Beretta and through the soft flesh of Rhonda Attwood as well.
Monty was leaning on the frame of the Trooper, using it to steady his hand and arm. There's a moral decision to make the first time you fire a weapon at another human being. You make that decision once. That's the hardest. It's never as tough the second time.
He fired and I fired. With a yelp of pain, he jerked back into the Trooper while the. 45 spun away into the dirt.
Mine was a bad shot. A terrible shot. I'd aimed for his heart and hit him in the goddamned arm.
Beyond the Isuzu, the wounded Beretta clanked and clattered as the timing belt broke and the pistons pounded into the valves. Mortally injured, it kept on coming, making no attempt to brake, no attempt to stop even when the seizing motor quit with an explosive bang.
She's dead, I thought wildly. Rhonda's dead! The son of a bitch killed her!
The Beretta, caught in the ruts of the road, waddled on past me like a faltering drunk, then scrapped to a stop against an uphill bank ten yards away.
I ran like a man on fire, ran to the car and ripped open the door, but the car was empty. No one was there. A flat river rock the size of my shoe was duct-taped to the gas pedal.
I'll be damned! I said to myself.
Turning, I looked back up the road. Rhonda Attwood was running toward me, waving my. 38 over her head in triumph. In the other hand she carried Guy Owens' much-used roll of duct tape.
'We got him,' she crowed as she came down the hill. 'We flat out got him!'
CHAPTER 20
As suddenly as it had come, the triumphant grin on Rhonda's face vanished, displaced by an expression of stunned fear. She stopped, frozen in place like a headlight-blinded deer. I turned and looked in the same direction just in time to catch sight of the briefcase erupting straight up from the hatch-like opening in the side of the disabled Trooper.
The case landed flat in the dirt several feet away, kicking up a small flurry of dust. And behind the briefcase came Monty himself. His one arm hung broken and useless. Still, he dragged himself up and was getting ready to vault out of the vehicle.
'Stop right there,' I shouted, raising the semiautomatic. 'Freeze!'
He did.
'Hands over your head,' I continued.
He turned and regarded me with calculated insolence as if gauging whether or not I'd be tough enough to pull to trigger a second time. I was, but he didn't know that. He had no way of knowing I was a police officer. I had underestimated him, made an almost fatal mistake. It chilled me to think how close he'd come to retrieving his own AK-47. He wouldn't get another opportunity like that, not if I could help it.
'I can't raise my arm,' he called back. 'I think my arm's broken.'
'Get the other one up, then,' I said. 'Behind your head and keep it there.'
While holding the semiautomatic on Monty, I directed Rhonda to bring back both the AK-47 and Guy Owens' Colt. Once she did so, I motioned Monty out of the Isuzu. One-handed and wounded, he still made it out in only one try. That son of a bitch was tougher than nails.
Hurrying over to where Michelle lay motionless on the ground, Rhonda shook the girl and spoke her name, but there was no response. Anxiously, Rhonda looked to me for advice.
'Is she still alive?' I asked.
Rhonda took Michelle's wrist and checked for a pulse. 'Passed out, I think. Maybe drugged. What should I do?'
'Leave her for now,' I replied.
'Hey, man,' Monty interrupted. 'How about helping me with my arm before I bleed to death? At least let me sit down.'
He had dropped the insolent attitude in favor of an affronted whine. His injured arm was still spurting blood and he swayed like a falling tree, but the sudden change in attitude made me wary. Compared to me, Monty was a mountain, six-seven at least with a girth to match. I knew if it ever came down to hand-to-hand combat, I wouldn't stand a chance. Not only was he huge, he was also cagey and determined. Despite his injuries, he had still tried to make off with the briefcase full of money. That kind of single-minded tenacity doesn't evaporate within a minute's time.
'Strip off your clothes,' I ordered. 'All of them. Throw them on the ground.'
'Hey, man, wait a minute,' he objected. 'You can't do this. I know my rights.'
'The hell with your rights,' I growled back. 'The only right you've got at the moment is the right to a bullet between your eyes if you don't. Strip, and strip now! Do it!'
Slowly, one at a time, keeping a watchful eye on the gun, he began to peel the clothes off his massive frame. The arm continued to bleed, but he seemed oblivious to it. He was focused on me and the semi-automatic in my hand. I could sense him wondering how good a shot I was and whether or not he should make a break for it. Finally, when he stood there naked except for his shorts, I had him step away from the pile of discarded clothing. He shrugged as if I had gone crazy, but he complied.
'Check them, Rhonda,' I ordered, 'and stay out of my line of fire.'
'Check them?' she asked with a frown. 'What do you mean?'
'For weapons,' I said. 'He may have another gun or a knife.'
Frowning doubtfully, she hurried over to the wadded pile and brought it back to me, pawing through it as she came. The switchblade had been hidden inside a sock. So I had called the shot. I nodded in satisfaction.
Wonderingly, Rhonda held up the knife. 'How did you know it was there?' she asked.
'And educated guess.'
She glanced at Monty, whose impassive face suppressed all indication of the fury he must have felt.
'Remember Ringo?' I asked.
Rhonda nodded.
'This character needs to be handled with about the same amount of care.'
'What about my arm?' Monty asked again, still whining.
Rhonda had dropped the roll of duct tape at my feet, but I didn't take my eyes off Monty long enough to reach down and get it. I wasn't taking any chances.
'Toss him the tape,' I said to Rhonda, and to him, 'Put a tourniquet on it. Use that.'
Just then, Guy Owens' crew-cut head slowly emerged from the top of the Trooper. He seemed dazed, and there was a long jagged cut along one side of his jaw. His face screwed up with pain as he made the effort to hold himself erect.
'Are you all right?' I asked.
'My leg,' he said. 'I think it's broken. What about Michelle?'
'She's all right, I think.' I turned to Rhonda. 'Can you keep our friend here covered while I go help Guy?'
'With pleasure.'
Guy moaned low in his throat as I lifted him out of the Isuzu and eased him onto the ground near his unconscious daughter, then I went back to the Trooper, crawled up on top, and checked on the other occupants. In the back seat, the duct tape and seat belts had held. Paco, leaning against the far window, was out cold. Tony, his lips bleeding profusely where he had torn away the super glue, dangled crazily to one side.
When my face appeared above him, he yelled at me in incomprehensible Spanish then switched to enraged English. 'That sumbitch left without me!' he screamed. 'He took the money and went without me!'
'He didn't get far,' I told him, leaving him there, still dangling in midair, still ranting and raving at the injustice of it all, learning once and for all that there is no honor among thieves.
As I turned back to the disaster on the road, I realized I was dealing with a case study in triage-who was hurt worst and needed the most attention? The problem was, I didn't dare do anything about injuries while mountainous Monty was still on the loose. Rhonda was holding the gun on him, but even with him covered, I didn't
