Split Second

CHAPTER 73

There wasn’t much cover, but Kirsten kept running, her eyes on the small white house no more than thirty feet away. Coop saw a bullet hit one of the mown stalks ahead of her, close to her head. He knew she was heading to that house. There’d be people there, people she’d kill without thought if they didn’t do exactly what she told them to.

Bring her down, bring her down. Coop raised his SIG and fired again. She jerked a bit and grabbed her left arm but didn’t slow down. He fired a third time as he ran, his side pulsing with pain with each stride, and he missed yet again. He was sweating. He didn’t think, merely shrugged off his shearling coat. He could hear the highway patrolmen pounding behind him. They’d stopped firing, concentrating on getting close enough to her before she got into that house.

Coop’s heart seized when he saw a small boy and girl running through the rows, right toward Kirsten. He whirled around toward the cops. “Don’t shoot. You see the kids?”

The kids were running right at her, shouting something to her. What? His heart sank when he realized the kids were seeing a poor bleeding woman being chased by three men with guns, and they were trying to help her.

He yelled, “Get away from her! Go back to the house!”

But the little girl didn’t slow; she was running full-tilt at Kirsten, the little boy trying hard to keep up.

One of the patrolmen shouted, “We’re police officers, get back!”

The little girl skidded to a halt, stared toward them, but it didn’t matter now; Kirsten had her arm tight around her neck, and she was dragging her in front of her. The little boy was panting hard, shoving at her, kicking at her legs, but he was too small to do much damage, and Kirsten didn’t slow.

Even from thirty feet away, they all saw the gun in Kirsten’s hand.

“It’s a Smith and Wesson,” Coop said. “She’ll use it, no hesitation at all.” Had it been in the waistband of her pants? Didn’t matter, it was his fault. He should have stripped her if necessary to find that gun as soon as he was sure the cops wouldn’t shoot him.

The three men watched Kirsten swing the pistol’s butt against the boy’s head, saw him go down. One of the patrolmen was on his cell, calling dispatch for an ambulance, and more backup, and cursing.

She had the little girl, and she was dragging her, keeping her tight against her, and they were nearly to the house, only another twenty yards. Coop saw what Kirsten was focused on, an old white pickup parked in the driveway.

No, Coop thought. No, he couldn’t let this happen, he couldn’t let her get away, not with this little girl as her hostage this time. Coop took off running, firing over Kirsten’s head. Kirsten turned, and he saw the little girl’s face was turning blue, Kirsten’s arm was that tight around her neck. Kirsten fired, then turned, dragging the little girl toward the pickup.

It was then he saw a flash of bright red hair. Sherlock’s hair. She was bent low, moving toward Kirsten.

He heard a door slam, heard a woman’s high, frantic voice. “Amanda! What’s going on here? Who are you? Oh, no, you’ve got a gun! You’re hurting my daughter!”

Kirsten fired toward the woman and missed, but the woman fell to her knees and scrabbled behind a bush.

But she was up in the next instant. “You let go of my daughter!”

Kirsten took dead aim, but Amanda was jerking at her arm, twisting wildly, screaming, “Don’t you shoot my mama! Don’t!”