Sting

“Wrong. I could opt to kill you where you stand.”

“You do and it’s likely that you and Ms. Bennett would also be cut down.”

“At least I’d die trying.”

“It still amounts to a hopeless outcome.” Joe Wiley let that sink in. “Surrender, Mr. Kinnard. You’ll receive immediate medical attention. You have my word.”

During their exchange, Jordie had kept the spotlight trained on the federal agent, afraid of what either he or Shaw would do if she switched it off. She feared a hair-trigger reaction to the sudden darkness that could result in an eruption of catastrophic gunfire.

She looked at the small but menacing pistol still gripped in Shaw’s hand, then into his fever-glazed eyes. Please. She didn’t even speak the word. It was merely a beseeching movement of her lips, and it persuaded him.

He lowered his gun hand, drew in a deep breath, and released it slowly. Turning his head to bring their faces close, and speaking in a voice only she could hear, he said, “To answer your question . . . The moment I laid eyes on you, your life was spared.”

She took that in, her throat constricting with emotion. “So all this time I’ve been safe from you?”

“Safe from me?” He gave a grim smile and shook his head. “Not for a single second.”

He held her stare for several beats more, then, moving quickly, reached behind his back, took the knife from his seat pocket, and flicked it open. “Hold still.” He cut the cuff from their wrists. “Now go.”

“Shaw—”

“Go!” His whisper was harsh, emphatic.

Sounding alarmed, Wiley shouted from the doorway. “Ms. Bennett, what’s going on?”

Shaw said, “Go!”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Jesus!” He reached fo

r her hand and slapped the pistol into it. “Now will you get the hell away from me?”

She hesitated a second more, then made to stand up, but Shaw grabbed her arm. “Alert him, so he won’t blast you.”

“Agent Wiley,” she called shakily. “I’m coming out. I have his gun. He gave it to me. All right?”

“Hold it where I can see it.”

Shaw released her arm and gave a brusque nod. Again, she wavered, then stood up, turned away from him, and started walking slowly toward the door, holding her right hand away from her body.

In one glance, Joe evaluated the physical condition of the woman coming toward him, and his immediate impression was that she was a much diminished version of the Jordan Bennett he remembered from months before.

She was walking unsteadily. As she neared him, she raised her hands in surrender. Both her hands and her clothing were liberally bloodstained. In her right hand she was holding a small pistol.

“Set the pistol on the floor.”

She did.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

“Okay, just like that,” Joe said, “with arms raised.” He jerked his head toward the open door behind him. “Now. Hick?”

“Here!”

“She’s coming out.”