Gregg Hurwitz - The Kill Clause

Blocked from their view by the stacks of metal, Tim dashed over and tried to open the trunk of the Lincoln, but it was locked. The doors were locked as well-no getting to the trunk release without breaking a window. His efforts led to invigorated thumping in the trunk, and Kindell’s muffled voice.

“Doan urt me. Please lee me be.”

Kindell’s loose, deaf enunciation brought fresh recollections, flooding Tim with revulsion.

He jogged back behind the sandblaster and aimed Betty again in Robert and Mitchell’s direction, catching the tail end of their shouted discussion. “…on the Stork’s phone…keep an ear on the scanner…get me Kindell…”

Mitchell started for the vehicles, his Colt glinting. Tim, crouched behind the blaster, was almost directly in his path. Mitchell drew near, approaching the car, and banged on the trunk with the barrel of the. 45. Kindell let out a shriek.

His face twisted with disdain, Mitchell dug in his pocket for the keys.

Tim braced himself, weapon up near his cheek, then stepped from cover. Mitchell caught sight of him breaking into the open, and at once both guns were up and aimed. Miraculously, neither one of them fired.

A Mexican standoff.

“Well,” Mitchell said. “Now what?”

“You tell me.”

The wind had picked up; Tim was pretty sure as long as no shots were fired Robert wouldn’t hear them from his position up high in the tree.

They drew a little nearer, Mitchell’s left hand supporting the hairtrigger. 45 in his right. His eyes jerked to the monument, betraying his urge to yell for his brother. Hands regripping the pistol, Tim shook his head, and the look on Mitchell’s face made clear he understood what the price would be for shouting. His thick hand was steady on the gun, his finger curled through the trigger guard. Tim pictured him sitting in a parked van watching Ginny leave Warren Elementary, his eyes calm, a notepad in his lap. Mitchell following her silently, shadowing her through the streets she took on her route home.

A Detroit cop, task-force member, explosive-ordnance tech. Stalking a seven-year-old girl who still used bunny ears to tie her shoes.

Mitchell’s mustache broadened with his smile. “Don’t suppose you want to drop the guns and go at it man to man.”

“Not on your life,” Tim said.

They circled each other slowly within the ring of metal stacks, blocked from the monument’s view.

“Let me tell you this,” Tim said. “I’ve fired nine shots in the line of duty, and they’ve all been hits. Eight of them have been kill shots.” He paused, moistened his lips. “If we throw down, you have no chance of surviving.”

Mitchell mused on that, his head bobbing. “You’re right. I’m not a shooter.”

He spread his arms wide, letting the gun dangle from his thumb. He tossed it to the left, aiming for the sandblaster. It bounced off the metal box, missing the “on” button by a few inches.

Mitchell’s eyes went to the metal stack to his side. If anyone could lift a five-foot pane of half-inch steel by himself, it was Mitchell. Tim wasn’t about to take any chances.

“On your knees. Arms wide. Turn around. Hands on your head now. That’s right. Not a noise.”

Tim slide-stepped in on him, both hands on the gun. At the last moment he saw that the toes of Mitchell’s boots were curled rather than flat against the dirt.

Mitchell pivoted and sprang. Tim laced his hand through the. 357 and hammered Mitchell across the face with a ball of fist and metal.

Bone crunched.

Mitchell staggered but did not drop. As he charged into Tim, his legs shoved against the ground, a linebacker gaining yards. He knocked Tim back into a stack of metal, jarring him, then the immense arms were a frenzied blur. The blows were even more devastating than Tim could have imagined. They were rapid and unremitting. They were car-crash powerful. They were rage and pain vented and embodied. Hunched protectively like a winded boxer on the ropes, Tim was wave-battered against the steel.

A haymaker brought him to his knees.

He’d have to shoot Mitchell or be killed. He brought the gun up, but then a shadow streaked toward Mitchell, flying up on his back, and Mitchell reeled, delivering a vicious elbow to the temple of his attacker. In the flash of an opening before Mitchell turned back, Tim delivered another gun-enforced blow, on the rise, directly between Mitchell’s legs. Mitchell expelled a hard gust of air, and then a dry heave pulled him down into a lean. Tim rose, blood running freely into his eyes, and hammered the gun down across Mitchell’s face.

Mitchell fell, his mouth open against the ground, his breath kicking up puffs of dirt. Bowrick stirred beside him, a lattice of broken veins coloring his left temple and upper cheek. Tim turned quickly, looking behind him for Robert’s approach, but there was no sound save that of fluttering plastic and wind drawing across the plateau. Tim studied the monument but spotted no movement, no trembling of the scaffolding to indicate Robert’s descent. Bowrick rolled over and shoved himself up on all fours, his forehead wrinkling with pain. He reached over, pulling Mitchell’s gun from the holster, the barrel pointing at Mitchell’s chest.

Tim tensed, dread locking the breath in his lungs.

Bowrick glanced over at him, their eyes holding for a moment, then he slid the gun into his jeans, sat back on his heels, and looked at Tim expectantly.

Tim gathered some cord from one of the wood stacks and double-bound Mitchell’s wrists behind his back, then his ankles. One of Mitchell’s eyes stared up at him, a glossy animal organ, all pupil. Tim’s first blow had broken his cheek badly; the skin sucked in beneath the eye like a drape pulled to an open window. Tim was gentle with the gag. He patted Mitchell down, pulling the car keys from his pocket.

Bowrick sat with his elbows resting on his knees, watching Tim work. He spoke in a harsh whisper. “Where’s the guy they want to kill?”

Tim pointed at the trunk of the Lincoln.

“Why don’t we get him out of there?”

Keeping his eyes on the monument, Tim crossed to Bowrick, lowering his voice so Mitchell couldn’t hear. “Can’t have him making noise. And he’s unpredictable-we don’t want him running around right now.” He tossed Bowrick the keys. “Get the hostage clear. Don’t open the trunk, don’t talk to him. Neutral it down the hill, nice and quiet. The metal stacks’ll block you from view part of the way down. Don’t turn on the car until you’re through the gate, then drive a few blocks, park somewhere out of sight, and stay alert. Keep the cell phone on. If you haven’t heard from me in an hour, split, call Deputy Jowalski at the U.S. Marshals Service, and explain the mess I dragged you into. And this time don’t come back, even if it is to save my ass.”

Bowrick nodded, slid into the driver’s seat, and pulled the door gently shut. The Lincoln began the solemn downhill roll, tires crackling softly on the dirt path, brake lights glowing in the night.

Tim sat for a moment and mopped the blood from his forehead. One of Mitchell’s blows had opened up a seam just at his hairline; he’d have a scar on the left to match the rifle-butt wound from Kandahar. Another punch had struck his shoulder near the bullet-fragment wound; it had already swelled up. His torso felt like a nerve-filled skin bag holding rocks and razor blades. After a few moments the rush of blood into his eyes slowed, and he stood up, fighting off light-headedness.

He retrieved Betty and the Stork’s phone and dialed Robert’s number again. Betty sourced the ring to the same branch, hidden from view by the scaffolding.

Same gruff voice. “Robert.”

Tim hung up. He circled the monument to the far side. If there was gunplay, Robert would have a tactical advantage firing down on him; there was no harder shot than one directly up.