The Serpent's Kiss

99

Jill Church rushed down the catwalk. She had never felt fear like this. “Michael!” she screamed, her voice ragged with emotion. “Michael!”

He collapsed to the catwalk and Kevin Matsumoto grinned.

She saw the grin, saw the glee — the joy! — in his face as he sprayed sarin gas into her son’s face.

As she ran she reached for her gun. Her son! He had killed her son!

Derek Stillwater raced across the catwalk from the other end, reaching for the remote control. Kevin Matsumoto exploded into motion, throwing himself at Derek like a football tackle.

Derek, stooped over, shifted and struck out with his crutch, knocking Matsumoto off balance.

The gun was in her hands. She was closing the distance.

Michael writhed on the platform, hands clutching at his throat.

She heard Matsumoto scream, “Get out of my way!”

She saw Stillwater swing the crutch again. She heard Matsumoto scream, saw him drop to his knees.

And then Matsumoto leapt to his feet and sprayed sarin gas in Derek’s face.

Jill saw Derek stagger, try to reach for Matsumoto, hands outstretched…

Jill stood over her son, gun out, standing in a perfect Weaver stance, feet shoulder’s-width apart, oriented at a 45-degree angle to her target. Her right arm extended, elbow locked. Her left arm was tucked close to the body, hand supporting the right hand. “Kevin!” she shouted.

Matsumoto turned to glare at her. He reached for the remote control.

Jill fired.

And fired.

And fired.

Kevin Matsumoto jerked at each shot, red blossoming on his chest. His body twitched like a marionette. He reached one last time for the remote control.

Jill fired again.

The bullet took him in the heart and he toppled sideways, off the catwalk. He spiraled awkwardly to land with a visceral thunk on the concrete stairs a hundred feet below.

She knelt next to Michael. “Michael! It’s Mom! Michael, hang on!”

Derek Stillwater gasped out, “Jill!”

She looked at him. In his outstretched hand he held the atropine injector. She jumped to him, snatched it out of his hand. There was only enough for one dose.

“Derek—”

”Do it,” he whispered.

She turned back, broke open the injector and slammed it home into her son’s thigh, injecting the antidote into his bloodstream.

With a last, desperate prayer, she turned to Derek and plunged the injector into his leg, hoping there was still some atropine in the cylinder, that it would at least slow down the effects of the poison. He groaned, but did not move. She turned back to her son.

“It’ll be all right, Michael,” she said, holding his hand. “Hold on. It’ll be all right. You did great. Absolutely great! Hang on! Hang on!”