“Then leaves shook free of their branches, twigs snapped, paws and hooves ran frantically across rocks, and claws raced up the bark of the live oaks. The roar of the blast echoed off the canyon walls, batting back and forth like a barrage of Ping-Pong balls. The force of it threw me on my butt. Pellets of cement and rock and hard wood flew like buckshot. I rolled over and covered my neck; the rubble hit my arms, my ribs, the back of my head. I pulled my revolver free, rolled to the side of the p...latform by the stream, and slipped over the edge, squatting near the protection of the raised cement. The dirt-filled air clogged my nostrils with the smell of spent explosive and dry earth. My scraped hands throbbed. Through the swirling dirt, I eyed the shiny-leafed live oak trees, the dry brown underbrush, the little stream. The perp could be anywhere, with a stash of rifles, grenades, bombs. … The low cement ledge gave me almost no protection. Both hands on the revolver, I moved back against the canyon wall next to the metal overhang—seemingly un-jarred by the explosion—and crouched.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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