The Devil's Right Hand - J. D. Rhoades [87]
Marie leaned forward, banging her hands futilely against the metal grate. “Keller!” she shouted. “Get on the radio! You’ve got to warn them!”
“I’m kind of busy right now,” Keller muttered, but he picked up the handset and keyed the mike. “All units,” he barked, “Heads up, you’ve got a man behind that black pickup with an automatic weapon, repeat, an automatic weapon. Two officers and an accomplice are down.” He released the mike button.
The reply came back immediately. “Who is this? Who’s on this channel? Get off immediate--” the voice was cut of in a scream as Raymond opened fire. The windshield of the lead car blew in and it slewed crazily across the street into their lane. Keller spun the wheel to avoid the out-of-control police car as he jammed the accelerator to the floorboard. The patrol car rocketed away.
The pain in Raymond’s side cut through the fog of the pills like a laser, pulsing bright red and clear. He could feel the lower part of his shirt stuck to his skin with blood. The foul smell of the wound let him know that there were other, less wholesome fluids leaking from him as well. The pain filled his awareness, taking over his mind until he had no more rational mind than a wounded bull in a ring. The howl of the sirens as the first patrol car pulled up pricked at him like the picador’s spear. He raised the machine gun to his shoulder and fired. The recoil of the gun jarred him and he almost screamed with the renewed pain. But the agony was replaced with a feeling of exultation filling him as the siren abruptly cut off and the police cruiser slammed into the curb. The following cars also slammed on brakes and went sideways. Raymond dimly registered the sound of Geronimo screaming in agony. He walked over behind the pickup and looked down.
Geronimo’s shattered body lay in the street. One leg was bent at a bizarre angle. The other showed a splintered stub of bone protruding through the blood-soaked pants leg. Geronimo stopped screaming long enough to look at Raymond. His breath came in long, bubbling moans.
“Get me up, man,” he rasped. “Get me outta here.”
“I cain’t carry you,” Raymond said. “An’ you know where I live. I cain’t let the cops ask you questions.” Geronimo’s eyes widened as Raymond raised the gun. Then those eyes disappeared in a red cloud beneath the hammer of bullets.
He stepped over the body. “It don’t matter anyway,” he said to the still figure. “It all ends today.” He waded through the blood and shattered glass in the street and got into the truck. He saw the sheriff’s car getting away and gritted his teeth in frustration. He punched the gas and took off after them.
“Man,” DeWayne whined as he sat up awkwardly in the back seat. “What the fuck’d you hit me for?”
“Shut up, DeWayne,” Keller and Marie said at the same time. DeWayne muttered something and slipped down lower in the seat. The radio crackled with shouted questions and orders.
“Sounds like a real cluster-fuck back there,” Keller observed.
“Where are you going?” Marie asked him.
“Damned if I know,” he said. “Any ideas?”
They were approaching an intersection. The traffic was growing heavier. “Yeah,” Marie said. “Back to the police station.”
“That didn’t work out too well for me last time, Marie,” he said.
“You saved my life back there, Keller,” she said. “I’ll tell them. That ought to count for something.”
He wheeled around a VW putt-putting along in the right lane. The driver of the Bug gaped at the spectacle of the shot-up car as they passed. “Yeah, maybe I’ll only get ten years for trying to escape instead of twenty.”
“I saw what was going on, Keller. It’s why I stopped.”
“Then you probably saved my life, too.” Horns blared and brakes squealed as he made a