End Game (Will Robie #5)(127)

It was indeed FBI Special Agent Dwight Sanders. He was dressed in cammies with a bulletproof vest.

He grinned at them, but that grin quickly faded when he saw Blue Man and Malloy.

“They need medical attention, fast!” screamed Robie.

Sanders and two other men jumped out and raced over. They carried Blue Man into the chopper while Robie hustled over to it, still carrying Malloy.

“Got room for all of us in this bird?” shouted Reel over the roar of the chopper’s blades.

“You bet we do,” Sanders shouted back.

They loaded everyone into the chopper.

Sanders called out to the pilot, “We got two badly wounded. Hit it fast to the hospital. I’ll call ahead. We can land right on the roof.”

They lifted off and the chopper turned around and hurtled across the dark sky.

“Wait a minute,” barked Robie. “Hit that with your light.” He pointed down at a vehicle that was moving fast around the far lip of the quarry and had nearly reached the road leading down.

One of the crewmen activated a spotlight and shined it on the vehicle as they swept lower.

“It’s Dolph!” exclaimed Reel. “Or Fitzsimmons, or whatever the hell his real name is.”

It was indeed the man driving in an open-top jeep.

Robie grabbed his rifle with the scope and said, “Take me down lower. I’m going to jump for it.”

Reel grabbed his arm. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Robie glanced over at Malloy, where the EMTs were working frantically on both her and Blue Man.

He said to Reel, “I made a promise. I gave my word.”

Reel looked over at the unconscious Malloy and slowly removed her hand.

The chopper dropped lower as Robie opened the door and climbed out onto the skid.

He called out to Sanders, “Once I’m clear hit it to the hospital.”

“But what about you?” asked Sanders.

“I’ll find my way back.”

When the chopper was about six feet off the ground Robie leapt, landed, rolled, and came up in a crouch.

The chopper immediately rose, banked, and soared away in the opposite direction.

Robie sprinted forward about ten yards, keeping the jeep in sight the whole time. Then he dropped to the dirt, lay prone, and took aim through his scope.

It would have been difficult to say who was the better shot, Robie or Reel. It might have depended on the day in question.

But this day, not one sniper in the world had more motivation to bring down his target than Will Robie.

He fired.

His first round tore into the left rear tire. The jeep went sideways off the road and plowed into a mound of dirt.

Robie rose and sprinted forward.

A panicked Fitzsimmons looked behind and saw what was coming. He put the jeep in reverse and backed it out. He got it back on the road and hit the gas. But with the bum tire the jeep couldn’t go very fast.

Behind him Robie picked up his pace. He had never run this swiftly in his life. Yet even with the bad tire, he would not be able to catch Fitzsimmons.

He dropped to the ground again, took aim, and shredded the other rear tire.

The jeep went off the road onto the other side. Fitzsimmons fought to get it back on the road, but the tire unraveled and came off the rim.

Fitzsimmons leapt out of the jeep, wildly fired a few shots in Robie’s general direction, and ran for it.

But now, with its being a footrace, the conclusion was foregone.

Robie hit him low and hard, and both men tumbled to the dirt. Robie landed on top of Fitzsimmons and immediately cranked his right hand out and back, then levered the forearm at a backward angle until it shattered.

Fitzsimmons screamed, but Robie flipped him over, struck him with his elbow directly in the face, and crushed the man’s nose.

Robie raised his fist again with the intent of driving it right through the man’s skull when he paused.

The bloody Fitzsimmons stared up at him.

“Do it. Kill me. Do it.”

Robie could easily have done it. He had killed many men who were far superior fighters. Instead, he lowered his fist, took out the duct tape he had kept in his pocket, and secured Fitzsimmons’s arms and legs. He rose.

Fitzsimmons gazed furiously up at him. “What are you doing?”

“Colorado doesn’t have the death penalty. So you get life without parole. But I’m thinking that you’re a terrorist. So maybe you go to Gitmo, or another place not in this country. Where there are no rules, and where your jailers may not even be American.”

“I’m an American citizen,” sputtered Fitzsimmons. “You can’t do that!”

“No, you’re Dolph on your very own patch of sovereign soil. American laws don’t apply to you. You told me so yourself. So maybe we’ll send you to the Israelis. They know how to deal with Nazis.”

“You can’t do that!” Fitzsimmons screamed.

Robie knelt next to him and placed his face an inch from Fitzsimmons’s. “You’re going to find out that I can do anything.”

He rose and started to walk away.

“Where are you going?” screamed Fitzsimmons.

“To find us a ride.”

“You can’t leave me here. There are . . . animals.”

“I’m sure there’ll be enough of you left to send to prison.”