Kill or Be Killed by James Patterson

Author:James Patterson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2016-11-21T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 5

I put my police beacon on the roof of my sedan, flicked on the siren, and stomped on the gas. The enemy was on eighteen wheels and moving fast.

You never know how someone’s going to react to getting lit up by the law. Most normal people freeze mentally and pull over erratically slow. They cooperate almost to a fault. But this guy could have warrants out. He could have paperwork issues. He could have a girlfriend who just told him she cheated on his ugly mug. He could have whiskey in him. Brass knuckles. You never knew.

He pulled over as soon he cleared the bend. This picnic was just getting started.

His big rig took a half minute to slow to a stop. I had to assume this was sufficient time for him to radio his contacts, his pals, his boss, his muscle, his mom, whomever. And I, of course, had to assume he was leaning over to his glove box and getting, what would be my guess, a Glock. I had my own Glock. Making for a Glock-on-Glock fight.

I don’t like those odds. I don’t like a fair fight. Ever. That sort of macho B.S. might work on a TV show, but in real life I never want a level playing field. I want the upper hand in every possible category. If you have a black belt in jujitsu, I want a knife. If you have a knife, I want a gun. If you have a gun, I want a missile. A missile that shoots smaller missiles from its side missiles and that bleeds acid. I want surprise on my side. I want backup. I want a sniper covering my six. I want my enemy drunk, sitting on a toilet, asleep, when I find him.

But that’s a perfect story that never gets told in the world of Amanda.

There’s always one fun detail that jacks things up a bit.

I was walking up along the left side his trailer. I would have loved to stay in his blind spot but truck mirrors pretty much cover all angles.

I knocked on his door and he opened up. Game on.

“Do you know how fast you were going?” I asked him.

“¿Cómo?” he replied. Accent thick. Mexican.

“I got you doing eighty-four in a seventy zone.” My goal was to keep him off track. Confuse him. Have him think I’m a cop initially.

“Lo siento pero no hablo Ingles.” But maybe he was the one confusing me. “¿Es usted la policía?”

“Keep your hands where I can see them.”

He didn’t. His hands were roaming.

“Your hands.” I gestured to indicate the obvious.

“¿Mis manos?” he asked, seeming to barely, just barely, understand me. “No hay una problema.”

He was reaching for his center console. Slowly. As if his slowness would go unnoticed.

“¡No te muevas!” I shouted at him. “Tus manos.”

“¿Mis manos?” Was he really thinking he was going to grab his weapon before I could react? Yes, he was.

Five tenths of a second later, he was pointing a .38 Special in my general direction and I was already firing three quick shots at his hand.

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