Read Online The Third Rail by Michael Harvey - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Michael Harvey
Tags: Fiction, General, Suspense, Mystery & Detective, Crime, Private Investigators, Hard-Boiled, Chicago (Ill.), Criminal snipers
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her back, and it looked like her throat had been cut. There wasn't much I could do without touching things, so I took a step back, careful to avoid the blood that had pooled underneath. I ran my light up and down the tunnel and wondered why I'd been summoned. Then I stepped off the tracks and found out.
The red dot flicked ahead a few feet, then skipped behind me. I dove for a crevice in the subway wall just as a round clipped the concrete somewhere above my head. I hugged the ground hard and lifted my face an inch or so. The red dot danced in the air, inviting me to come out and play. Then it moved up and over my body. Seconds hung, stretched, and fell. Each breath, an exercise in eternity. The shooter was using some sort of low-light targeting scope and a laser, knew exactly where I was, and could take me out at his leisure. I told myself to stay down, crouch deeper into whatever cover I could find, even as I felt myself lift. Whoever he was, he could kill me whether I stood or hid behind my hands. The last part of that equation, however, I could control. So I stood. Then I took a step. I felt the shake in my boots, and took a second step.
Another round kicked up maybe a foot to my left. I flinchedback into the wall, into cover that was not. Fear churned up and I used it to create resolve. I pushed away from the wall and walked back toward the door from which I'd entered. This time there was a whine and a ribbon of white sparks. A round had caught some steel and ricocheted away.
Unbidden, the face of an eleven-year-old girl jumped up in my mind. She'd been skipping rope outside a high-rise in the Robert Taylor Homes when a stray round off the pavement caught her in the head. I was a rookie cop and the first unit to respond. Her mom beat on my arms, my face, my badge, my chest. The blood of her daughter covered us both. The girl, however, was past caring.
I pushed the image away and kept walking alongside the track, edging down the long curved tunnel. I figured maybe he wasn't going to kill me, unless he just wanted to play a little first. So I kept walking, concentrating on each breath, the rise and spread of my ribs, the feel of the air on my skin, and the grit under my shoes. Then I was at the door, opened and closed behind me. Breath came in a cold rush, flooding my lungs, causing my heart to freeze and thump in my chest. I sat back against a wall and listened. Somewhere above me I heard the echo of a second door opening and closing. The access door at street level. My shooter had just left the building, his point made and received.
LAKE SHORE DRIVE
CHAPTER 18
R obles was up with the sun, drinking coffee and checking his gear. He'd only gotten two hours of sleep, but it would do. Thirty minutes later, he was walking across a soccer field, stiff with morning frost. Robles hefted the bag slung across his shoulders and grunted. The sky was just starting to lighten over the lake, and he could see the cold billow as he breathed. A woman and her dog materialized, maybe twenty yards away, jogging slowly down one side of the field. Robles kept his head down as their paths crossed. The jogger moved off the field and disappeared beneath an overpass. Robles waited five minutes. The jogger didn't return and the field was empty. He moved up a small incline and down the other side, to a sheltered stretch of ground. Spread out before him were eight lanes of highway, flowing north and south. Lake Shore Drive, dark and quiet, maybe forty-five minutes from rush hour.
Robles zipped open his duffel and pulled out a tripod. A couple of cars cruised by, headlights still on, heading toward the Loop. Robles took out a Nikon D300 SLR camera, fitted it to the tripod, and screwed on a zoom lens. Then he zipped up the bag and stashed it behind a stand of trees to his left. Robleslooked through the viewfinder and adjusted the focus. A woman and a small child popped into view. Robles glanced up. They were coming straight at him, driving an
The red dot flicked ahead a few feet, then skipped behind me. I dove for a crevice in the subway wall just as a round clipped the concrete somewhere above my head. I hugged the ground hard and lifted my face an inch or so. The red dot danced in the air, inviting me to come out and play. Then it moved up and over my body. Seconds hung, stretched, and fell. Each breath, an exercise in eternity. The shooter was using some sort of low-light targeting scope and a laser, knew exactly where I was, and could take me out at his leisure. I told myself to stay down, crouch deeper into whatever cover I could find, even as I felt myself lift. Whoever he was, he could kill me whether I stood or hid behind my hands. The last part of that equation, however, I could control. So I stood. Then I took a step. I felt the shake in my boots, and took a second step.
Another round kicked up maybe a foot to my left. I flinchedback into the wall, into cover that was not. Fear churned up and I used it to create resolve. I pushed away from the wall and walked back toward the door from which I'd entered. This time there was a whine and a ribbon of white sparks. A round had caught some steel and ricocheted away.
Unbidden, the face of an eleven-year-old girl jumped up in my mind. She'd been skipping rope outside a high-rise in the Robert Taylor Homes when a stray round off the pavement caught her in the head. I was a rookie cop and the first unit to respond. Her mom beat on my arms, my face, my badge, my chest. The blood of her daughter covered us both. The girl, however, was past caring.
I pushed the image away and kept walking alongside the track, edging down the long curved tunnel. I figured maybe he wasn't going to kill me, unless he just wanted to play a little first. So I kept walking, concentrating on each breath, the rise and spread of my ribs, the feel of the air on my skin, and the grit under my shoes. Then I was at the door, opened and closed behind me. Breath came in a cold rush, flooding my lungs, causing my heart to freeze and thump in my chest. I sat back against a wall and listened. Somewhere above me I heard the echo of a second door opening and closing. The access door at street level. My shooter had just left the building, his point made and received.
LAKE SHORE DRIVE
CHAPTER 18
R obles was up with the sun, drinking coffee and checking his gear. He'd only gotten two hours of sleep, but it would do. Thirty minutes later, he was walking across a soccer field, stiff with morning frost. Robles hefted the bag slung across his shoulders and grunted. The sky was just starting to lighten over the lake, and he could see the cold billow as he breathed. A woman and her dog materialized, maybe twenty yards away, jogging slowly down one side of the field. Robles kept his head down as their paths crossed. The jogger moved off the field and disappeared beneath an overpass. Robles waited five minutes. The jogger didn't return and the field was empty. He moved up a small incline and down the other side, to a sheltered stretch of ground. Spread out before him were eight lanes of highway, flowing north and south. Lake Shore Drive, dark and quiet, maybe forty-five minutes from rush hour.
Robles zipped open his duffel and pulled out a tripod. A couple of cars cruised by, headlights still on, heading toward the Loop. Robles took out a Nikon D300 SLR camera, fitted it to the tripod, and screwed on a zoom lens. Then he zipped up the bag and stashed it behind a stand of trees to his left. Robleslooked through the viewfinder and adjusted the focus. A woman and a small child popped into view. Robles glanced up. They were coming straight at him, driving an
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