their vests. And they were overconfident, attacking the barn head-on. They kept coming, Gunter and Hans in front. When they fanned out twenty feet apart, I knew they weren’t kidding. I tried to take a deep breath, but couldn’t. I hated the idea of killing anybody, but if even one of them escaped my line of sight, they would flank us. I’d have to shoot fast.