John Gilstrap - Nathan’s Run

He thumbed the safety off and settled in to await his opportunity.

Then it happened. Pointer looked straight at him.

Nathan felt like he hadn’t breathed in an hour. He knew death was coming to him, but he wasn’t prepared for this much fear and pain. Noise and activity swirled all around him. None of it had form or meaning until Pointer hiked him up a little higher and growled in his ear, close enough that he could feel his hot breath on his cheek.

“Say goodbye, you little shit.”

Nathan closed his eyes.

Steadman knew it was over as soon as they made eye contact. The target hoisted his hostage higher, reducing the sight picture even more, then said something in his ear. A sick, crazy smile appeared on the target’s lips, and Steadman saw movement in the muscles of his forearms. The cylinder of the Magnum began to turn.

Sniper One had exactly no time to plan his shot. He brought the crosshairs to bear just above the target’s right eyebrow—the no-reflex zone—and he pulled the trigger.

The shot was perfect. As millions of people watched live on television throughout the world, Lyle Pointer’s head erupted in a gruesome pink cloud, and he crumpled instantly to the ground, as if all his bones had suddenly disappeared.

A bone-jarring impact reverberated through Nathan’s body as he heard a heavy, wet thwop, followed by a sharp explosion. He screamed and dropped to the ground, certain that he had been hit. Blood was everywhere, but the pain hadn’t found him yet.

As though someone had flipped a switch in his brain, he suddenly became aware of an army of armed men, all in police uniforms, charging toward him.

Not again, he thought. I’m not going through this again.

He snatched Pointer’s Magnum from the sidewalk where it had landed and brandished it with both hands. “Stay away from me!” he screamed. “Stay away from me or I’ll shoot!”

The blue line stopped its advance instantly, and there was a clatter of weapons as fifteen police officers dropped to shooting positions.

Across the street, Steadman worked the bolt on the Remington and settled the crosshairs on Nathan. “Sniper One to Command, second target is acquired. Requesting instructions,” he said into his radio.

“Stand by,” crackled his reply.

Warren darted out in front of the others, ostentatiously holstering his weapon and holding his hands out where Nathan could see them.

“It’s me, Nathan,” he said softly. “It’s Lieutenant Michaels. We talked on the phone. We’re friends, Nathan.”

Nathan’s eyes were wild. He cocked his head slightly at the sound of Warren’s voice, like a puppy who’s trying to make sense out of something unfamiliar.

“Nathan, this is over now, son. I know what happened. I know you never meant to do anybody harm. You’re not in trouble anymore, son, so just put the gun down and let’s sort this all out.”

Nathan had been here before. He’d listened to their promises and their guarantees. He’d believed in good guys and in trust and in hope, but every time, it was just another lie. All people wanted was to hurt him, and all Nathan wanted was to be left alone.

“No, it’s a trick,” he declared. “You’re going to kill me. Everybody’s trying to kill me.”

He thumbed back the hammer on the Magnum.

“Sniper One to Command, I read this situation as critical. The target is acquired. I have a perfect shot. Do I have the green light?”

Even as he asked the question, Steadman ran some calculations through his head on the damage this much bullet would do to so little a boy. The results were horrifying.

“Nathan, listen to me,” Michaels said gently, looking past the gaping muzzle of the pistol into the eyes of the boy holding it. “Look at me. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, son.” He took a step forward. “This is over, Nathan. You’ve seen too much killing. Let’s let it end here.” Three more steps, and he was only ten feet away.

“You’ve got to trust somebody, Nathan. Start with me.”

Trust me. How many times had he heard that? Trust Uncle Mark. Trust the social worker. Trust the judge. Trust the supervisor. Now trust the cop.

But this cop had friendly eyes. And a smile. Nathan remembered his face from television, the one in the tennis shirt.

Staring past the heavy pistol, Nathan wanted desperately to shoot; to be shot; to end it all. But even as his finger tightened on the trigger, he knew he wouldn’t do it. Maybe if Michaels had been one of the assholes from the night before, but not this guy. Not the cop with the friendly eyes.

“Let’s be friends,” Warren said, moving a step closer.

And that was it. Nathan’s lip started to quiver as he lowered the gun and let it drop to the pavement.

“I don’t have any friends,” Nathan said pitifully, and he sank to his knees. His shoulders slumped and his eyes filled with tears. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said, and his features dissolved into those of a sad little boy who needed to be held. As he sobbed there on the sidewalk, trying to hide behind hands pressed to his eyes, his whole body heaved at the effort of it all. There was movement among the line of cops, but no one seemed to know what to do next.

Warren watched awkwardly for just a moment; then, smoothly and slowly, with the grace of one who had done it many times before, he moved to the boy and sat down next to him on the sidewalk. Self-consciously at first, but then with the warmth and tenderness of a grieving father, he drew Nathan close, his hand disappearing into the grimy tangle of the boy’s hair.

Amidst the blood and filth, Nathan caught the faintest aroma of sweaty aftershave, the smell of strength. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to be transported back to sunnier times.

“It’s over now, son,” _Warren said, his voice catching in his throat. “No one can hurt you now.” As he pulled Nathan closer still, he rocked him gently back and forth. “It’s okay,” he whispered.

For the longest time, they just sat there together on the sidewalk and cried like babies on national television.

Alone in the quiet studio, Denise watched in silence, her fingers pressed tightly to her lips, her mascara wrecked. Enrique said something in her earphones about dead air, but she couldn’t make any words come out. As the television zoomed in on Nathan and the plainclothes cop, a tearful smile bloomed behind her hand. Finally, it was over.

“Way to go, Nathan,” she said into the microphone as she raised her Diet Coke to the TV. “Here’s to being a kid again.”