Stand Down. Don Pendleton
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mind if I begin preparations while we wait for Jack.”
Rustling about among the shelves, she heard the chair creak behind her. “I thought Jack was taking you and your daughter—Kelly, isn’t it?—out to dinner this evening.”
Son of a bitch—they were listening, she thought. Grabbing a ceramic dish of the previous night’s beef stew, Sandra straightened, and closed the refrigerator door. “Why would you say that, Deputy?”
“You know how it is in big companies. Nothing is ever really private.”
Damn. As soon as the words hit her ears, Sandra realized they knew everything. Her priorities shifted from escaping with Jack to making sure her daughter and she survived the next few minutes. Still holding the cold dish in her hands, she walked to the stove and twisted the knob to heat the oven, then opened the door and set the casserole dish inside, slipping the glass cover off as she rose. “I don’t know what you mean by that—”
Putting everything she had into it, she whirled and threw the glass cover at where she expected the deputy to be. The moment she turned, she saw her error—he’d already stepped to the right, closer to the front door. The heavy glass cover sailed past his chest and slammed into the wall, gouging a chunk of drywall out before falling to shatter on the tile floor.
The motion had still caught the deputy by surprise, and he flinched from the breaking glass. Sandra didn’t stop to see what he was doing, but lunged for the bread box, shoving the cover open and grabbing the revolver. Whirling again, she aimed the pistol at Deputy Quintanar at the same time he raised his own gun.
Even in the large kitchen with its high ceiling, the twin reports of the pistols sounded like claps of thunder going off right next to her. As she saw the deputy go down, Sandra also felt an impact on her upper chest, and immediately her right arm refused to work. She managed to get the gun into her left hand and edged around the kitchen table, conscious of the ringing in her ears and the trickle of warm blood dripping down her breast to pool in her bra. Spying a booted foot, she crept closer, pistol at the ready to finish off the deputy. His torso came into view, and finally his arms and head. Taking aim, Sandra was just about to squeeze the trigger when she caught a motion out of the corner of her eye.
Keeping the gun trained on the motionless body, she glanced over to see Kelly in the doorway to the hall, her mouth open in shock at what she was seeing.
“Kelly, get back, now!” Sandra bore down on the trigger, but the moment’s distraction was enough. When she returned her attention to the prone gunman, Sandra saw he was pointing his SIG-Sauer at her, and fired.
The bullet plowed through her midsection, mangling her large intestine and shattering her spine before punching a grape-sized hole in her lower back as it exited. There was a remarkable lack of pain; instead, it felt as if a large part of her body was suddenly just not there.
With all control of her legs gone, Sandra stayed upright just long enough to pull the trigger of her own pistol, the bullet flying harmlessly wide, before collapsing on the floor, landing hard enough to make stars swim before her. Her vision cleared enough to see Kelly coming toward her. With a tremendous effort, Sandra shook her head, mouthing, “Run…” Tears streaming down her face, her daughter vanished up the stairs.
Hearing movement from the other end of the kitchen, Sandra managed to twist her head back to see the deputy climb to his feet, breathing hard, but apparently none the worse for wear. She saw the hole in her jacket where her bullet had entered—a perfect heart shot—but Deputy Quintanar moved like he hadn’t been shot at all. Bastard was wearing a vest…she thought.
He kept his pistol trained on her as he stepped forward. Sandra tried to raise her gun, wanting one more chance at the man who was about to take everything from her, but her numb arm refused to obey the command. Then he was next to her, nudging the revolver out of her hand and placing it on the counter.
“Although I admire your courage, Mrs. Bitterman, it is a pity you didn’t choose to cooperate. Now your husband will have to see you in this state, to say nothing of your daughter. I’m sure he will cooperate fully with our investigation once he knows we have Kelly in custody.”
He moved to step past her, but was stopped by her hand on his ankle. Although she already found it hard to breathe, she forced the words out. “You leave…my daughter…out of this.”
He shook her off like a horse shook off a bothersome fly. “I’m afraid that is no longer possible. You can be consoled, however, by the fact that you will not be alive to see what will happen to her.”
Sandra steeled herself for the final bullet, but instead the deputy stepped past her and walked into the hallway, pistol in front of him as he searched the rest of the house.
Sandra felt herself growing cold, and realized that she was bleeding to death. She hoped Kelly had been smart enough to get out of the house—there were a few ways to leave, even from the second story. She knew the plan, but it had all counted on her securing a vehicle. On foot, she might make it to safety, but there were no guarantees. Sandra racked her brain. There had to be a way to enable her daughter to get to the garage….
The comforting smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted to her nose, and Sandra realized what she could do. She reached for the nearest cabinet, grabbing the stainless-steel handles, pulling each drawer out, and pulling herself up by them with her single good arm. Her injured shoulder throbbed with pain each time she moved, but strangely, she felt nothing below her waist, just numbness. The floor was slick with blood—her blood—making it easier to move, but she didn’t know if she’d be able to stand up in the slippery pool. With all of her remaining strength, she twisted her body so she was facing the counter, and smiled as she saw her target just within reach.
She had just gotten her fingers on the pot handle when she heard noise coming from two different directions—the tread of the deputy’s feet on the stairs, and the rattle of Jack’s key in the front door lock. Twisting back again, Sandra opened her mouth to shout a warning, but simply breathing was an effort, to say nothing of trying to force air out to warn him off.
“Sandra? Sandra, where are you—oh my God!” Jack rushed in, skidding to a stop as he saw his wife slumped against the cabinets in a large pool of blood. “Jesus Christ—” He fumbled for his cell phone as she tried to form words while nodding toward the hallway.
For fuck’s sake, she thought. He isn’t paying attention…again…
“Mr. Bitterman, so glad you could join us.” Sandra watched as Deputy Quintanar’s words made Jack freeze with the cell phone at his ear. For a moment, he was oblivious to the pistol in the other man’s hand, then he recovered his poise and pointed at Sandra.
“Why the hell are you just standing there? My wife’s been shot! Help her, for God’s sake!” Jack stared at the deputy while waiting for his call to connect. Deputy Quintanar didn’t move a muscle toward Sandra, but turned toward Jack, his pistol more visible now.
“What are you doing?”
“We’ve noticed several discrepancies in the month-end statements—amounts not matching up in various accounts, that sort of thing. We’ve traced the discrepancies to your department. You are going to return with me to company headquarters to answer some questions Mr. De Cavallos would like to ask you.”
Jack’s eyes widened as he realized what the deputy was there for. Sandra rolled her own eyes in disgust. Dumb bastard not only gets himself in trouble, but just makes it worse, she thought. With the last of her strength, she heaved the decanter of hot coffee at the deputy’s crotch.
The scalding liquid splashed over his pants, making him shout in pain. Jack seized the distraction to leap for the pistol on the counter. Sandra heard a flurry of shots explode around her as her senses dimmed, her vision fading to black, her last memory the scent of Kona Blend coffee mingling with the coppery smell of blood all over her formerly spotless kitchen floor.
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Damn, that horizon just keeps moving away, no matter how fast I drive toward