Warren dashed another thirty feet to get a better angle, then shouted out to the police imposter.
“Police officer! Don’t move!” Warren yelled, his voice breaking from the effort.
Pointer reacted instantly, lifting Nathan off the ground by his chin and using his wriggling body as a shield. The boy brought his hands up to his attacker’s arm, doing a chin-up to keep from strangling.
“Back off, pig, or I’ll pop him here!” Pointer yelled, bringing the Magnum up to the boy’s temple. His threat was barely audible above the din of the hovering choppers.
“I’m not going anywhere!” Michaels declared. “You let the boy go, and you live. That’s the only deal you get. Anything else happens and you die!” Warren tried to look menacing in his two-handed shooter’s stance, but in his heart he knew he could never make the shot without hitting Nathan.
The situation had been played to a standoff. No one would shoot as long as Pointer had the boy as his shield, and Nathan was the only bargaining chip that Pointer had left. As he played out his bluff, Warren was vaguely aware of the arrival of a swarm of other police officers.
In the command van, Murphy slammed his fist on the console. “I don’t fucking believe it,” he declared to the room. “I’ve got a murderer being held hostage by a kidnapper impersonating a police officer! Where the hell are the good guys?”
He snatched the microphone away from the dispatcher. “Command to SWAT Leader. Give me a report.”
“It’s bad, Sheriff,” said a metallic voice from the speaker. “We’re stuck until something breaks. I think it’s a bad idea to move in any closer.”
Shit. “Command to Sniper One, what kind of shot do you have?”
The range had increased to a hundred yards, and Steadman’s sight picture was half-cop and half-boy, and moving around crazily.
“Shitty,” he replied. “Who’s my target, anyway? The police officer or the kid?” It seemed obvious enough, he supposed, but one doesn’t blast another cop without being very damned sure.
After a pause, Murphy answered, “It appears that the cop is your primary target, unless the kid poses a threat to somebody. Remember, he’s still a killer.”
Nathan couldn’t breathe. With his feet dangling in the air, his arms didn’t have the strength to continue supporting him. As he lost his grip, Pointer’s arm crushed his windpipe. He felt like his head was going to explode, the increased pressure causing blood to stream faster from his damaged nose. As the muzzle of the Magnum bore into his ear, Nathan wet his pants.
Out in front, through the blur and the pain, he saw a man with a gun, dressed in a brown suit with a blue shirt and a striped tie. He was shouting something that he couldn’t hear. He had soft eyes that looked sad. He looked like a good guy.
“Sniper One to Command, do I have a green light if I’ve got a shot?”
Typical of a politician, Steadman thought. Murphy wouldn’t make that decision on his own. Rather, he bumped it to the real leader on the street.
“SWAT Team Leader?”
“The situation is critical here, Sheriff. I say take what he can get.”
“That’s affirmative, Sniper One, you have the green light if you have a shot.”
Steadman smiled. Finally his moment had arrived, but the best shot he had was a terrible shot. At this range, a slight breeze, a sudden movement by the target could turn a sure kill into a tragedy. He worked the bolt to chamber a .30-caliber round and rested the stock on the windowsill. He’d have given a lot for the comfort of his first station at the front window, but he had to settle for what he had.
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.