The Big Thaw - Donald Harstad [97]
Ugly concept.
There were three landings, each about twenty to twenty-five feet up the ladder. Open platforms, they had rails about four feet high. From the last platform on, anybody on that ladder was a dead man. At night, maybe, you could get as high as two platforms up, without getting shot. But by the third …
I saw the sniper pop up, and crack off a round down toward the right side of the building. Toward Twenty-five, the Maitland officer. Or, likely, his car. I pressed the “talk” button on my walkie-talkie mike.
“You okay, Twenty-five?” I asked.
“You bettcha …” came the reply. “But I think my car’s dead.”
“He’s just keeping your head down,” I said.
“He sure as hell is,” he said.
“YOU ON THE GRAIN ELEVATOR! THIS IS AGENT VOLONT OF THE FBI!” came booming and crackling right behind me. Scared me nearly to death. He’d apparently gotten the thing fixed.
There was no response.
He tried again, this time adding that the suspect should surrender.
I was looking up at the top of the elevator, my rifle at my shoulder and aimed where I’d last seen the shooter, when he came popping back up at the other end of the tower. As I brought my rifle to bear, he cracked off two rounds and disappeared.
“Son of a bitch!” hollered Volont.
“Sorry,” I said, “but I almost had him that time …”
I turned, half expecting him to yell again. Close.
There was a neat, round hole in the rim of his bullhorn, and he was scrambling back behind some concrete steps leading into the side of one of the houses.
He put the bullhorn back to his face, and I turned toward the elevator. This time, I had my rifle pointed at where our sniper had popped up moments ago.
“YOU MIGHT AS WELL GIVE UP. YOU’RE SURROUNDED, AND CANNOT ESCAPE.”
Succinct, you gotta admit.
Nothing. I was all set to light him up, and nothing.
I lowered my rifle, and joined Volont behind the steps. Quickly.
“Now what?”
“You looking for suggestions?” he asked.
“Yah.”
“Wait him out.”
“Okay,” I said. “It’s gonna get awfully cold up there tonight. He could well freeze to death.”
“You got a problem with that?”
“Not in the least.”
We were both looking up when the sniper’s head bobbed up. Arms extended into the air. No sign of his rifle.
“Shit,” I muttered, “I think I could hit him now …”
Volont gave me a withering look, and picked up his bullhorn. “ARE YOU SURRENDERING?”
Faintly, we could hear a voice, but we couldn’t make out the words.
“WE CAN’T UNDERSTAND WHAT YOU’RE SAYING!”
“… I kill him?” wafted down from the top of the elevator.
“DID YOU KILL HIM? IS THAT THE QUESTION?”
“… yes …” came back. Along with something else we lost.
“I DON’T KNOW WHO YOU MEAN. YOU DIDN’T, I REPEAT, DID NOT KILL ANYONE!”
That should have been good news to a man who was about to surrender. If you’re under fifty, the difference between twenty years and life can be a long time.
With that, the sniper simply stood up, and began climbing over the top rail. Apparently, it wasn’t good news to him.
“Shit,” I said. “He’s gonna jump …”
He extended both arms in a cruciform, like he was going to do a swan dive or something.
“DON’T DO IT …”
He teetered there for a second. Composing himself for the jump. He just needed to screw his courage up a little bit more.
Then, unexpectedly, he slipped. His feet just went out from under him, his butt smacked into the rail, his arms flailed, and, instinctively, he caught himself.
Our suicidal sniper was now hanging by his hands about 100 feet over our heads. Instinct having taken over when he