Sting

“I’m both.”

Jordie slouched with relief. “Thank God,” she breathed, and said to Shaw, “You can put the gun down now.”

“Not a fucking chance.”

“But he said—”

“He’s lying.”

A silhouette appeared in the open doorway, arms extended at his sides, fingers spread wide to show that his hands were empty.

She whispered, “See? He’s keeping his word.”

“Not to me he isn’t.”

“But—”

“Ms. Bennett?” the agent called.

Shaw nudged her with his elbow. “Don’t say anything until you hit him with the spotlight.”

Jordie looked at Shaw with misgiving. “Why? What are you going to do?”

“Hit him with the spotlight.”

“So you can see to shoot him?”

“I could already have shot him, and if I’d fired, he’d be dead. Now shine the light on him.”

Still uncertain, she picked up the spotlight, turned it on, and pointed it toward the agent, who blinked against the bright beam but didn’t recoil from it.

“That your guy?” Shaw asked her.

“Yes.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay. Answer him.”

She cleared her throat. “Agent Wiley? I’m here.”

“You all right?”

“Yes. I’m fine. But Mr. Kinnard is seriously wounded.”

“How so?”

“I…I—”

Shaw said, “She stuck me in the gut.”

Joe Wiley took a moment to process that. “You’re bleeding out?”

“Not quickly. But I think my entrails are filling up with pus.”

“Then you’re out of options except to surrender peacefully.”