Jason Pinter - The Guilty

"You can kill me," I said. "But leave Amanda out of this.

Let her go."

"Not on your life," Roberts said. "If you hadn't noticed, I already let all the other useless ones go. I need Amanda for this. You can do a whole lot more good than she ever can. You have a voice. I need that voice to reach people, so they understand what I've done. But you also have a shell. You have a protective skin. All I'm going to do is remove that skin. I don't plan to leave this building alive. But neither will Amanda. And then you'll be free, Henry."

Amanda was listening to every word he said. Listened to the ravings of a murderer as he discussed why he was going to kill her, her eyes growing wider. The fear in her eyes made me want to forget the gun pointed at my head, run over and throw my arms around her. But I knew I couldn't. I was the reason Amanda was here right now. I mouthed I'm sorry.

Amanda didn't react.

"So here's what's going to happen," Roberts said. "Davies, you're going to come with me. Parker, you're going to sit and watch like a gentleman."

"What makes you think I'm going to do a damn thing?" I spat.

Roberts took a step back, then drove the butt of the gun into my stomach. I doubled over, gasping for air, bile surging upward.

While I was on the ground, he went over to Amanda, grabbed her by her bound hands and lifted her up out of her chair. She tried to struggle, but Roberts was strong.

He pushed her in front of him, the rifle pointed at her head. He marched Amanda into the conference room. The windows faced the street. It was a beautiful day. Ordinarily I could sit at my desk and watch the sun reflect off the towers in Rockefeller Center. Now I had to watch dozens of cops and reporters crowd the sidewalk. Cameras recording every second, waiting for something to headline their newscast or make their page one.

I crawled into the room, my legs still too weak to carry me.

Roberts walked up to the window, then he took the rifle and swung it at the glass, shattering it. Dozens of shards tumbled outward and I heard them sprinkle against the pavement.

Suddenly he shoved Amanda's face toward the window. I could hear her gasps, her sobs, still trying to get free. I struggled to find my footing. I knew that all those cameras were focused on the face of William Henry Roberts as he held my girlfriend, Amanda, hostage. And I knew, in that instant, he was going to kill her for the cameras. He was going to give them their page one.

"You sick fuck," I breathed, holding a table for balance.

"This isn't about her or me. It's about you. You and your sick fucking family."

Roberts turned slightly, looked at me. "I wouldn't expect you to understand, Henry. But after Amanda dies, you will."

I heard a click, knew that the Winchester was loaded and ready to fire. Amanda struggled, but his other arm was clamped around her neck, nearly cutting off her air supply.

"Billy the Kid was a fraud," I said. "He was as much a hero as a donkey's ass. He was a scrawny little prick who happened to have good aim. His legacy is worth squat, just like yours.

Nobody will remember you tomorrow. You'll be dead, and people will move on like you never existed." The anger seethed through my voice, my veins felt like they were on fire.

I took another step closer, saw Roberts's finger tighten on the trigger.

I heard a fluttering sound from outside, a fwap fwap fwap that could only have been a helicopter, homing in on us from an unseen direction. Staring at the building across the street,

I could see windows opened, marksmen waiting for a clean shot to take out Roberts. They couldn't do it with Amanda in the way. They needed a clean shot. They needed separation.

Roberts was ignoring me, speaking to Amanda. "Miss

Davies, like so many others before you, you will accomplish much more in death than in life. Henry, I trust you'll know what to make of all this. I know you'll know how to properly record my history."

I stepped forward again, spoke louder.

"Tell me," I said. "How did it feel to see your mother getting fucked by that priest?"

Roberts's finger slipped off the trigger. I saw the gun waver slightly. He didn't turn. Didn't look at me.

"Your mom, Meryl, I guess your father couldn't show her

God so she had to try someone a little closer to the almighty.

Bet Dad was proud, too. Bet he watched them. Bet you listened in, you freak, watched Mark Rheingold leave your house late at night, early in the morning. Bet your mom left him something nice on the collection plate."

"Shut your fucking mouth," Roberts said.

"You claim all this is about bringing down Sodom and Gommorah, I say this is about some poor little kid who saw his mommy getting drilled by the guy who passes around communion wafers. You were pissed, so you killed him and your whole family. How's that for the legacy of Billy the

Kid. His descendants were so messed up they couldn't satisfy their wives. Think I'll take another trip down to Fort

Sumner, fix up that tombstone of his. Right now it says

'Pals.' I'm thinking it should say Billy the Kid: Always

Shooting Blanks."

For a split second, Roberts's face turned away from

Amanda and his eyes met mine. They burned in a way I hadn't seen before. They were unfocused, angry, like he'd begun to lose a bit of control. Though he was in fact a coldblooded murderer, in William's mind he was a savior.

"See," I said. "The way you're looking at me right now, those aren't the eyes of a Regulator. They're the eyes of a guy who kills for his own sick pleasure."

He swept his gaze back to Amanda, the rifle muzzle still digging into the nape of her neck. Sobs were racking her body.

I had to separate them, get some distance. Just a little more…

"This whole show for the cameras? Might get page twelve in tomorrow's paper, somewhere after the ninth episode of

Lost. You'll be forgotten before restaurants get their morning sushi deliveries. And all that'll be left is your dead granddaddy.

You saw today's Dispatch, right? You know nobody believes the truth. Nobody thinks Brushy Bill actually was Billy the Kid.

You're a fucking failure, Will. Just like your whole family."

Suddenly Roberts swung the rifle my way, that muzzle aiming to blast my heart out. I knew it was coming. Once I saw the look in his eyes, I knew he would kill me if I pressed further. So I was ready.

I managed to grab the rifle's barrel before it measured my chest, swatted it upward as a gunshot shattered the air, white plaster raining down like ash. I had only seconds. One thing

I'd learned about Winchesters, they were quick to reload.

"Amanda, run!" I shouted. She tried to move, but Roberts's hand snaked out and grabbed her by the hair. He tried to hold the Winchester with his other hand, but the long, heavy rifle seemed to be too much. He struggled to bring it around and get off another shot. Instead he whipped the barrel around and caught me in the face.

I went down, my legs giving way. Blood began to trickle into my eyes. I wiped it away, got back to my feet, saw that horrible black muzzle lining up with my forehead. Roberts had a sick grin on his face.

Then another shot rang out, and the grin disappeared.

A swell of blood blossomed just over Roberts's left shoulder. I heard another sharp crack, saw a spark of light come from the building across the street. The cops had set up snipers. And they finally got their separation.

The second shot blew out a portion of Roberts's jacket by his midsection, a gout of blood splashing onto the floor. His eyes began to roll back in his head. He tried to bring the Winchester back up, but I grabbed it from his trembling hands.

Then everything just seemed to happen. Roberts began to topple backward, and in a moment of horror I saw his body was destined for the open window he'd shattered. His left hand was still clutching Amanda's hair. Her hands bound, her mouth gagged, she didn't have the balance to resist.