Cross Fire - James Patterson [85]
“Okay.” I started kneeling slowly. My leg was seizing up, and I could barely move it now. “I’m putting it down,” I said.
But I didn’t trust that boy’s life to Kyle’s word. So I took the chance I had to take. I turned the gun at the last second and fired low. The boy wasn’t big enough to shield Kyle top to bottom. My shot caught him just below the kneecap.
He howled like a wild animal. The boy dropped to the sand and then scrambled for his mother. Kyle tried to stand, but he could get up only on one leg — and only until I shot that one, too.
He flew back into the sand, his chest heaving with pain. His legs were a bloody mess now, and it felt good. I especially liked taking him down with his own weapon.
I saw Bree then, running toward us with two uniformed officers. She pointed Kyle out to them as they came, and then ran straight over to me.
“Oh my God.” She put an arm around me to take some of the weight off my leg. “Are you all right?”
I nodded. “He’ll need an ambulance.”
“It’s on the way,” one of the police officers said.
Kyle’s eyes were closed, but he opened them when my shadow crossed between the sun and his face.
“It’s over, Kyle,” I said. “For good this time.”
“Define ‘over,’” he wheezed. His breath was ragged, and he was shaking with pain. “You think you’ve won something here?”
“I’m not talking about winning,” I said. “I’m talking about putting you away where you can’t hurt anyone ever again.”
He tried to smile. “Didn’t stop me the last time,” he said.
“Well, you know what they say. The only thing worse than going into solitary is going back,” I said. “But maybe it’s just an expression.”
For possibly the first time ever, I saw something like fear in Kyle Craig’s eyes. It lasted only a second before he snapped back to the same rigid demeanor.
“This isn’t over!” he croaked, but he was already talking to my back.
The ambulance was just pulling up to where we were, and I wanted to warn the EMTs.
“Take care of him first,” I said, “but you need to be careful. This man is extremely dangerous.”
“We’ve got this, sir,” one of the policemen told me. “And I need you to surrender that weapon.”
I handed it over a little reluctantly, and Bree helped me down onto a lounge chair, where I could still keep an eye on things. In the meantime she grabbed a towel and wrapped it tightly around my leg.
Kyle didn’t bother to resist as the med techs gave him a drip and an oxygen mask, then cut away his pant legs. He’d lost a lot of blood. His face was paper white. I think the reality of going back to ADX Florence was really starting to sink in.
They got him onto a gurney and put the IV bag and oxygen tank between his legs so that they could lift everything up into the ambulance.
“You need to cuff him,” I called over to the cops. “And don’t let those EMTs ride alone!”
“Just calm down, sir,” one of them told me in an angry voice.
“I’m a police officer, and I know what I’m talking about,” I said. “This man’s wanted by the FBI, and you need to restrain him. Right now!”
“Okay, okay.” He motioned to his partner, and they walked over toward Kyle.
Almost as if the scene were in slow motion, I watched as the first cop stepped into the back of the ambulance. The cuffs came up — and then I saw Kyle reach for them, with the kind of channeled strength only a psychopath like him could muster in that condition. He used the cuffs to pull the officer down to him and, in a second, had the man’s gun in his hand.
Bree stood up instinctively to help, but I rolled off the lounge chair and pulled her down with me.
There was a gunshot, and then another.
Then the first of two loud explosions. We would find out later that a bullet had pierced Kyle’s oxygen tank.
It burst into a ball of flame inside the confines of the ambulance, followed quickly by the fuel tank.
The entire vehicle imploded with a blast that stunned my eardrums. Glass and metal flew more up than out, and a shower of sand rained down over us. People were screaming again.
When I raised my head, I saw that there was no question