Chapter 2 - The Smoke and the Split
The heavy oak door didn't just open; it splintered inward, iron hinges groaning as they ripped free of the dry adobe frame. A thick cloud of dust billowed into the dark office, catching the moonlight and turning it into a hazy fog.
"Clear the room!" a harsh voice barked from the threshold.
Cole didn't wait for them to adjust to the gloom. Standing pressed flat against the interior wall beside the bookshelf, he fired low, aiming not to kill but to shatter the heavy kerosene lamp hanging near the door. The bullet struck the brass font, sending a burst of hot, blinding flame cascading across the wooden floorboards. Shouts of surprise and a curse erupted from the doorway as the lead man stumbled backward over the splintered timber.
"Tomas! Out the back window, now!" Cole shouted over the roar of the spreading fire.
The old clerk didn't hesitate. Grabbing his leather satchel packed with the incriminating ledgers, Tomas scrambled toward the narrow rear casement, pushing the wooden shutters open with a crash.
A shot cracked from the darkness outside, the bullet burying itself deep into the adobe wall an inch from Tomas’s ear, showering him in stinging lime dust.
"They're covering the alley!" Tomas gasped, dropping back to the floor.
Cole vaulted across the room, keeping low, and fired twice through the open back window into the shadow of the horse corral where the muzzle flash had betrayed a gunman’s hiding spot. A heavy thump followed by a muffled groan told him he’d found a mark, but there was no time to check. The fire near the front was catching the dry wall panels, casting a flickering, hellish orange glow over the cluttered room.
"Give me the bag, Tomas," Cole commanded, snatching the leather satchel from the old man's hands. "They want the records, which means they won't burn the place to ash until they tear it apart looking for us. We go out the side storage shed through the connecting loft."
"That's a dead end, Cole! It drops right into the corral stockade!"
"It's the only place they aren't looking yet," Cole said, hauling Tomas up by his collar with terrifying strength born of pure adrenaline.
They scrambled through a low partition door leading into the dry-goods storeroom, coughing as the thick, acrid smoke followed them like a living thing. The heat was rising fast, warping the timber ceiling overhead. Outside, frantic orders were being shouted as the men realized their targets were slipping out of the primary trap.
Cole hoisted Tomas up first, boosting the old man through the low loft opening that led into the adjoining feed shed. As Tomas scrambled over the ledge, a heavy boot kicked open the storeroom’s outer entrance. A silhouette filled the doorway, backlit by the blazing office fire, holding a sawed-off shotgun at hip level.
"Found the rats," the man snarled, leveling the barrels right at Cole’s chest.
Cole didn't try to raise his pistol. Instead, he heaved a heavy burlap sack of salt straight into the man's face. The sack burst upon impact, blinding the gunman in a stinging white cloud of sodium chloride. The man cursed wildly, squeezing both triggers out of pure reflex. The twin blasts tore holes through the ceiling rafters, raining wood splinters down on Cole as he lunged forward.
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Before the gunman could clear his eyes or break his scattergun, Cole drove the heavy brass buckle of his gunbelt hard against the man's temple. The heavy thud was instant. The hired killer folded like an empty sack, collapsing into the growing sea of white salt and dust.
Cole didn't pause to catch his breath. He grabbed the satchel, leaped up to the loft ledge, and pulled himself through just as the roof of the main office gave way with a tremendous, roaring crash of burning timber.
