Hunting Time by Jeffery Deaver

Author:Jeffery Deaver [Deaver, Jeffery]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Thriller, Mystery, Crime
ISBN: 9780593422083
Google: PKdgEAAAQBAJ
Amazon: B09T5PLLSL
Goodreads: 60621123
Publisher: G.P. Putnam's Sons
Published: 2022-11-22T06:00:00+00:00

49

Jon Merritt grunted as he tried to sit up, his belly and leg throbbing, the pain radiating outward.

Nonlethal slugs—usually a metal core covered with rubber—fired from a twelve gauge strike the body with huge force. They are meant for crowd control, but they also can break bones and rupture organs and blind. And they’ve been known to kill.

He took stock. Nothing broken, no internal ruptures.

Not yet.

Dorella stepped closer, racking another shell.

Merritt knew that there was a protocol for using a shotgun for defense. You loaded rubber slugs last in the tube—to fire first—then, if that didn’t do the trick, there came skin-breaking bird shot, and finally lethal double-ought or lead slugs. Dorella clearly knew her way around weapons and he suspected something more painful, if not deadly, would soon be coming his way.

As he struggled to his feet, doubled over in pain, he drew his pistol and fired.

She fled back into the house.

Merritt staggered to his truck.

Though partially deafened by the shots, he could just make out in the distance the sound of approaching emergency vehicles. Sirens and get-out-of-the-way bleats. The cars were about a mile away, he guessed. And the very fact he could hear them at all meant that they were bursting through intersections fast.

He swung open the door of the truck and, after steeling himself a moment, climbed into the cab, groaning with pain.

Keys out, engine on.

Then he was speeding away from the curb, tires squealing and smoking. He wasn’t sure which direction the squad cars were coming from—sounds can deceive, especially to numbed ears—but he supposed the respondings would assume he’d be heading for the interstate or major state routes. But, no. He vanished into the maze of Garden District side streets.

The strategy was correct. He saw not a single black and white in pursuit.

Merritt powered through the red light, drawing yet more middle fingers and horns. He heard a collision.

Then Auburn Road presented a lengthy straightaway. He shoved the pedal down, and when he hit the first “traffic calming” hump in the road—at about seventy—he was surprised that the heavy truck actually caught air.

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