informed him of Red Rover’s hands tightening on the steering wheel. But at sixty-five miles an hour…
Goodwill smiled at Red Rover. Then he stuck the nose of the 10 mm out the window and pulled the trigger.
No sound came from the gun. But the squad car’s right front tire exploded rubber and immediately swerved directly into traffic.
Goodwill’s mustang slowed as the police car swung in front of him.
Red Rover overcorrected, pulling his car to the left.
As the point man spun for the shoulder, and Golb slowed to fifty-five with the rest of the traffic, Goodwill drove along side of the bus.
He pulled the trigger twice.
Both right wheels of the bus shattered into rubber shrapnel. Opposed to Goodwill’s expectations, the vehicle lurched immediately for the left shoulder as if about to topple onto its right side. But it hit the center divide just after Red Rover and magically stayed upright.
Goodwill yanked his Mustang to the left side of the freeway. As dumbfounded commuters passed by at forty- five miles per hour, the Mustang slammed into reverse and sped backward toward the bus. With a smile, he imagined Golb shouting into his dead radio, “Eleven ninety-nine! Eleven ninety-nine!” uselessly attempting to tell the outer world he needed dire assistance.
No one would stop to help; they’d all be in shock and out of sight before considering it. Everyone else would see the police car behind the small bus. But if anyone had noticed the first officer out of control, they might quickly phone the authorities with their trusty portables. That meant one thing: viable time would soon be gone.
Goodwill pulled his parking brake without looking forward. He eyed Golb, or his replacement, only to see him with his head down, unmoving against the steering wheel. That could mean anything.
Goodwill jumped out of the rumbling Mustang while Sting moved through the chorus of “Shape of My Heart” for the second time.
The long-barreled pistol hung at Goodwill’s side as Red Rover came around the rear of the bus.
“Stupid fool!” said the cop holding a head wound that Goodwill couldn’t care less about. “ Who you trying to kill!?!”
Goodwill lifted his gun at the bus as he came to the skinny door on its right side. The door was slightly opened, which meant the driver must have hit it, and he obviously hadn’t done so intentionally. Goodwill expected Golb to be ready with an aimed Colt in his shaking hands.
“You told me you’d done this sort of thing before!” said Red Rover, coming closer. “I could have a concussion! I’m bleeding! ”
Looking through the glass with a glance before instantly pulling away, Goodwill made sure a bullet didn’t wait with his name on it. But Golb-it was Golb-hadn’t moved, and his right arm hung limp over the dash, his hand bent painfully around and upward. He might already be dead.
“You listening to me… Sunshine?!” said the dirty cop. “Or am I just too elementary school for you?! Hey!!!”
Goodwill didn’t look at the slowing traffic, where someone might see enough to feel inspired to call in for sure. He had less than thirty seconds.
He didn’t bother looking at Red Rover.
But as he pushed at the concave-bending door with the tip of his silencer, Goodwill heard the hammer of a pistol clicking in Red Rover’s swaying hands.
Oh, the drivers were getting a show now, weren’t they! Some adventurous citizen was likely to turn his car on Goodwill if they could see his own gun from a far enough distance. But what were the chances of that? Goodwill imagined everyone’s fingers going to their cellular phones now. If not to summon extra cop cars, then at least to inform their friends! They’d probably wonder if they’d see all this on America’s Most Wanted this Saturday.
But no time!
Goodwill saw the microphone from the radio hanging limply by the accelerator.
At least Porter was trapped.
“I’m talking to you, Sunshine! And you’ll listen because I still am an officer and can take you down right now!!!”
Goodwill smiled and lowered his weapon. The grin faded as his eyes turned cold on Red Rover. “Put that away. We have work to-”
Red Rover let his gun sag to his side as he pointed at his head. “This isn’t a war wound you know! I expect compensation for-”
Beside the forty-mile-an-hour traffic, Goodwill’s Colt Delta Elite made almost no sound as it jolted twice in his quick hand.
Red Rover fell, silenced forever.
No time.
Goodwill pushed himself into the bus as traffic slowed to thirty-five-it was amazing no one collided!
He balanced his pistol at breast level and kept his sharp eyes on Golb, who still didn’t move. Rising into the bus, he looked back at the empty seats. Porter was either out-cold, dead already, or playing hide and seek. But then, what else could the poor boy do?
With his eyes turned down the length of the short bus, Goodwill pushed his fingers just under the corner of Golb’s jaw. He barely felt a pulse. The man would live; no need to kill him. His story would be obscured by shock and unconsciousness. Golb might not have even seen the Mustang.
“John Porter!” said Goodwill finally to the hollow bus. “This gun can shoot clean through these seats so you might as well show yourself. If I wanted to kill you, there is nothing you could do about it. Better come quietly.”
The words were true. But then, Goodwill had every intention of murdering John D. Porter. And the assassin would be back in his Mustang before Sting was finished.
CHAPTER TWENTY — SEVEN
11:49 a.m. PST
Porter had already been in the courtroom for far too long. He baked in the hot lights from above while sweat rolled along his backbone and into the gray slacks of his suit, which Clusser had been kind enough to bring him.
Pushing an index finger and a thumb beneath his glasses to rub his eyes, the judge looked just as comfortable as Porter.
The courtroom was modern and shining as if just built. The dark wood still held its unweathered original lacquer. The ceiling was so high it took effort to realize it was even there. The odor of perspiration and roses hung on the air.
Porter’s hands trembled before him, so he smashed them together and glued them to the tabletop. For some reason, his head continued to bob downward as the debate continued. He had to force his chin into the air repeatedly. This would only make him look guilty, no doubt, and that was the last thing he wanted.
His bullet wounds ached only slightly, though he’d been taking Tylenol for some time now. Porter had refused the Vicodin the doctor ordered because he knew it would hinder the workings of his mind. Desiring to be fully attentive with regard to everything, Porter decided to live with the greater discomfort so any further attempt to kill him would fail.
He expected the attempt, unless his enemies thought it best he rot in prison. Surely a Customs crime such as this would not put him away for life, even if he was found guilty.
But his mind wondered anyway.
Porter hadn’t quite understood the ride to the courthouse. He remembered being led to the back of a small bus. The door was opened, the driver was a given a thumbs up by the officer holding Porter’s right elbow, then he was led quickly back into the building as the bus pulled away. Clusser’s partner, another FBI agent in a classic suit of dark blue with near-invisible pin stripes, had told Porter from the beginning of the trip that he was to remain
