The Lonely Mile(8)
The idiot would find that out soon enough.
CHAPTER 7
BILL KEPT THE BROWNING trained on the kidnapper who still held the girl tightly in front of his body. The guy had a creepy grin plastered on his face, and the girl was wearing an expression of sheer terror. Bill was suddenly thankful for his long-ago military training and the hours spent firing weapons in the desert blast-furnace of Iraq, honing his technique until he had total confidence in his ability with firearms. He had been an expert marksman in the service, and he hoped the intervening years hadn’t dulled his accuracy.
The panicked noises in the food court—the sounds of screaming, cursing, running feet, and breaking glass—were dying down. Out of the confusion, came the plaintive sound of a wailing woman’s voice. “Oh God, he has Allie! He has Allie!”
Bill ignored the tortured voice, tuning it out along with all the other chaotic, background noise. They were distractions he didn’t need. He knew he had to remain sharp and focused, because the next few moments would determine whether this whole mess ended well or disastrously.
The kidnapper continued to smile, his eyes sharp and predatory. Maybe it was a trick of the harsh fluorescent lighting inside the rest stop, but his teeth appeared long and yellow—wolfish even.
He stared Bill down as he slowly edged backwards, the challenge in his eyes unmistakable. The kidnapper had regained the advantage, and worse, he knew it. There was no way Bill could fire on him now without risking hitting the hostage. For just a moment, he was back in Iraq, the intense heat and dust and life-and-death pressure returning with a vengeance, so real he felt that, if he opened his mouth, it would fill with burning desert sand. He hesitated, his hand beginning to lower, and then he shook his head, clearing it of the cobwebs, and once again raised the weapon, training it on the scruffy-looking man and his young victim.
It was a classic standoff. Bill knew he couldn’t fire on the kidnapper because of the hostage, but the kidnapper couldn’t shoot the girl either because he would lose his shield and open himself up to a bullet. What he could do, however, was shoot Bill and back straight out the door.
The kidnapper seemed to reach the same conclusion as Bill, and at the same time. His grin widened. It was unnerving. He slid the gun smoothly away from the girl’s body and pointed it at Bill, who rose from his crouch and began moving forward ever so slowly, matching the kidnapper step for slow step. The two handguns were now pointed almost directly at each other.
Now what? If he could move close enough to the girl, maybe he could grab her and pull her out of the scumbag’s grasp, using his own body to shield her from harm. What he would do after that was still a little unclear. As plans went, Bill knew it was pretty thin, but he couldn’t come up with anything better, and felt control of the situation slipping away, sliding inexorably toward a disaster involving death, tragedy, and regret.
He crept closer, neither man speaking, the girl sobbing quietly in the man’s arms, pulled tightly against his body. Under the circumstances, Bill thought, she was doing an admirable job of keeping herself together. From his peripheral vision, he was aware of the rest of the people in the crowded plaza watching the confrontation from behind overturned tables, peeking over counters and around booths and chairs. The chaos of a few seconds ago had resolved into a low murmur, a buzz of shocked excitement as the observers began to realize that they, at least, were not in any immediate danger.
The pair with the weapons pointed at each other were now eight feet apart…now six…four. The gunman holding the hostage shuffled steadily backward, dragging his reluctant companion with him, and Bill moved forward, steadily closing the gap.
Still, neither man spoke. Neither man fired. The tension was palpable. Something was about to break, something had to happen soon, but no one had a clue what it was, least of all Bill Ferguson.
He continued moving forward, finally reaching a point where he could smell the rancid stench of the kidnapper’s fear. Outwardly, the man appeared calm and in control, an arrogant smirk pasted on his face, but the sweat dripping from every pore revealed his tension. The odor was sour, and Bill nearly gagged.
He was close enough now. It was time. He stopped moving and pulled his left hand off the grip of the Hi-Power, leveling the gun with his right hand in the direction of the kidnapper and his hostage. Still operating mostly on instinct, Bill reached forward to grab the girl’s right shoulder and yank her toward him, to spin her behind him to relative safety, to shield her with his own body. He moved as quickly as he could, his hand flashing out toward the girl, and as he did—
CHAPTER 8
—MARTIN SHOVED THE GIRL hard, directly at the guy. The pair went down instantly in a tangle of arms and legs, crashing to the tile floor with a thud.
The moment they fell, he turned and sprinted for the entrance, barely slowing as he raced through the glass double doors, smashing into them and rocking them back on their hinges. He burst into the brutal May heat radiating off acres of pavement and sprinted toward his truck, passing the confused sheep who had been lucky enough to rush out the plaza doors at the onset of the confrontation. They huddled in groups of two or three, staring dumbly at him, no one quick or daring enough to try and stop him.
Martin tumbled inside the cab, fumbling with the key, finally jamming it home and cranking the tired engine of the ancient vehicle. It grumbled and complained and eventually turned over, and Martin yanked the wheel to the left, heading toward the interstate and freedom. It was a shame to have to give up his trophy. He already knew this failure would rankle him for days, and he could expect a brutal dressing-down from his contact, a person who was never a model of patience, even when Martin delivered on time.