The Running Man

MINUS 016 AND COUNTING

“You’re dead if you do,” Killian said.

McCone hesitated, fell back a step, and stared at the Free-Vee unbelievingly. His face began to twist and crumple again. His lips writhed in a silent effort to gain speech. When it finally came, it was a whisper of thwarted rage.

“I can take him! Right now! Right here! We’ll all be safe! We’ll-”

Wearily, Killian said: “You’re safe now, you God damned fool. And Donahue could have taken him-if we wanted him taken.”

“This man is a criminal!” McCone’s voice was rising. “He’s killed police officers! Committed acts of anarchy and air piracy! He’s… he’s publicly humiliated me and my department!”

“Sit down,” Killian said, and his voice was as cold as the deep space between planets. “It’s time you remembered who pays your salary, Mr. Chief Hunter.”

“I’m going to the Council President with this!” McCone was raving now. Spittle flew from his lips. “You’re going to be chopping cotton when this is over, nig! You goddam worthless night-fighting sonofabitch-”

“Please throw your gun on the floor,” a new voice said. Richards looked around, startled. It was Donahue, the navigator, looking colder and deadlier than ever. His greased hair gleamed in the cabin’s indirect lighting. He was holding a wire-stock Magnum/Springstun machine pistol, and it was trained on McCone. “Robert S. Donahue, old-timer. Games Council Control. Throw it on the floor.”