Split Second

CHAPTER 75

The little girl pulled and jerked at Kirsten’s arm when she raised her gun to shoot again at her mother, and Kirsten clouted her. Savich’s bullet caught her in her right shoulder. She staggered, screamed, and fell to the ground, taking the little girl with her.

“Sherlock, see to the mother!”

Sherlock ran to the woman, who had fallen, as Savich and Coop ran toward Kirsten, listening to the little girl’s screams. She knelt beside the woman. There was a thin line of blood along her hairline. The woman looked up at her, confused and frantic. Sherlock said,

“It’s okay. I’m FBI. We’ve got Amanda. She’s all right, too.”

“But Taylor, Taylor? My little boy?”

Sherlock shouted, “The little boy—is he okay?”

Coop called back, “Yes, the highway patrolman said he’s fine. Everyone’s good.”

“Taylor’s all right. Let me get you cleaned up. Thank goodness, it’s only a graze, you’ll be fine.”

“When I saw that woman dragging Amanda toward me, and no sign of Taylor, I’ll tell you—” The words fell into a hiccuping sob. Sherlock pressed a handkerchief to the bloody line on her head. “I know,” she said. “You all did great.”

The little girl had managed to wriggle away from Kirsten as soon as they fell. She’d stumbled away, then had fallen to her side, gulping in big breaths of air, rubbing her throat and sobbing quietly.

Savich saw Coop pull the little girl up into his arms. He rocked her, saying, “It’s okay, your mama’s going to be fine; so is your little brother. Taylor’s his name?” At her jerky nod, he continued, “Yep, Taylor’s all right.” She clutched at him, and Coop kissed her forehead and kept rocking her. He saw Savich run past them to come down beside Kirsten. Blood snaked out of the wound, high on her shoulder, but she wasn’t unconscious, she was moaning, her head twisting from side to side, her eyes closed. He picked up her gun, an old Smith & Wesson.

Coop kissed Amanda’s forehead, gave her a last hug, and handed her off to one of the highway patrolmen. He walked to Kirsten, went down on his knees beside Savich, and leaned in close. “Kirsten, can you hear me?”

Kirsten opened her eyes, stared up at Coop, then over at Savich. “You,” she whispered at Savich. “You freaking murderer. You killed me.”

“Nah, you aren’t going to die,” Savich said. He tore off his shirt and pressed it hard against her shoulder.

She tried to spit at him. “You killed Bruce. It isn’t right, it just isn’t right. And you, I hope you’re hurting bad.”

Savich looked over at him. “What is she talking about? Coop?”

“She shot me in the side. No, don’t worry, I’m okay.”

Savich studied his face for a moment, nodded, then lifted his shirt off Kirsten’s shoulder wound enough to see the bleeding had slowed.

Kirsten licked her lips. She was deathly pale, no more lipstick, no more of her powder. Savich knew she had to be in bad pain, but she wasn’t making a sound. Finally she whispered, “What will Daddy say?”

They looked up at the sound of sirens. Two ambulances were whipping through the tobacco field toward them, behind them a half dozen squad cars.