time at that range. At least two or three of the six shots chewed into
Blackwell. The vest he wore stopped a couple, but one went high, hit
him in the jaw, and Ventura saw a tooth explode from the torn mouth in
slow motion as Blackwell's head jerked to one side-Ah, shit--} And he
saw with razor-edged and expanded clarity as Blackwell did what any
really good trained shooter instinctively did if somebody pointed a gun
at him when the situation went hot-'No!' Ventura screamed, trying to
bring his own gun up around, but he was mired in subjective slow-time,
and too late.
Blackwell knew Morrison was wearing a vest, and Blackwell didn't want
to die. So even as he fell, wounded, Blackwell lined his pistol up on
Morrison and stopped the threat-He shot him right between the eyes.
The back of Morrison's head blew out in a spew of brains, blood, and
bone.
Washington, D.C.
He was going to be okay. Jay realized. The doctor had taped him up,
given him a shot to counteract the puke gas, and another for pain.
Every breath he took still hurt his ribs a little under the tape, and
his stomach was sore from vomiting, but he was real happy to be feeling
anything at all.
It was sure better than the alternative.
The boss said, 'What on Earth possessed you to go into the field on
your own?'
Jay started to shake his head, but that made him dizzy, so he stopped.
He said, 'I dunno. Pure stupidity would be my best guess. Not ever
gonna happen again, I guarantee that. Reality sucks.'
They were in the hospital's lock ward, where one-eyed Fiscus had been
transferred after they'd patched him up.
He'd been hit twice after firing at the cops, in the side and in the
leg, but neither hit was life-threatening once they stopped the
bleeding. He was awake, and the boss had flexed his Net Force muscle
to get in and question the guy before the mainline boys and the D.C.
detectives got there.
Jay and Toni were with Michaels as he walked into the room, and they
all nodded at the cop sitting in the chair next to the bed.
'We want some information,' Michaels said to Fiscus.
Full of IV tubes and things clipped to his fingertips or taped to his
chest, Fiscus flashed his gap-toothed grin.
'People in Hell probably want ice water, too,' he said.
His snakeskin patch was gone, and the eye it had hidden had a milky
film over it.
'Which you'll find out all about if you don't tell me what I want to
know,' the boss said.
'Way I figure it, you have kidnapping, assaulting a federal officer,
attempted murder of a policeman, and a shitload of illegal weapons
charges staring you in the face, at the very least. A man your age?
You're going to die in prison.'
That seemed to get his attention.
'And so why the fuck should I help you, I'm gonna die in prison
