Read Online Delivered from Evil: True Stories of Ordinary People Who Faced Monstrous Mass Killers and Survived by Ron Franscell - Free Book Online
Authors: Ron Franscell
Tags: True Crime
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simultaneously and blew two gaping holes in both sides of his shocked victim. Dial died instantaneously.
The roar of gunshots froze everyone on the trading floor. His face flecked with blood, Barton was back in control. He alone could decide who lived and who died. As he began shooting at the traders, they scrambled to hide behind desks. For more than ten minutes, he prowled the trading floor, shooting both pistols at anyone who moved. Some tried to run, and he fired with uncanny precision. Some broke windows and threw out papers to get someoneâsâanyoneâsâattention. Some barricaded themselves in a small room and dodged bullets when Barton fired through the door. Some tried in vain to dial 911 on their cell phones. Some played dead, even as Barton walked around and fired point-blank into still bodies. Four people lay dead or mortally wounded while seven others slowly bled from their wounds. Not a cop or paramedic was within blocks of the killing floor.
Gun smoke filled the room as Barton calmly reloaded and quietly left the building. He drove his green 1992 Ford Aerostar minivan just a block up busy,six-lane Piedmont Road, where nobody yet knew the horror that was still unfolding.
His next stop: All-Tech.
Brent Doonan was confused. What did Barton mean by âtodayâs gonna be visualâ? Barton wasnât going to give a translation. He crossed his arms in front over his chest and drew two pistols from his waistband like some B-movie bandito. He fired point-blank at Brent.
The first slug, a hollow-point .45, entered Brentâs gut just beneath his sternum, ripping through his liver, spleen, and diaphragm, and narrowly missing his heart before bursting out his back just two inches from his spine. The second, a smaller 9 mm hollow point, lodged in the meaty party of his right arm.
But Brent only saw a couple bright flashes and heard two muffled pops. No pain as the bullets blasted through him â¦no sense of falling â¦no sound â¦no real grasp of time itself â¦as if he might have missed the moment of his own death, had it come.
But he wasnât dead. Yet. He lay dazed, facedown on the floor, wondering what had just happened.
Pain and awareness seeped through him slowly, as if his body were just waking from a deep sleep. He felt his own warm blood puddling in a slowly widening circle around him and he watched it soaking into the synthetic carpet.
My God, this is real!
He felt like heâd taken a cannonball in the chest, and his gut clenched.
That son of a bitch just shot me!
He saw two spent shell casings on the floor nearby and his head spun as he wondered if this was how he would die, right here, alone on the floor.
Where is Scott? Where is Kathy?
Three more shots rang out.
The first hit administrative assistant Kathy Van Camp in one temple and exited the other, slicing her facial artery and destroying her eyes. The other two hit Brentâs partner Scott Manspeaker in the belly and the wrist, and he slumped to the floor beside his desk, motionless.
Brent played dead, his eyes closed. He couldnât see his friends.
How can I get out of here?
He couldnât reach a phone. He knew he would die if he lay there much longer.
Should I try to help the others?
His mind raced as Barton began shooting other traders on the floor.
Can I try to stop him?
The sound of gunfire was making him sick to his stomach, but it hurt too much to puke.
Meanwhile, Barton was methodically killing Brentâs customers and friends with dreadful precision. Despite walls of glass throughout the office, he never broke a single one with an errant shot. He moved purposefully through the room, shooting one gun and then the other before coolly reloading. One trader tried to run, and Barton shot him once in the back and a second time in the buttocks before he fell; he was dead before he hit the floor. Another just stood frozen in fear until Barton fatally shot him twice.
FRIGHTENED PEOPLE RUN
The roar of gunshots froze everyone on the trading floor. His face flecked with blood, Barton was back in control. He alone could decide who lived and who died. As he began shooting at the traders, they scrambled to hide behind desks. For more than ten minutes, he prowled the trading floor, shooting both pistols at anyone who moved. Some tried to run, and he fired with uncanny precision. Some broke windows and threw out papers to get someoneâsâanyoneâsâattention. Some barricaded themselves in a small room and dodged bullets when Barton fired through the door. Some tried in vain to dial 911 on their cell phones. Some played dead, even as Barton walked around and fired point-blank into still bodies. Four people lay dead or mortally wounded while seven others slowly bled from their wounds. Not a cop or paramedic was within blocks of the killing floor.
Gun smoke filled the room as Barton calmly reloaded and quietly left the building. He drove his green 1992 Ford Aerostar minivan just a block up busy,six-lane Piedmont Road, where nobody yet knew the horror that was still unfolding.
His next stop: All-Tech.
Brent Doonan was confused. What did Barton mean by âtodayâs gonna be visualâ? Barton wasnât going to give a translation. He crossed his arms in front over his chest and drew two pistols from his waistband like some B-movie bandito. He fired point-blank at Brent.
The first slug, a hollow-point .45, entered Brentâs gut just beneath his sternum, ripping through his liver, spleen, and diaphragm, and narrowly missing his heart before bursting out his back just two inches from his spine. The second, a smaller 9 mm hollow point, lodged in the meaty party of his right arm.
But Brent only saw a couple bright flashes and heard two muffled pops. No pain as the bullets blasted through him â¦no sense of falling â¦no sound â¦no real grasp of time itself â¦as if he might have missed the moment of his own death, had it come.
But he wasnât dead. Yet. He lay dazed, facedown on the floor, wondering what had just happened.
Pain and awareness seeped through him slowly, as if his body were just waking from a deep sleep. He felt his own warm blood puddling in a slowly widening circle around him and he watched it soaking into the synthetic carpet.
My God, this is real!
He felt like heâd taken a cannonball in the chest, and his gut clenched.
That son of a bitch just shot me!
He saw two spent shell casings on the floor nearby and his head spun as he wondered if this was how he would die, right here, alone on the floor.
Where is Scott? Where is Kathy?
Three more shots rang out.
The first hit administrative assistant Kathy Van Camp in one temple and exited the other, slicing her facial artery and destroying her eyes. The other two hit Brentâs partner Scott Manspeaker in the belly and the wrist, and he slumped to the floor beside his desk, motionless.
Brent played dead, his eyes closed. He couldnât see his friends.
How can I get out of here?
He couldnât reach a phone. He knew he would die if he lay there much longer.
Should I try to help the others?
His mind raced as Barton began shooting other traders on the floor.
Can I try to stop him?
The sound of gunfire was making him sick to his stomach, but it hurt too much to puke.
Meanwhile, Barton was methodically killing Brentâs customers and friends with dreadful precision. Despite walls of glass throughout the office, he never broke a single one with an errant shot. He moved purposefully through the room, shooting one gun and then the other before coolly reloading. One trader tried to run, and Barton shot him once in the back and a second time in the buttocks before he fell; he was dead before he hit the floor. Another just stood frozen in fear until Barton fatally shot him twice.
FRIGHTENED PEOPLE RUN
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