Better off Dead

Chapter 4

The guy’s head stopped moving. He didn’t speak. His legs were still together. His arms were still by his sides. His posture still looked awkward.

“Tell me where I can find Michael. If you don’t, I will kill you. But not quickly like your friend. No. Not like that at all.”

The guy didn’t respond.

“Have you ever seen anyone get shot in the stomach?” The woman made a show of taking aim at the guy’s abdomen. “How long they take to die? The agony they’re in, the entire time?”

“No.” The guy shook his head. “Don’t do that. I’ll tell you.”

Then I realized why the guy looked strange. It was his hands, still pressed against his sides. One was open. His left. But his right was clenched. His wrist was bent back. He was holding something and trying to conceal the fact. I wanted to shout a warning, but I couldn’t. Breaking the woman’s concentration right at that moment wasn’t going to help her.

“Well?” A sharp edge had crept into her voice.

“So, Michael’s whereabouts. OK. It’s kind of complicated but he’s –”

The guy’s right arm snapped up. His fingers opened and a swirl of sandy grit flew right at the woman’s face. She reacted fast. Her left hand came up in front of her eyes and she pivoted away on her good leg. She dodged the worst of the cloud. But not the guy himself. He launched forward, swatted her arm aside, and slammed his shoulder into her chest. He was only a couple of inches taller than her but must have been at least eighty pounds heavier. The impact sent her reeling. Her feet couldn’t keep up and she tumbled over backward. She was still holding the gun. She tried to raise it but he followed in and stamped on her wrist. She clung on. He pressed his foot down harder. And harder still until she shrieked with frustration and let go of the weapon. He kicked it away then stepped across her body, one foot either side, and stood there looming over her.

“Well now, gimp. I’d say the boot’s on the other foot but that would be cruel, as you only have one.”

The woman lay still. I stood up. The guy had his back to me. He was less than fifteen yards away.

“My friend had a plan for you.” The guy started to fumble with the front of his pants. “A kind of dying wish. I figure I should see it through. Once for him. Once for me. Maybe more, if I like it.”

I climbed out of the trench.

“Then I’ll kill you.” The guy pulled his belt clear and tossed it away to the side. “Maybe I’ll shoot you in the stomach. See how long it takes you to die.”

I started down the slope.

“It could take hours.” The guy started to unbutton his fly. “All night, even. Dendoncker won’t care. And he won’t care what condition you wind up in. Just as long as you’re dead when I hand you over.”

I forced myself to slow down. I didn’t want to make a sound on the loose gravel.

The woman shifted her position a little then stretched her arms out on both sides. “So you know about my foot. Gold star to you for observation. But do you know much about titanium?”

The guy’s hands stopped moving.

I reached the blacktop on the far side of the road.

“It’s a very interesting metal.” The woman braced her palms against the ground. “It’s very strong. Very light. And very hard.”

The woman whipped her right leg up, bent it at the knee, and drove her prosthetic foot toward the guy’s groin. It connected. Front and center. Full power. No mistake. Nothing held back. The guy screamed and gasped and pitched forward. He landed facedown in the dirt. She rolled to the side and only just avoided getting crushed. She rolled a couple more times and retrieved the gun. Then she used both arms to lever herself up off the ground.

I stopped where I was, halfway across the pavement, one foot either side of the faded yellow line.

The guy rolled onto his side and curled into a ball. He was whimpering like a whipped dog.

“One last chance.” The woman raised the gun. “Michael. Where is he?”

“Michael’s history, you idiot.” The guy was breathing hard. “Forget about him.”

“He’s history? What do you mean?”

“What do you think I mean? Dendoncker takes some poor schmuck in for interrogation, then…Want me to draw a diagram?”

“No need for a diagram.” Her voice was suddenly flat. “But I do need to be sure.”

“He was a dead man the moment he started swapping secret notes.” The guy raised his head. “You know about Dendoncker. He’s the most paranoid guy on the planet. He was bound to find out.”

“Who killed him? You?”

“No. I swear.”

“Then who?”

“I thought it was going to be us. Dendoncker told us to be ready as soon as he was done with his questions. We dropped everything. No one lasts very long when Dendoncker goes to work on them. You know that. So we were good to go. Then he told us we weren’t needed after all.”

“Why not? What changed?”

“I don’t know. I wasn’t there. Maybe Michael was too slow with his answers. Or too smart with his mouth. Or just had a weak heart. Anyway, Dendoncker stood us down. Then this morning he sent us for you.”

The woman was quiet for a moment. Then she said, “Michael’s body. Where is it?”

“Usual place, I guess. If there was enough of it left.”

The woman’s shoulders sagged a little. She lowered the gun. The guy curled back up. He reached for his ankle. Slowly and smoothly. He slid something out of his boot. Rolled onto his front. A second later he was on his feet. The sun glinted off whatever he had in his right hand. A blade. It was short and broad. He launched himself forward. His arm was high. He was swinging, horizontally. Trying to slash the woman’s forehead. He wanted her eyes to fill with blood. So she couldn’t see. Couldn’t aim. She leaned back, bending sharply at the waist. Just far enough. He missed. He switched the knife to his other hand. Shaped up for another try.

This time she didn’t hesitate. She just pulled the trigger. The guy went over backward. He dropped the knife, screamed, and clutched his gut with both hands. A dark stain spread across the fabric. She’d hit him in the stomach. Exactly like she’d threatened to. She stepped in close. She stood and looked down at him. Thirty seconds crawled past. No doubt the longest half minute of the guy’s life. He was writhing and moaning and trying to stem the stream of blood with his palms and his fingers. She took a step back. Then she raised the gun. Lined it up on his head. And pulled the trigger. Again.

Some of my questions had been answered, at least. But now I had another one on my mind. Something much more urgent. The woman had just killed two people. I had watched her do it. I was the only witness. I needed to know what she was going to do about that. Her actions could be classed as self-defense, for sure. She had a solid case. I wouldn’t argue against it. But she had no way of knowing that. Relying on a stranger’s support was a gamble. And any trial she faced would come with its own risks. The skill of the lawyers. The disposition of the jurors. And she would inevitably spend months in jail before seeing the inside of a courtroom. An unappealing prospect in itself. And a dangerous one. Jails don’t generally boost the life expectancy of anyone who gets locked up in them.

I stepped forward. There was no point going back. A couple of extra yards between us weren’t going to make any difference. The gun she was holding was a Glock 17. One of the most reliable pistols in the world. It had a misfire rate of around one in ten thousand. Great odds from her side of the trigger. Not so good from mine. The magazine held seventeen rounds. She had fired five shots, to my knowledge. There was no reason to assume she hadn’t started out with a full load. So she would have twelve bullets left. There was no way she would need even a quarter of that number. She was an excellent markswoman. She had demonstrated that. And she had shown no hesitation when a violent solution was called for. The two guys who were now on the ground had found that out the hard way.

I took another step. Then my new question was answered, too. And not in a way I expected. The woman nodded to me. She turned. Walked back to her Jeep. Leaned against its rear. Shrugged her shoulders. Sighed. Raised her gun. And pressed its muzzle against her temple.

“Stop.” I hurried toward her. “You don’t have to do that.”

She looked at me with wide, clear eyes. “Oh yes. I do.”

“No. You did what –”

“Get back.” She held up her free hand, palm out. “Unless you want to wind up covered in blood and brains. I’ll give you three seconds. Then I’m going to pull the trigger.”

I believed her. I couldn’t see any way to stop her. All I could think to do was ask, “Why?”

She looked at me like the answer was so self-evident it was barely worth the energy it would take to respond. Then she said, “Because I lost my job. I disgraced myself. I put innocent people in harm’s way. And I got my brother killed. I have nothing left to live for. I’d be better off dead.”