Judgment at Alcatraz

slowly, she edged her gaze around the side of the trunk. She only had a second of viewing before more bullets gouged bark off the tree, pieces landing on her head. But it was enough. She saw the muzzle flash. The gunman was about a hundred yards away, downslope, partially concealed by a cluster of manzanitas.
She peeked around the wide trunk again, intentionally drawing fire. Eruptions of dirt marked the impacts in a line only inches away. She twisted to a kneeling position on the opposite side of the tree. She fired as the barrel leveled on the manzanitas where she’d seen the muzzle flashes.
The gunman fired back, but his aim was off, having expected she would be on the other side of the tree. He got off three shots before she connected on him. The small-caliber, high-velocity bullet ripped through the gunman’s shoulder, at the base of his neck.
She kept firing, aiming at different locations behind the waist-high shrubs, where she imagined the shooter might be. Ten shots fired, then twelve. Finally, with no more return fire, she stopped.
She scanned the likely hiding spots within two hundred yards of her location, pointing the M4 Carbine everywhere she looked. The gunman who’d been wounded by the improvised mine hadn’t moved. With her ears ringing from the gunfire, she couldn’t hear if he was moaning.
He might have bled out.
She continued to search for targets for a full minute, before concluding that it was probably safe. With her weapon still shouldered and pointing forward, she descended—first, to the manzanitas where the shooter had been. She approached from the side, giving the bushes a wide berth. As she cleared the dense foliage, the prone body of the gunman came into view. The top left of his chest was soaked with blood. Still keeping the barrel of her weapon aimed at him, she reached down and pressed against his neck—no pulse.
Next, she advanced toward the log where she last saw the injured man lying. She kept her vigil, the barrel pointing everywhere her gaze turned. But it was quiet, and nothing was moving.
As the man came into view, she saw he’d squirmed to a sitting position with his shoulders resting against the smooth wood of the log. He attempted to raise his rifle, one hand still pressed against his leg wound.
“Don’t do it,” she said. “Your partner is dead. Toss the gun to the side, or I’ll put a bullet through you, too.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he did as instructed, and she closed the gap. She stood over him, barrel inches away from his head.
“Are you armed?”
He shook his head.
“Open your jacket—slowly—and show me.”
With one hand, he spread the lightweight jacket aside. No holstered handgun or knife.
“Keep that hand up. The other can stay on your wound. Are there anymore?”
He tried to sit straighter, pain electrifying his body as the injured leg shifted ever so slightly.
“Just the three who are meeting the gunsmith Turner.”
“They’re no longer in business. Anyone else?”
He shook his head as he glared at her.
“You sure? Only the five of you?”
“That should have been enough. There was only supposed to be two of them.”
“What can I say? Bic has more brains than you cowboys gave him credit for.”
“You carrying a first aid kit?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Let’s see what it looks like. Move your hand.”
“I’m bleeding.”
“And you’ll keep on bleeding if we don’t dress that wound. Now move your hand.”
A nasty ragged gash, four-inches long, extended across the top of his thigh. Dark red blood flowed from the laceration.
Danya narrowed her eyes in concern. “Okay. Put pressure back on the wound.”
With a sigh, she placed her left hand into a cargo pocket in her trousers and removed a sterile compress, a packet of QuikClot® powder, and an elastic wrap of the type used for sprained joints. She always carried just enough first aid supplies to handle an emergency.
“This is all I have with me. There are more medical supplies with the mules.” She handed over the items. “Don’t apply it too tight and cut off the blood flow to your leg.”
She sized him up, keeping some separation, while he completed dressing his leg. He was pale, and perspiration dappled his face—signs that shock was setting in.
“What’s your name?” she said.
“Who’s asking?”
“Look, pal, you don’t have many options. This will be a lot easier if I know what to call you.”
“Gordon. My name is Gordon.”
She had already noticed that neither of these LAD soldiers were wearing packs, just a small cargo pouch hung from his belt. “Okay, Gordon. Who has the money?”
He stared back at Danya.
“I asked you a question.” She kicked his leg, eliciting a yelp.
“Okay. Take it easy. Karl has it. In his pack.”
“All of it?”
“Yeah, all of it.”
“Good boy.”
She backpedaled several steps and grabbed a straight and stout branch. It wouldn’t work as a crutch, but could be useful as a walking staff.
She tossed it to him. “Can you make it down the hill and to the middle of the meadow?”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” he said.
“Have it your way. You can stay here and try to make it out on your own, if you feel lucky. My bet is that you’ll bleed out before you cover two miles. Or you can cooperate. In which case, you might make it out alive. The choice is yours.”
His malicious glare softened just a bit, and he struggled to his feet, leaning against the log and supporting his weight on the one good leg. Danya picked up his weapon and slung it across her shoulder.
“Turn around. Hands on your head.”
He had to lean over the log to comply, while supporting his weight on the one leg. Danya pressed the steel barrel hard against his back, and with her free hand, patted him down. Clean.
“Okay. Let’s go.”
s
Danya didn’t bother to retrieve her gear. She could do that after she completed the job.
Slowed by her hobbling prisoner, it took twenty minutes to descend and cross the meadow to meet Bic and Eddie. They’d