The Jury Master by Robert Dugoni

Author:Robert Dugoni [DUGONI, ROBERT]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: FIC031000
ISBN: 9780446539654
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Published: 2008-07-14T21:00:00+00:00

42

THE TRAINING RUSHED back to him like a river undammed, flooding him. Sloane didn’t stop to remember the details; he went with the torrent. The world narrowed to a round tube of concentration that brought everything within it into sharp focus and certain clarity. His heartbeat pulsed in his head. His breathing rushed in and out of his chest cavity like the rush of the waves against the rocks, controlled and deliberate, a low whistle parting his lips. He spread his legs shoulder width, cupped a palm under the hand holding the gun, and locked on his target, exhaling half a breath and squeezing off two rounds.

The janitor’s right shoulder jolted like a shaken rag doll, the automatic emitting an angry burst that sent bullets ricocheting sparks off the marble floor and walls. Sloane maintained focus, gun on target, waiting for the man to drop, waiting to secure his weapon. But the man did not drop; he stood, blood flowering a deep red bud, nearly black against the forest-green uniform, a stain to match the stain on his right pant leg. His right arm dangled limply at his side, but his hand refused to release the weapon. The pain alone should have dropped him like a bag of sand. Instead, he turned his head and locked eyes with Sloane, his facial expression a blank mask, his eyes two chunks of charcoal.

Sloane resisted the urge to pull the trigger again, to allow his anger and desire for revenge to control his actions. He didn’t want to kill the man. That would do him no good. He needed him alive. He needed answers to his questions.

Noise sounded from outside the tunnel—footsteps and voices shouting. Shades of dark blue entered Sloane’s peripheral vision— police officers dropping into crouches and sliding behind the security console.

“Drop your weapons. Now! Show me your hands. Hands! I want to see your hands.”

Sloane kept the gun fixed on the janitor, who also did not move.

“Put it down! Put it down!”

The janitor, too, gave no indication that he saw or heard anything outside their tunnel of concentration. Apparently, he was willing to engage Sloane in a high-stakes game of chicken. Then his face twitched, an almost imperceptible movement, a muscle spasm that wasn’t. His lips flattened, and the corners of his mouth extended into an “It doesn’t get any better than this” grin just before he reached across his body with his left hand to grab the automatic.

And the officers opened fire.

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