Death of a Courier by Marc Olden

Author:Marc Olden [Olden, Marc]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4532-6070-8
Publisher: MysteriousPress.com/Open Road
Published: 2012-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

SCREW ORTEGA. FORGET HIM.

Paris wanted to kill Bolt.

Running hard, worrying about that one slip in the snow that meant the bus would run up his back, the narc ran in a half circle to his left, desperate to get out of Paris’ headlights.

Ahead of him the narc saw the bus he had just leapt from. Paris saw it, too.

The crazed killer pressed his foot down to the floor, his bus picking up speed, gaining on the narc. Paris wanted to keep the narc in the open, away from cover, and on the airfield.

He wanted to wear him down, then crush him beneath the wheels of the bus. The battle for life was being played in the glare of lights from Paris’ bus and in the dim glow from lights on the airfield, half hidden by soft-falling snow.

Breathing through his sore throat, still in the angry glare of the headlights, the narc saw he wasn’t going to make his wrecked bus.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw Paris’ bus behind him. Fifteen feet away, then ten, then eight, then—

As the tons of metal roared forward to crush the narc’s life he leaped to the left, landing on his left shoulder. Pain sliced across his back and up into his skull. Rolling once, twice, Bolt came up in a crouch, dizzy with pain, snow on his face and in his hair.

His fingers were numb and his throat was raw from running.

But he got a break.

As Paris braked the bus skidded in the snow. Regaining control, he began a more cautious turn. In seconds the bus would be aimed at Bolt again, but to the narc seconds were a lifetime.

With numbed, bruised fingers, he wiped the snow from his face and pulled the .45 from his pocket. Nelson’s or Riley’s, he didn’t know which, but the .45 was a gun Bolt believed in. The gun had enough power to hit a man in the tip of one finger and knock him fifteen feet.

My turn now, thought the narc, watching the bus back up, then swing around toward him.

Holding the .45 in both hands, the narc stood up, wincing at the pain in his left shoulder. Planting his feet apart, knees slightly bent, Bolt gripped the gun tightly, both hands wrapped around the butt.

No choice, he said to himself. Got to pick them up from far out. When the bus gets closer, the headlights will blind me.

Got to hit them now. Right now. Goddam now.

As much as he wanted to put an end to Paris, the narc knew that hitting him wouldn’t stop the bus. He’d be dead and the bus would keep on coming. Lowering the .45 slightly, Bolt sighted at the left front tire in the dim light and pulled the trigger twice.

The tight grip stopped the gun from kicking back, but the noise of the .45 was overwhelming, booming out a welcome to life. That’s what the sound was to Bolt.

The first shot missed, kicking up snow and tearing bits of concrete from the runway.

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