Cahill

I could hear the din from the bar as I exited my SUV and I was still almost a block away. What a shame! I knew from long experience that would change as soon as my foot crossed the threshold. I tend to have that effect on people. I’m six feet six inches tall and I weigh an even 250 pounds—all of it broad shouldered muscle. My Body Mass Index at my last physical was less than four percent. My light brown hair is styled exactly the way it’s been for the past fifteen years—ever since I first joined the Navy. Sure enough, no sooner had I taken my first step into the bar than the noise died. When I turned left and stepped up to the bar the people there couldn’t back away fast enough. I took a stool in the middle of the empty space and sat down, waiting for the bartender to approach. “I’m not looking for any trouble.” “Good…neither am I. Give me a ginger ale.” He reached under the bar for a glass and some ice. Twenty seconds later he slid the glass in my direction. I pulled a fiver from my pocket and dropped it on the bar. He ignored it and walked away to draw a few beers and pour some wine. It looked to me like this was a pretty cheap crowd. Checking up and down the bar all I could see were longnecks and drafts. I reached into the lower left pocket of my cargo pants. Like almost everything else I was wearing they were a true deep navy blue. My heavy shoes were black as was my wide belt. My belt said as much about me as the bold white lettering across my chest. Just below the American flag over my heart were the letters that were my life—U. S. MARSHAL. On my right hip was my nickel plated .44 Magnum Colt Python, just behind two speed loaders in addition to the twenty-four rounds on the belt. On my left hip was my ASP Talon baton—every bit as deadly a weapon in my hands as the revolver. A pouch at the back of my right hip held my stainless steel handcuffs and its partner on the opposite side held my radio—my link to my backup team. I placed the photo flat on the bar as the bartender returned to me. “I’ll have another,” I said in a loud voice, continuing so I wouldn’t be overheard. “Don’t pick it up and don’t make a production of looking at it. I’ve been told that he comes here a lot. Is he here tonight? If he is and he escapes because you’ve given me away I’ll see to it that you’re arrested for obstruction of justice.” He gulped a few times but did as he was told, nodding slightly in response. I continued almost at a whisper. “If my nose is pointing to twelve o’clock, my right ear to three, the back of my head to six, and my left ear to nine, tell me where he is. Again, don’t point or do anything obvious and we’ll be fine.” He pretended to wipe the bar as he whispered, “About 4:30 with his back to you.” I picked up the reflection in the mirror then asked, “Red shirt with black and white stripes, looking away from me?” He nodded again. Now, in my normal tone of voice I asked, “Where’s the men’s room?”

Fredrick_Udele · Fantasia

Classificações insuficientes

69 Chs

CHAPTER 45

Warily, the young man pulled George across the showroom to the phone. I spoke as soon as he had it up. "This is Matt Cahill. Why don't you call me Matt? What should I call you?"

"Oh, no you don't; I'm not giving you my name."

"Okay, how about if I call you Bob? It's as good as any name."

"Um…okay."

"So tell me, Bob—how'd you get into this mess, anyway? You're in a real pickle, aren't you?"

"My car ran out of gas and this guy was the only one that was open."

"I see, but George is a really nice guy. I'm sure he would have given you twenty bucks if you had asked him. Why the gun and why take him as a hostage?"

"I…I need more than twenty. I need my medicine."

"You seem a little tense, Bob—and kind of jittery, too. That sounds like meth to me. Is that what you're on? Don't let that cause you to make a stupid mistake."

"What…what do you mean?"

"Well, I'm sure you watch TV so you must know that the police never allow someone in your situation to just walk away. We have you surrounded—front and back—so the only way you're going to get out is to put your gun down and walk out the front door with your hands on your head. Don't let anything happen to George. He's the only thing keeping you alive."

"What do you mean…the only thing keeping me alive?"

"Well, it's pretty simple. You're using George as a shield, right? But what do you think would happen if you shot him? There would be no reason not to shoot you. I hope you understand that. It's important. I want you to relax. As long as George is okay you're going to be okay. What about food or something to drink like water or a Coke? I could get you some burgers from Wendy's right up the block or I could get you some chicken from KFC. Are you hungry?"

"Yeah, I am kind of hungry. Say, how do I know you have people out back?"

"That's a fair question, Bob. Tell you what I'm going to do. I'll have one of my men shoot his rifle into the heavy steel door out back. You and George can stand in the doorway to the back room, but don't get too close to the door in case it breaks and splinters. I don't want either of you getting hurt."

"Um…okay; go ahead, but don't do anything stupid."

"I won't, Bob, but that's good advice for you, too. Don't do anything stupid and we'll get through this okay." I had him right in the crosshairs throughout the entire conversation and I could have taken him out at any time, but I was hoping that wouldn't be necessary.

"Bob, Officer Lovett is out back with an M-16 rifle. Neil, I want you to take three and only three shots at the center of the door when I give you the word. Are you ready, Bob?

"Yeah…okay, go ahead."

"You heard the man, Neil." A second later the still night was broken by the sound of three quick reports and I could hear the rounds impact the steel door.

"You can believe me, Bob. I have no reason to lie to you." I saw him then return to the showroom and it took all my resolve not to swear out loud. On the way back, looking through the scope I saw him quickly swallow several pills from a plastic bag. If they were more meth this situation could go south in a hurry. I needed to keep this guy cool and relaxed so I changed the subject back to food.

"Okay, Bob; I was just thinking. Burgers would probably be better than chicken, you know? You'd probably need two hands to eat the chicken, but only one for the burger. That way you could still keep your gun on George, but don't worry. He's not going to do anything to hurt you. He's one of the nicest guys I know. You don't have to hurt him and you don't want the gun to go off accidentally, do you?"

He moved the barrel of the gun away from George's head and I breathed a sigh of relief. Now all I had to do was keep him as calm as possible. I made arrangements to get two double cheese combos from Wendy's, even asking him what he wanted on it. Then I asked him to speak to George to find out what he would like. Finally, we took their order for drinks. "It's going to take about ten minutes—maybe a trifle longer. We'll cut the line, but the officer still has to get there and back so please be patient."

I waited a few minutes before speaking again. "Which is your car, Bob? Is it out on Main Street?"

"Yeah, it's on the other side of the street…a 2007 Pontiac. It's a Grand Prix…white." Daryl simply nodded then dashed up the street in search of the car. It would be great if we could learn more about "Bob," anything that would help bring this crisis to a peaceful conclusion.

"Say…Bob are you from around here or are you just passing through?"

"I was born near Memphis, but now I live in Kentucky."

"That sounds nice. Kentucky is a beautiful state." I'd say anything if it would help this guy to relax. A few minutes later Daryl gave me a sheet of paper with his name, address, and info about his local family. Now I have to be careful. "Bob, if you were born near here does that mean that you still have family here? Is there anyone you'd like us to contact? Someone you'd like to speak with?"

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say because he reacted immediately and in a negative way. "The only one here is my fucking bitch of a mother. I don't care if she fucking dies. In fact, I'd like to be the one who does it. I'd shoot that fucking cunt right in the head just like I'm going to do with this old man." Oh, shit!

Oh, shit turned to oh, fucking shit when "Bob" pulled the hammer back and pushed the barrel into George's head. I tried to speak—to calm him—but the look in his face told me that we were done speaking. I couldn't wait even another second. His head was right in the crosshairs a millisecond later when I slowly pulled the trigger.

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