Lee CHILD: Better off Dead

This time she didn’t hesitate. She just pulled the trigger. The guy went over backward. He dropped the knife, screamed, and clutched his gut with both hands. A dark stain spread across the fabric. She’d hit him in the stomach. Exactly like she’d threatened to. She stepped in close. She stood and looked down at him. Thirty seconds crawled past. No doubt the longest half minute of the guy’s life. He was writhing and moaning and trying to stem the stream of blood with his palms and his fingers. She took a step back. Then she raised the gun. Lined it up on his head. And pulled the trigger. Again.

Some of my questions had been answered, at least. But now I had another one on my mind. Something much more urgent. The woman had just killed two people. I had watched her do it. I was the only witness. I needed to know what she was going to do about that. Her actions could be classed as self-defense, for sure. She had a solid case. I wouldn’t argue against it. But she had no way of knowing that. Relying on a stranger’s support was a gamble. And any trial she faced would come with its own risks. The skill of the lawyers. The disposition of the jurors. And she would inevitably spend months in jail before seeing the inside of a courtroom. An unappealing prospect in itself. And a dangerous one. Jails don’t generally boost the life expectancy of anyone who gets locked up in them.

I stepped forward. There was no point going back. A couple of extra yards between us weren’t going to make any difference. The gun she was holding was a Glock 17. One of the most reliable pistols in the world. It had a misfire rate of around one in ten thousand. Great odds from her side of the trigger. Not so good from mine. The magazine held seventeen rounds. She had fired five shots, to my knowledge. There was no reason to assume she hadn’t started out with a full load. So she would have twelve bullets left. There was no way she would need even a quarter of that number. She was an excellent markswoman. She had demonstrated that. And she had shown no hesitation when a violent solution was called for. The two guys who were now on the ground had found that out the hard way.

I took another step. Then my new question was answered, too. And not in a way I expected. The woman nodded to me. She turned. Walked back to her Jeep. Leaned against its rear. Shrugged her shoulders. Sighed. Raised her gun. And pressed its muzzle against her temple.

“Stop.” I hurried toward her. “You don’t have to do that.”

She looked at me with wide, clear eyes. “Oh yes. I do.”

“No. You did what –”

“Get back.” She held up her free hand, palm out. “Unless you want to wind up covered in blood and brains. I’ll give you three seconds. Then I’m going to pull the trigger.”

I believed her. I couldn’t see any way to stop her. All I could think to do was ask, “Why?”

She looked at me like the answer was so self-evident it was barely worth the energy it would take to respond. Then she said, “Because I lost my job. I disgraced myself. I put innocent people in harm’s way. And I got my brother killed. I have nothing left to live for. I’d be better off dead.”

Losing a job can be a blow. I know. I’ve had the experience. But the feeling pales into nothing beside losing a brother. Into less than nothing. I know. I’ve lived through that experience, too. And if you think you’re responsible for your brother’s death, the burden must be even heavier. Maybe too heavy to bear. Maybe there isn’t a path back. I wasn’t sure. But I hoped there was a way to survive. In this case, at least. I didn’t know what shape it should take, but I hoped something could help this woman. I liked the way she stood up for herself. I didn’t want her story to end with a self-inflicted bullet at the side of some lonely road.

I stood my ground and counted to three in my head. Slowly. The woman didn’t pull the trigger. I didn’t get covered in her blood and brains. I took that as a good sign.

“I heard what that was guy was saying.” I waited a couple more seconds. My eyes didn’t leave her trigger finger. “Michael’s your brother?”

“Was my brother.” The gun was still pressed to her head.

“You were looking for him?”

“That’s what got him killed.”

“You were looking for him on your own, is what I mean. You hadn’t gone to the police.”

“Was he on the wrong side of the law? Was he a criminal? That’s what you mean. And the answer’s yes. He was.” She lowered the gun. “Gold star to you for figuring that out.”

“And you?”

“No. Well, yes. Technically. By association. But only because I infiltrated Michael’s group. I was trying to get him out of there. He wanted to leave. Straighten himself out. He got a message to me. You didn’t know him. He was a good man. In his heart. That last tour changed him. What the army did was wrong. It derailed him. Left him vulnerable. Some other guys got their hooks in him. Took advantage. He made some bad choices. Clearly. Which is on him. I’m not making excuses. But it was a temporary thing. A blip. The real Michael was still in there somewhere. I know it. If I could have just gotten to him in time…”

“I’m not judging. I understand why you didn’t go to the police before. But things have changed.”

The woman didn’t reply.

I said, “The guy who killed Michael? Get him arrested. Go to his trial. Give evidence. Put him away for the rest of his life.”

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t work. The guy who killed Michael is too careful. He won’t have left any proof. Even if they believe me the police could look for months and not find anything.”

“Maybe the police don’t need to find anything. We could go visit the guy. I heard a name. Dendoncker?”

“That’s the asshole.”

“We could chat. I’m sure he would soon feel the urge to confess. With the correct kind of encouragement.”

A small, sad smile spread across the woman’s face. “I would love to go visit Dendoncker. Believe me. I’d be there in a heartbeat. But we can’t. It’s impossible.”

“No such thing as impossible. Just inadequate preparation.”

“Not in this case. Getting your hands on Dendoncker cannot be done.”

“How do you know?”

“I’ve tried.”

“What stopped you?”

“For a start, no one ever knows where he is.”

“So make him come to you.”

“Not possible. He only shows his face in one particular circumstance.”

“Then create that circumstance.”

“I’m about to. But it won’t help.”

“I don’t follow.”

“He only breaks cover when someone who was a threat to him is dead. Even if he only thought they were a threat. Even if he only imagined it or dreamed it. He has them killed. Then he has to see the body for himself. It’s like a paranoid compulsion he has. He won’t take anyone’s word. He won’t trust a photograph or a video or a death certificate or a coroner’s report. He only believes his own eyes.”

I took a moment to think. Then I said, “So, two people.”

“What?”

“If that’s his M.O. it’ll take two people to capture him. You and I could do it. If we worked together.”

“Bullshit. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Actually, I do. I spent thirteen years catching people who didn’t want to get caught. And I was good at it.”

“You’re serious?”

“Absolutely.”

“You were a bounty hunter?”

“Guess again.”

“Not a cop?”

“A military cop.”

“Really? You don’t look like one. What happened to you?”

I didn’t respond to that.

The woman was silent for a moment, too. Then she said, “What difference does a second person make? I don’t see it.”