Split Second

CHAPTER 71

Kirsten slid down in the seat and shoved her gun hard into his ribs again. “Those idiot cops are shooting at us! How did they know about this car? You get us out of here, now! Move!”

Coop pressed his foot on the gas pedal. He saw Savich coming up behind the highway patrol cruiser, both of them closing on the Dodge, and all the while Kirsten screamed curses. Suddenly, a bullet struck the back window, shattered the glass. Another bullet, then another, striking the rearview mirror on the passenger side. They were aiming at Kirsten, not at him. He prayed they were good shots.

Coop saw her twist around, get her window down, and then she was leaning out, firing back at them.

He’d never have a better chance.

Coop jerked the car hard right, skidded across the shoulder gravel, and rocketed through a fence into a tobacco field, plowing through the harvested stalks. The impact sent Kirsten flying backward, striking the back of her head against the dash. It didn’t knock her out, but she was dead silent for a moment, her face a white mask, her eyes glazed, and then she was up and firing, not at him but out the window again at the highway patrol car that had followed them into the field. She grabbed the chicken stick as they bumped and tore through the wide rows. She realized he kept mowing through the stalks on purpose to slow them, not letting the car pass between the rows, and she turned toward him, his SIG leading. Where was her gun? He shot out his fist and struck her jaw with all the strength he had.

She lurched away, hit her head against the glove compartment, and was thrown back again, her head bouncing off the seat. Then she slumped over, unconscious.

Coop brought the car to a sliding stop in the middle of the field. He saw his SIG on the floor where Kirsten had dropped it. He was looking for her gun when he heard the highway patrol cruiser pull to a stop right behind him, heard the cops shouting at him.

He had to respond or they’d probably shoot him. The pain in his side ripped through him, but he ignored it and shoved his door open, one eye on Kirsten. He raised his hands.

“You the FBI agent?”

“Yes. Cooper McKnight. I hit her; Kirsten Bolger’s in the car, unconscious.”

Coop was never so happy in his life to see Savich and Sherlock cruising toward them, Savich careful to keep the Porsche between the mown rows of tobacco stalks, so as not to scratch up that perfect paint job.

“Don’t shoot at the Porsche. They’re FBI!”

Coop waved, then turned to watch one of the cops answer his cell, nod, then say, “You sure she’s out of it, Agent? Hey, what’s wrong? Geez, you’re shot!”

Coop waved a hand and looked back into the car. He couldn’t believe it, but Kirsten was gone. He ran around the front of the car and saw her crawling through the rows of tobacco stalks several dozen feet from him. “She’s headed toward that house! Kirsten, stop, or I’ll shoot!”

Kirsten looked back at him over her shoulder, lurched to her feet, and started running toward the house in the distance.

Coop took off after her, his side forgotten, two highway patrolmen behind him, both firing toward her. He heard Savich shout, “Coop, we’ll try to cut her off before she gets to that house! Don’t hesitate—bring her down if you can.”

Yeah, Coop thought, breathing hard, feeling his blood slick on his skin. It was enough, it was more than enough. He paused, aimed his SIG, and fired.