The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [61]
“Sir …”
“What?” My door seemed to have hit an obstacle.
“Sir …” said John. I looked up, and in the flashing red lights I could see the outline of a figure in a dark snowmobile suit, helmet with NVGs tilted up, sprawled in the snow at the top of the snowbank. It wasn’t moving.
“Great,” I said, “we’ve fuckin’ killed him …”
I pushed real hard, and the door opened another three or four inches. I squeezed out, into the knee-deep snow, and approached the supine figure as cautiously as I could. I could hear John crunching through the snow just above and to my left. He’d obviously gotten up on the bank.
“Careful, sir,” he said.
“Yep.” I could see both hands of the figure, gloved, with the left one out to the side, and the right one almost folded behind. I heard the peculiar steel on nylon sound as John drew his gun. That meant that I was going to have to check the body. I really hoped he wasn’t dead.
I took off my right glove, reached down, and worked the zipper at his throat, until I could get my first two fingers inside and feel for a carotid pulse. Strong. Good. I pulled my hand back, and pushed the night vision goggles up onto the top of his shiny black helmet, and carefully tested his visor. It slid up easily, and as it did so, I saw his eyes fly wide.
“Don’t move,” I said. “You’ve been in an accident …”
I took both his feet squarely in my chest. He lifted me a good foot off the ground, and propelled me backward about three. If it hadn’t been for the bulletproof vest, he would have broken a couple of my ribs, at least. He’d moved so fast I hadn’t even had time to react.
John, on the other hand, cracked off a round right past the guy’s ear as he started to stand. He stopped so fast his momentum carried him forward on the bank, and he rolled head over heels down toward me. I rolled to one side, and got to my knees, drawing my own gun as John yelled, “Freeze, asshole!”
A great command, although not designed for “post-shot,” and still better late than never. The man in the snowmobile suit froze, all right. He had both knees under him, one hand in contact with the ground, and he was grabbing at his zippered neck. Obviously trying to reach something inside the snowmobile suit.
His hand stopped when he saw my gun in front, and heard John ask a question behind him …
“Should I shoot now, sir? I got him …”
“Only if he moves,” I said. I continued kneeling in front of the man, pointing my gun at his chest. “Both hands in the air. Slow, but do it.”
He did. The visor of his helmet was still up, and I could just make out his eyes in the moonlight. As both hands cleared the top of his head, I rocked back, got my feet under me, and stood.
“Now lay down on your face, like you were going to make an angel in the snow. Hands way over your head … And turn your face away from me … That’s right…”
He did as I told him, and I saw John put his gun away, and get out his handcuffs.
“Careful, John. Stay toward his hips, ’cause I’m gonna shoot him in the head if he moves. I don’t want to get helmet fragments in you.”
That was said for the benefit of the suspect, naturally. With his head turned away, he wouldn’t have any idea where I was, and could only feel John put the handcuffs on. For a smart suspect, it would be a case of no data, no plan, no action.
The man never moved a muscle.
When John stood up, I told him to open the rear door of the car. He did, and then came back to us. I was taking no chances with this fellow, none at all. He was just too damned quick.
“Roll over, and get to your knees,” I said. Not the easiest thing to do when you’re handcuffed behind your back, but he accomplished it in one motion. I stepped behind him, removed my gloves, and patted him down. Large lump under the left arm. I knelt directly on the back of his lower legs and ankles,