Read Online 24 Declassified: Head Shot (2009) by David Jacobs - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Jacobs
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out another frantic, near-unintelligible query from the dispatcher at Central.
Jack felt like he’d left his stomach somewhere back on the downgrade, probably at the point where he’d first started working the brakes. The stench of burnt rubber and scorched brake linings was overpowering, stifling. He felt like he could barely draw a breath.
He could see now that what he’d thought had been a rifle in the hands of one of the cops who’d jumped clear of the roadblock was actually a shotgun. It was pointed at his head.
The cop who was wielding it stood on the passenger side of the truck cab. He looked unhappy. He gave off the impression that pulling the trigger might make him happy.
Jack raised his hands in the air, showing they were empty.
A second cop appeared on the driver’s side of the truck, brandishing a long- barreled .44 magnum. Both cops wore Western-style hats that heightened their resemblance to cowboys.
The cop with the handgun was shouting at Jack to get out of the truck. Jack stayed where he was because in order to comply with the command he’d have to use his hands, and he was afraid that if he moved them one or both cops would think he was reaching for something and use that as an excuse to open fire on him.
The cop with the gun used his free hand to open the driver’s side door. Pale gray eyes were wide and bulging in a flushed, angry red face. He said, “Get out! Get out of the vehicle!” He pronounced it “veehickel.”
Jack said, “I can’t—the seat belt.”
The cop shook his head in seeming disbelief as though this was some new, undreamed-of height of criminal audacity. He stuck the gun muzzle against the underside of Jack’s chin and said, “If I see you reaching for anything but that seat belt fastener, I’m gonna see your brains all over the inside of this truck cab.”
Jack said, “I’m going to unfasten it now.”
“You do just that, mister.”
Jack moved very slowly, like he was in a sequence filmed in slow motion. He lowered his arms and worked the seat belt release. It came undone with a click.
The cop grabbed him by the back of his collar and hauled him out of the cab, flinging him out on the street. Jack hit the pavement sprawling, skinning his hands and knees.
The cop with the shotgun circled around the front of the pickup, holding his shouldered weapon so that it pointed down at Jack.
The pale- eyed, red- faced cop said, “Lie facedown on the street and don’t you move, boy; don’t you even breathe.”
Jack did as he was told. He could see that the cop with the .44 wore cowboy boots under his tan pants. The boots had sharp, pointy toes and lots of fancy leatherwork and embossing. They looked expensive.
The cop twisted Jack’s arms behind his back, wrenching them as though he’d like to tear them out of the sockets. Steel bracelets encircled Jack’s wrists, biting deep, cinching tight.
He grabbed Jack by the back of the neck and hauled him one-handed to his feet. Not by the back of his collar but by the back of his neck. He was strong. Jack stood there with his hands cuffed behind his back.
He looked across the police roadblock, north up Nagaii Drive. There was no sign of the sedan, not even a glimmer of its taillights. It was long gone.
The cop with the shotgun held it pointing muzzle-down. The pale-eyed, red- faced cop was holstering his sidearm. His gun belt was fancy and hand-tooled.
A third police car was on the scene, halted in the middle of the street behind Jack’s pickup. It must have been the one that had been beside the café and chased Jack along Nagaii Drive into town.
It yielded two more cops, a male officer and a female one. They both wore Western-style hats. The woman wore her hair pinned up in a bun at the back of her head, below the hat brim.
Her partner was a big, hulking specimen, about six-four with shoulders as wide as an axe handle is long. He was in his mid-twenties, with hair so black it had blue highlights. His hair
Jack felt like he’d left his stomach somewhere back on the downgrade, probably at the point where he’d first started working the brakes. The stench of burnt rubber and scorched brake linings was overpowering, stifling. He felt like he could barely draw a breath.
He could see now that what he’d thought had been a rifle in the hands of one of the cops who’d jumped clear of the roadblock was actually a shotgun. It was pointed at his head.
The cop who was wielding it stood on the passenger side of the truck cab. He looked unhappy. He gave off the impression that pulling the trigger might make him happy.
Jack raised his hands in the air, showing they were empty.
A second cop appeared on the driver’s side of the truck, brandishing a long- barreled .44 magnum. Both cops wore Western-style hats that heightened their resemblance to cowboys.
The cop with the handgun was shouting at Jack to get out of the truck. Jack stayed where he was because in order to comply with the command he’d have to use his hands, and he was afraid that if he moved them one or both cops would think he was reaching for something and use that as an excuse to open fire on him.
The cop with the gun used his free hand to open the driver’s side door. Pale gray eyes were wide and bulging in a flushed, angry red face. He said, “Get out! Get out of the vehicle!” He pronounced it “veehickel.”
Jack said, “I can’t—the seat belt.”
The cop shook his head in seeming disbelief as though this was some new, undreamed-of height of criminal audacity. He stuck the gun muzzle against the underside of Jack’s chin and said, “If I see you reaching for anything but that seat belt fastener, I’m gonna see your brains all over the inside of this truck cab.”
Jack said, “I’m going to unfasten it now.”
“You do just that, mister.”
Jack moved very slowly, like he was in a sequence filmed in slow motion. He lowered his arms and worked the seat belt release. It came undone with a click.
The cop grabbed him by the back of his collar and hauled him out of the cab, flinging him out on the street. Jack hit the pavement sprawling, skinning his hands and knees.
The cop with the shotgun circled around the front of the pickup, holding his shouldered weapon so that it pointed down at Jack.
The pale- eyed, red- faced cop said, “Lie facedown on the street and don’t you move, boy; don’t you even breathe.”
Jack did as he was told. He could see that the cop with the .44 wore cowboy boots under his tan pants. The boots had sharp, pointy toes and lots of fancy leatherwork and embossing. They looked expensive.
The cop twisted Jack’s arms behind his back, wrenching them as though he’d like to tear them out of the sockets. Steel bracelets encircled Jack’s wrists, biting deep, cinching tight.
He grabbed Jack by the back of the neck and hauled him one-handed to his feet. Not by the back of his collar but by the back of his neck. He was strong. Jack stood there with his hands cuffed behind his back.
He looked across the police roadblock, north up Nagaii Drive. There was no sign of the sedan, not even a glimmer of its taillights. It was long gone.
The cop with the shotgun held it pointing muzzle-down. The pale-eyed, red- faced cop was holstering his sidearm. His gun belt was fancy and hand-tooled.
A third police car was on the scene, halted in the middle of the street behind Jack’s pickup. It must have been the one that had been beside the café and chased Jack along Nagaii Drive into town.
It yielded two more cops, a male officer and a female one. They both wore Western-style hats. The woman wore her hair pinned up in a bun at the back of her head, below the hat brim.
Her partner was a big, hulking specimen, about six-four with shoulders as wide as an axe handle is long. He was in his mid-twenties, with hair so black it had blue highlights. His hair
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