hostage was standing by the front desk. The perpetrator was holding a pistol to her head.
“He's picketed the bank for a month, swearing their computers are cheating people out of their money. He claims he lost twenty thousand dollars last month, but we checked and he's never had an account here.”
“Any priors?” T.J. watched the gunman move restlessly before die window while he talked on the radio with the police.
“Assault and battery on his wife. He did three months of probation, then tried it again. The next day she left for Alaska.”
“Emotional state?”
“Unclear. His landlady said he made four trips to Mexico in the last week, possibly for drugs.”
“How are the hostages holding up?”
“As well as can be expected. “ Drake cursed softly. “One of them is my sister.”
T.J.'s fingers tightened on the rifle. “Which one?”
“That's not a factor here, McCall.”
T.J. knew what Drake was saying. His friend didn't expect special treatment for his relative. In fact, he wouldn't tolerate it. TJ. said one short, angry word. “Get those front windows open. I'll have only one shot, and I don't want to worry about glass deflection.”
“He's not going to like it. Maybe we can turn off the exterior air-conditioning. It's going to be risky, though. It's your call.”
T.J. knew the risks. The added stress might trigger the gunman, sending him on a rampage. But there was no other way to guarantee a clean shot if the situation deteriorated. “Do it.”
Ten minutes later, the windows were open. TJ. adjusted his scope, measuring for wind and range. He had trained at two hundred yards, so the distance was good. It was the gunman's state of mind he was worried about now. He couldn't allow himself to think about Drake's sister being caught inside.
He looked through the scope and framed the front windows. He saw the man turn sharply and gesture, then throw something down on the floor. He shouted as he grabbed one of the women and jabbed his revolver under her neck. “Drake, are you seeing this?”
“Affirmative.” Static crackled, then Drake's voice returned. “You are clear to fire,” he said grimly. “Repeat, clear to fire.”
T.J. tracked the man, waiting until the hostage was out of his line of fire. He focused, fining up for one shot in the back of the head, which would guarantee a clean takedown.
The gunman gestured wildly, slapping the woman and sending her to her knees. TJ. squeezed out one shot.
TJ. slanted his forehead against the steering wheel as wind whipped through his open window.
The desert around him was silent. Only the wind whispered, stirring up sand and shaking the dry branches of ocotillo and smoky blue palobrea. The silence of the high desert could be unnerving to those unused to its secrets, but T J. had always found pleasure in the silence. And he did so now.
Breathing.
Trying to block out images of shattered glass and a fallen body.
He stared down at two hundred miles of snaking canyons red in the fire of sunset. And he breathed. Letting the bright colors and the hot wind heal him, as they always did.
With each breath he restored another piece of his harmony. Violent death was part of the profession he had chosen, and TJ. was in no sense a cowardly man. He accepted the fact of death, even when the personal resonance of those deaths shook him awake at night, sweaty and shaking.
Grady said caring made him a better police officer.
T J. hoped it was true.
By the time he pulled into Almost forty-five minutes later, the sun hung crimson above the horizon. The windows of the General Mercantile glowed hot and red with the sun's reflection. The distant mountains were hazed with pink. Next would come purple, gathering into thelong velvet shadows of twilight, his favorite time of day. Already the moon hung low, a pale sickle in the darkening turquoise sky.
By sheer habit, T.J. swept his gaze along the street, looking for anything out of the ordinary that would require his
“He's picketed the bank for a month, swearing their computers are cheating people out of their money. He claims he lost twenty thousand dollars last month, but we checked and he's never had an account here.”
“Any priors?” T.J. watched the gunman move restlessly before die window while he talked on the radio with the police.
“Assault and battery on his wife. He did three months of probation, then tried it again. The next day she left for Alaska.”
“Emotional state?”
“Unclear. His landlady said he made four trips to Mexico in the last week, possibly for drugs.”
“How are the hostages holding up?”
“As well as can be expected. “ Drake cursed softly. “One of them is my sister.”
T.J.'s fingers tightened on the rifle. “Which one?”
“That's not a factor here, McCall.”
T.J. knew what Drake was saying. His friend didn't expect special treatment for his relative. In fact, he wouldn't tolerate it. TJ. said one short, angry word. “Get those front windows open. I'll have only one shot, and I don't want to worry about glass deflection.”
“He's not going to like it. Maybe we can turn off the exterior air-conditioning. It's going to be risky, though. It's your call.”
T.J. knew the risks. The added stress might trigger the gunman, sending him on a rampage. But there was no other way to guarantee a clean shot if the situation deteriorated. “Do it.”
Ten minutes later, the windows were open. TJ. adjusted his scope, measuring for wind and range. He had trained at two hundred yards, so the distance was good. It was the gunman's state of mind he was worried about now. He couldn't allow himself to think about Drake's sister being caught inside.
He looked through the scope and framed the front windows. He saw the man turn sharply and gesture, then throw something down on the floor. He shouted as he grabbed one of the women and jabbed his revolver under her neck. “Drake, are you seeing this?”
“Affirmative.” Static crackled, then Drake's voice returned. “You are clear to fire,” he said grimly. “Repeat, clear to fire.”
T.J. tracked the man, waiting until the hostage was out of his line of fire. He focused, fining up for one shot in the back of the head, which would guarantee a clean takedown.
The gunman gestured wildly, slapping the woman and sending her to her knees. TJ. squeezed out one shot.
TJ. slanted his forehead against the steering wheel as wind whipped through his open window.
The desert around him was silent. Only the wind whispered, stirring up sand and shaking the dry branches of ocotillo and smoky blue palobrea. The silence of the high desert could be unnerving to those unused to its secrets, but T J. had always found pleasure in the silence. And he did so now.
Breathing.
Trying to block out images of shattered glass and a fallen body.
He stared down at two hundred miles of snaking canyons red in the fire of sunset. And he breathed. Letting the bright colors and the hot wind heal him, as they always did.
With each breath he restored another piece of his harmony. Violent death was part of the profession he had chosen, and TJ. was in no sense a cowardly man. He accepted the fact of death, even when the personal resonance of those deaths shook him awake at night, sweaty and shaking.
Grady said caring made him a better police officer.
T J. hoped it was true.
By the time he pulled into Almost forty-five minutes later, the sun hung crimson above the horizon. The windows of the General Mercantile glowed hot and red with the sun's reflection. The distant mountains were hazed with pink. Next would come purple, gathering into thelong velvet shadows of twilight, his favorite time of day. Already the moon hung low, a pale sickle in the darkening turquoise sky.
By sheer habit, T.J. swept his gaze along the street, looking for anything out of the ordinary that would require his
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