Sting

She scurried past Joe and through the door. Joe stayed where he was, but he could hear Hick speaking to her quietly and urgently. After a moment, Joe spoke softly over his shoulder. “Hick, can you hear me?”

“Yes.”

“She all right?”

“Shaking like a leaf. Dazed. Otherwise okay.”

“What’d she say about him?”

“Badly wounded.”

“Is he armed?”

“She says he has what sounds like a nine-millimeter, but it’s empty, and he hid the cartridge. Or so he told her.”

“Any other weapons?”

“A pocket knife. But in her opinion it’s not much of a threat.”

Joe thought, Yeah, but she’s not a hired assassin. “She left his palm pistol on the floor here, about ten yards inside the door. Be sure it’s bagged.”

“Got it.”

Joe took several deep breaths to bolster himself mentally and physically for whatever might occur in the next few minutes, then called out Kinnard’s name.

“I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me,” he said from out of the hollow gloom. “What’s taking so freakin’ long?”

“Turn the spotlight around so I can see you.”

“I’m not armed.”

“Convince me.”

He directed the light off Joe and onto himself. Nevertheless, Joe still could barely make him out, and he didn’t trust the fucker as far as he could throw him. He reached back and slid his pistol from its holster. As he started forward, an inane thought flashed through his mind: Marsha would kill him if he got himself killed.

As he moved farther into the building, he gained a clearer view of the man sitting on what appeared to be a blue tarpaulin. He was angled thirty degrees to his right, bracing himself on that arm. His left hand was pressed against his left side, which he was obviously favoring.

“Raise your hands,” Joe said.

Grimacing, he shifted into a more upright position and removed his left hand from his side, then did as ordered. The skin across his sharp cheekbones looked stretched tight, waxy, and pale. Sweat had plastered strands of hair to his forehead. Blood had soaked into his clothes and was smeared beneath him on the tarp.

He was blinded by the spotlight, so as Joe came nearer, he had the advantage of being able to see Kinnard better than Kinnard could see him. He halted while still out of arm’s reach. “Lie down and turn over.”

“Bet you a thousand bucks you lied about coming in unarmed.”

Joe gripped his extended pistol tighter. “Hands behind your head.”

“On my stomach? Hands behind my head? That’ll hurt like a mother.”

“I don’t give a shit. Do it.”

Either he was a damn good actor, or he really was in excruciating pain. Even the slightest motion caused him to gasp. He paused several times, switching between holding his breath and panting. It took him a full minute to do as Joe had ordered, but when he was in the position, Joe called out for Hick and the others.

Joe himself was nearly mowed down by the special ops officers in assault gear who charged into the building and rushed past him to form a ring around Kinnard, shouting at him not to move, their weapons primed to fire if he did.

Hick jogged up to Joe, who lowered his pistol to his side, noticing that his hand on the grip was wet with nervous sweat. “You called the cowboys after all.”

“The whole damn cavalry,” Hick said. He squatted and picked up the palm pistol before it got lost in the shuffle.