Page 29 of Hellbent

They hurtled along the road, two kids in a standoff on a seesaw.

Except the seesaw was traveling fifty miles per hour.

Wind howled around the maw of the windshield. Driving backward protected Evan from the rain. He had a clear view over the top of his pistol and no bullet-deflecting glass between him and the target.

Before the cop could react, Evan jogged the wheel slightly, offsetting the vehicles, opening up an angle to the side of the cruiser.

He shot out the front tire.

Fifteen rounds left.

As the cruiser wobbled and lost acceleration, Evan braked in time with it, holding it in his pistol sights the entire way.

Both cars slowed, slowed, gently nodding to their respective halts. They faced each other about ten yards apart.

Pistol locked on the cop, Evan got out of the Caddy. His boots shoved mounds in the soggy ground. The rain had stopped, but the air still felt pregnant, raising beads of condensation on his skin. His shirt felt like a wet rag.

The cop was still buckled in, fingers locked on the steering wheel, collecting himself.

“Out,” Evan said. “Hands.”

The cop unbuckled and climbed out. Sweat trickled down his face, clung to the strands of his starter mustache. He stood in the V of his open door. Evan indicated for him to step clear of the car, which he did. He looked earnest and stalwart standing there before the block lettering of his cruiser: HILLSBORO PD. A holstered Glock rode his right hip. His hands were shaking, but only slightly. He wore a wedding ring.

A muffled voice yelled from the Caddy’s trunk, “Don’t do it! Don’t you hurt him!”

The cop stiffened, licked his lips. “Who’s that?”

Evan said, “I’m not sure yet.”

The cop inched his hands down a bit.

“You have a family,” Evan told him.

The cop said, “And you’ve got a girl in the trunk of your stolen vehicle.”

“I’ll admit there are rare occasions on which there’s a reasonable explanation for that,” Evan said. “This is one of them.”

The cop did not look impressed with that.

“I’m not going to hurt her,” Evan said.

“Forgive me for not taking you at your word.”

The breeze swept a bitter-fresh scent of churned soil and roadside weeds. The cop’s right hand twitched ever so slightly, raised there over the holster. He was the kind of guy who worked hard, helped his neighbors, stayed up late watching westerns on TV.

“Kids?” Evan asked.

The cop nodded. “Daughter. She’s five.” His Adam’s apple lurched with a strained swallow. “I have to look her in the eye every morning and every night and know I did the right thing.”

“Think this through,” Evan said. “Do I seem like a guy who doesn’t know what he’s doing?”

The cop’s hand dove for his pistol.

It got only halfway there before Evan fired.

13

Dying Only Meant One Thing