The Second Hostage by Jeffery Deaver

Author:Jeffery Deaver [Deaver, Jeffery]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780593188200
Google: ZxnBDwAAQBAJ
Amazon: B08273VJYM
Goodreads: 48989650
Publisher: G.P. Putnam’s Sons
Published: 2020-03-03T06:00:00+00:00

Six

As he surveyed the living room of the lake house once more, Shaw reflected that he’d heard that before.

You did what? You’re crazy, Colter . . .

A few years ago, a woman he’d been dating offered her assessment of his decision to rappel down a three-hundred-foot cliff in the dead of night. Windy too.

Not like he was asking her to join him. The descent had been the day before what had turned out to be their last date.

Crazy . . .

For him, the rappel had been a lark; he was bored, that was all. There’s a curious paradox about people who live by a code of survival. The entire concept is about, obviously, staying alive. But that truism misses a key to practitioners: you can never really live unless you confront some danger you must survive.

Richard’s phone rang again.

“Don’t go near the window,” Shaw reminded. “He might be trying to draw you into position.”

Ed looked at the iPhone. He hit ANSWER. “You have my banker? I’m not—”

“Fuck your banker,” Dobbins shouted.

The phone was not on speaker, but Shaw could hear it from across the room.

“I want Shaw,” Dobbins belted. “I want him now.”

Ed seemed paralyzed. But the gun remained pointed halfway between Richard and Shaw.

Shaw said, “Tell him I’ll talk to Ruskin. Only him.”

“He said—”

Sheriff Dobbins raged, “I heard and he’s not getting to pick and choose who he talks to. Put him on.”

Shaw said to Ed, “All right.” He held his hand out for the phone.

Ed shook his head, as if worried Shaw would jump him. Shaw pointed to a table. “Leave the phone there.”

The farmer set the mobile down and backed away, staying clear of windows. “Hands where I can see them.”

Shaw complied and he rose slowly. The gun wasn’t pointed directly at him but the hammer was cocked back to single action. The trigger would have an easy pull. A lot of accidents happen when you walk around with a cocked pistol.

Shaw picked up the phone.

“Yes?”

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I’ve done this before, Sheriff. There’s no need for tactical at this point. Ed’s being reasonable.”

The sheriff growled, “You are going to jail for this. If you even fucking survive. Now I’ve got two hostages to deal with. Thank you very fucking much. It’ll be a cold day in hell before the prosecutor gives you a break, I’ll see to that.”

“When the troopers get here, we’ll talk. Until then? No.”

“You son of a—”

Shaw disconnected.

He casually handed the phone back to Ed—a natural gesture—and the farmer reached for it instinctively. Then stopped. In the space of one second, Shaw tossed aside the phone and launched himself into Ed, grabbing his gun wrist and driving him into the small parlor off the living room. Rolling on the floor, they grappled and punched and struggled for control of the gun.

The muzzle swung first toward one then the other.

It was as Shaw was struggling to get footing on the gamy, department store oriental carpet, that Ed rolled sideways fast and, hand still on the Colt, the gun went off with a stunning roar.

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