"But Weir--"
"Faked the shooting in detention. He's out and's somewhere around here. I've got an armored van on its way."
Turning again, squinting, surveying the scenery.
Roland Bell finally reached Grady and stood over him, his back to the dark windows of the government office building across the street.
"Just stay right where you are, Charles," Bell said. "We'll get out of this fine." And pulled his handy-talkie off his belt.
*
What was this?
Hobbs Wentworth watched his target below him--the prosecutor--cowering on the sidewalk behind a man in a sportscoat, a cop obviously.
The crosshairs of Hobbs's 'scope poked around the officer's back, searching unsuccessfully for an unprotected shot at Grady.
The prosecutor was low, the cop standing. It seemed to Hobbs that if he shot through the cop's lower back he'd probably hit Grady in the upper chest, since he was crouching. But the risk was that the shot would be deflec
ted and Grady'd only be wounded and fall to safety behind a car.
Well, he had to do something pretty soon. The cop was talking on his radio. There'd be a hundred more of 'em here in a minute. Come on, sharp operator, he said to himself. Whatcha gonna do?
Below him the cop was still looking around, covering Grady, who squatted like a bitch retriever peeing.
All right. What he'd do was shoot the cop in the upper leg, the thigh. That way, most likely, the cop would fall backward, exposing the prosecutor. The Colt was semiauto so he could fire five shots in two seconds. Not perfect but it was the best Hobbs could think of.
He'd give the cop a moment or two longer to step aside or sway out of the way.
Both eyes open as the right one stared through the 'scope, painting the back of the detective with the crosshairs and thinking that when he got back to Canton Falls he'd make up a Bible story about this. Jesus would play his role and would be armed with a kick-ass compound bow, about to ambush a bunch of Roman soldiers, who'd been torturing Christians. Julius Caesar would be hiding behind one soldier and thinking he was safe but Jesus would shoot through the soldier and kill the son-of-a-bitch.
Good story. The kids'd love it.
The cop was still huddled over the prosecutor.
Well, that's it, Hobbs thought, clicking off the safety of the big Colt. No time left. Burn in brimstone, Christ-killing Romans.
He centered the crosshairs on the back of the cop's leg and began to apply slow pressure on the trigger, thinking that his only regret was that the officer was white, not black.
But one thing Hobbs Wentworth'd learned in life: you take your targets the way you find 'em.
Forty Roland Bell smelled the distinctive plastic/sweat/metal scent of the Motorola handy-talkie as he clutched it to his face.
"ESU Four, you 'bout ready, K?" he drawled into the mike.
"Roger that, K," one of them replied.
"Okay, now--"
Which is when the muffled cracks of multiple shots resounded through the canyon of the street.
Bell jumped.
"Gunshots!" Charles Grady cried. "I heard shots! Are you hit?"
"Just stay down," Bell said as he dropped into a crouch. He spun around, lifting his gun and squinting hard at the government office building across the street.
He was counting furiously.