Split Second

CHAPTER 42

The bar doors flew outward again, and more laughing, hooting drunk people spilled out. She didn’t see Dillon or Lucy or Coop, but she couldn’t really see much at all. She was surrounded by merry, mentally debilitated people who had no idea a monster was in their midst.

Sherlock felt her mind floating away, only to have it whip back when the cramps and the nausea struck harder. Through a haze, she saw Mr. Spicer come roaring out of the bar. What was he waving? Good Lord, it was a bat, and he was yelling something. She saw a blur of movement—Mr. Spicer was swinging the bat, mowing through the crowd like a berserker.

I’ve got to act; there’s no more time. Where are you, Dillon? There was a space, and as she fought off a wave of nausea, Sherlock jerked away from Kirsten’s grasp, whirled back, and struck her hard in the jaw. But there was no leverage behind it, because the world was spinning madly, and she was too close.

She saw Kirsten fall back, slam into a couple of people, who yelled in surprise as they leaped out of the way. She watched her trip and go down with a yell into a guy’s legs.

She heard one of the older guys who’d been belting out Irene’s name yell, “Hey, Redhead, what are you doing? Why’d you knock her down? You nuts?”

Sherlock fell to her knees beside her, managed to pull out her SIG and press the barrel to her mouth. “Hold it right there, Kirsten, party’s over. You’re under arrest.” She knew her words were slurred, and though she wanted to tell her what she was under arrest for—how many women?—she barely managed to call over her shoulder, “Dillon, I’m here. I’ve got her down!”

Had anyone even heard her over the singing, the shouts, the laughter? If they had, had any of them even understood her words?

Kirsten came up on her elbows, stared up at Sherlock. “What? You’re not—”

She knew she was going to heave, and yelled, “Dillon!”

She was weaving over Kirsten, unable to control herself, her SIG a dead weight in her hand, all the people pressing closer. There were shouted questions, angry voices—she heard someone yell, “She’s got a gun!” No more drunken laughter now.

Everything was happening so fast, all in an instant of time, and Kirsten was squirming wildly. Sherlock tried to hit her again, but it wasn’t going to happen. She had to do something before she passed out, but her coordination was shot, the world and all its noise was fading in and out on her now. She managed to grab Kirsten’s head between her hands and slam it against the sidewalk. Kirsten’s eyes went blank; she was out. Thank you, God.

She heard Mrs. Spicer yell something about Billy—who was Billy?—to get back inside, and for Billy to stop. There was more, but Sherlock simply couldn’t understand now; her mind wasn’t working right, and she felt so sick and miserable, she simply wanted to roll under a car and die. Who was Billy?

Sherlock threw herself over Kirsten, her brain spinning, the din of people yelling, many screaming now, running to avoid Mr. Spicer’s swinging bat. Billy, she knew it was Billy, she recognized his voice—he was yelling about Gator putting down the freaking bat.

Sherlock heard Dillon’s beautiful voice over all the chaos. “All of you, quiet! We’ve got this under control. Go back inside, now! Take Mr. Spicer with you.”

How much time had passed? Maybe an hour, maybe a minute, two seconds? She didn’t know. Sherlock saw Billy shoving people aside like bowling pins until he came up to her and grabbed her shoulder. She very nearly threw up on him. His voice sounded like a foghorn, fading in and out. “What is this, you robbing her? You knocked her out cold?” He saw the gun and grabbed her arm. Sherlock, nearly gone now, made out the gun in his big hand—at least she thought it was a gun—and he pressed it against her head. “Listen up, sister, I’m a cop. I want you to step away from Ms. Spiked-up Hair. Drop that big-assed SIG, and get down on your stomach.”

She was surprised her SIG was still in her hand. “Wait, wait—” Sherlock tried to reach under her tunic to her jeans pocket to pull out her creds, but it wasn’t happening. Her jeans pocket seemed to be in a different universe, her hand floating all around it. She looked up at him, couldn’t make out his face but felt anger pulsing off him—and that was clear as day. She heard Dillon’s voice but couldn’t make out what he was saying. She knew she had to make this angry man understand, but her voice came out a blurred whisper, “FBI, I—I had to knock her out or she’d—kill me.”

He was right next to her, and his hand clutched her hair, pulling her face back, “You, FBI? I’m a cop, and I say you’re a drunk moron with a gun. Now, let go of it, you hear me, or I’ll make you real sorry. As for you, buddy, you get your ass out of here or I’ll knock your head off.” Who was the buddy he was talking to?

Then Sherlock saw Dillon’s legs. Thank God, he’d finally gotten through. She wanted to call out to him, but he was weaving now, his legs blurring with a dozen other legs as she gulped down the sickness. Billy was screaming, it hurt her ears it was so loud, and he was yanking on her hair, and she heard Kirsten groan. Billy let go of her hair and hit her shoulder hard. She thought she heard Dillon growl, like an animal ready to attack its prey, and that prey would be Billy.

“Dillon.” Had she said his name aloud? She wasn’t sure. Kirsten was grabbing her and shoving her off. No, she couldn’t let her go, she couldn’t. She heard Billy cursing, yelling, heard Dillon, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. There was only noise.

Was that Mrs. Spicer yelling that the redhead was FBI and Billy was an idiot?

She was closing down fast. She heard Kirsten yell out Bruce Comafield’s name. Was he here? She heard running, and then gunshots, lots of them, and they sounded like cannons firing in her face. She heard Comafield yell, “Run, Kirsten! Run!”

Sherlock tried to grab her, she really did, but it was a pathetic effort. Kirsten kicked her in the ribs, and when Sherlock grabbed her leg, Kirsten turned and slammed her other foot into Sherlock’s face. Sherlock fell back onto the sidewalk. She saw bursts of white flare madly, then the dim streetlight was suddenly bright and looming, weaving around her, and all the people were shadows now, blurring into one another.

She heard running, screaming, more gunfire. Who was firing? Everyone, she thought. Everyone, and Comafield. Kirsten? Did she have a gun, too?

She tried to yell for Dillon to stop Kirsten, but nothing came out of her mouth. She rolled over, managed to come up onto her knees, and began to vomit.

Through the awful heaving, she heard Mrs. Spicer yelling at her husband.

There was gunfire still. She knew it was Comafield; he was firing to provide cover for Kirsten, that was it. Was he shooting at Dillon? Of course he was; he was shooting at everyone.