it had a scope. It was a Weatherby with a twenty-eight inch barrel. My daddy had one just like it when I was growing up and I’d shot it enough to know how to use it.
I followed after White Hair and was pleased to see an intermittent blood trail amongst the grass. Within a minute, I was in sight of him as we came upon a hill that sloped down to what sounded like a road, as the sound of tires on pavement came and went sporadically.
My last bullet had slowed White Hair down, and as he reached the rim of the slope, I was less than a hundred feet behind him.
He went down the tall hill in an uncontrollable slide and hit bottom hard before tumbling out into the road. A green Mercedes braked with a long squeal and just avoided running him over. When it finally stopped, he was laying halfway beneath it.
The driver of the car, a well-dressed, middle-aged woman with short red hair exited the car, and as I cried out to warn her, White Hair leaped up and punched her in the face.
The woman fell to the ground, unconscious, and White Hair ran around to the driver’s side door. He stared up at me then with a maniacal grin on his scratched and bloody face as he sent me an obscene gesture.
As he sat in the driver’s seat, I dropped flat, rifle up, and sighted down at him.
Before I could take the shot, he floored the gas pedal and drove over the woman lying in the road. He deliberately aimed for her head, and he hit it.
I dropped the rifle in revulsion as I fought not to vomit at what the car had done to her.
Then, rage overcame repulsion and I grabbed the rifle again.
By the time I took the first shot, he was a quarter of a mile away, moving fast, and it was a downward angle.
I missed, not even close.
The second shot brought the sound of breaking glass to my ears, but the car stayed on the road and was approaching a curve.
Time was running out.
I had three cartridges left and I let all three fly.
My reward was the sight of a splattered, bloody window and the beautiful vision of the car swerving into a ditch and flipping over, end over end.
I laid the rifle down on the grass and cried.
I was still lying there when I heard the police and ambulance arrive below, and a few moments later, a helicopter appeared overhead.
It landed in the field behind me and a State Trooper walked towards me, walking beside him was Dr. Tanner Harlow.
“Blue Steele?” The trooper said.
I nodded.
“I’m State Trooper, Sergeant John Wincomb, Selby’s on his way to the hospital. He’s going to make it, thanks to Dr. Harlow here.”
I looked over at Harlow.
“Thank you,”
Harlow shrugged.
“I was a doctor before I was a thief. I would never just run away and let a man die.”
Wincomb pointed at the rifle slung over my shoulder.
“You got him with that?”
“Yes,”
“That’s some fine shooting,”
“I want to go home.” I said.
Wincomb nodded in understanding, and the three of us headed for the chopper.
About The Author
Donald Wells is the author of numerous short stories and novels, including The TAKEN! Series, The Caliber Detective Agency, Blue Steele, Monsters & The Reynolds Family Saga.
He lives deep inside a writing cave in the wilds of New Jersey.
However, the cave does have Internet access, and so, you can contact him at:
www.donaldwells.com
If you’d like to be kept aware of new releases, please send an email to:
[email protected]
Your information will never be sold and it will only be used to inform you of new books.
Thank you!
Please leave a review. It will be much appreciated,
Thank you,
COPYRIGHT
BLUE STEELE – BOX SET – CAPTURES 1-6
Copyright © Donald Wells, 2012
––––––––
T his book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S.
I followed after White Hair and was pleased to see an intermittent blood trail amongst the grass. Within a minute, I was in sight of him as we came upon a hill that sloped down to what sounded like a road, as the sound of tires on pavement came and went sporadically.
My last bullet had slowed White Hair down, and as he reached the rim of the slope, I was less than a hundred feet behind him.
He went down the tall hill in an uncontrollable slide and hit bottom hard before tumbling out into the road. A green Mercedes braked with a long squeal and just avoided running him over. When it finally stopped, he was laying halfway beneath it.
The driver of the car, a well-dressed, middle-aged woman with short red hair exited the car, and as I cried out to warn her, White Hair leaped up and punched her in the face.
The woman fell to the ground, unconscious, and White Hair ran around to the driver’s side door. He stared up at me then with a maniacal grin on his scratched and bloody face as he sent me an obscene gesture.
As he sat in the driver’s seat, I dropped flat, rifle up, and sighted down at him.
Before I could take the shot, he floored the gas pedal and drove over the woman lying in the road. He deliberately aimed for her head, and he hit it.
I dropped the rifle in revulsion as I fought not to vomit at what the car had done to her.
Then, rage overcame repulsion and I grabbed the rifle again.
By the time I took the first shot, he was a quarter of a mile away, moving fast, and it was a downward angle.
I missed, not even close.
The second shot brought the sound of breaking glass to my ears, but the car stayed on the road and was approaching a curve.
Time was running out.
I had three cartridges left and I let all three fly.
My reward was the sight of a splattered, bloody window and the beautiful vision of the car swerving into a ditch and flipping over, end over end.
I laid the rifle down on the grass and cried.
I was still lying there when I heard the police and ambulance arrive below, and a few moments later, a helicopter appeared overhead.
It landed in the field behind me and a State Trooper walked towards me, walking beside him was Dr. Tanner Harlow.
“Blue Steele?” The trooper said.
I nodded.
“I’m State Trooper, Sergeant John Wincomb, Selby’s on his way to the hospital. He’s going to make it, thanks to Dr. Harlow here.”
I looked over at Harlow.
“Thank you,”
Harlow shrugged.
“I was a doctor before I was a thief. I would never just run away and let a man die.”
Wincomb pointed at the rifle slung over my shoulder.
“You got him with that?”
“Yes,”
“That’s some fine shooting,”
“I want to go home.” I said.
Wincomb nodded in understanding, and the three of us headed for the chopper.
About The Author
Donald Wells is the author of numerous short stories and novels, including The TAKEN! Series, The Caliber Detective Agency, Blue Steele, Monsters & The Reynolds Family Saga.
He lives deep inside a writing cave in the wilds of New Jersey.
However, the cave does have Internet access, and so, you can contact him at:
www.donaldwells.com
If you’d like to be kept aware of new releases, please send an email to:
[email protected]
Your information will never be sold and it will only be used to inform you of new books.
Thank you!
Please leave a review. It will be much appreciated,
Thank you,
COPYRIGHT
BLUE STEELE – BOX SET – CAPTURES 1-6
Copyright © Donald Wells, 2012
––––––––
T his book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S.
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