Chapter 3 #2
An engine revved to his right. Spinning tires threw loose gravel as the Crown Victoria backed into the rear end of the El Camino, shoving the relatively light pickup bed out of the way.
The Crown Vic sped along the shoulder to crawl diagonally up the grassy incline alongside the interstate.
Ponytail hadn’t been alone. The car bounced over the embankment at the top and then fishtailed, cutting sharply right to speed out Bankhead Highway to the southeast. It was out of sight in an instant.
“Go!” Cutter yelled over his shoulder to Teague, eyes still glued to Ponytail. “I’ve got this guy.”
The fleeing Crown Victoria triggered the predator drive in responding lawmen, but everyone remained in place. An armed outlaw with a hostage trumped one on the run.
“Go!” Cutter yelled again. “Johnson and I have this.” He hoped he wouldn’t regret the words.
Let off their leashes, the highway patrol and Weatherford PD units peeled away to give pursuit.
Lafayette Johnson stayed put.
“I’ve got your back!” the kid shouted. He’d moved up to take a position at the right rear of Cutter’s Chevy.
The unmistakable rack of a pump shotgun carried through the stifling humidity.
A scattergun wasn’t exactly the best choice of weapon in a hostage situation, but Cutter would talk to the kid about that later.
Cutter let the mic fall and grabbed his Smith & Wesson with two hands. Ponytail was only fifteen yards away, but there was little more than an inch of his body exposed. It wasn’t a shot Cutter wanted to try with two hands, let alone one.
“Your partner’s run off,” Cutter said, loud enough to be heard over the sobbing girl. “Left you high and dry.”
“I told him to go,” Ponytail said. “He’s too green. Sure to get us all caught.”
Cutter gave a tight chuckle. “And yet here we are.”
“Here we are …” The words came in a barely audible whisper, almost a gasp, like he was talking to himself. Then louder, “I been to prison. I’m not going back.”
“I can see that,” Cutter said.
“You listen to me, Sheriff,” Ponytail said. “I’m only gonna tell you this once. You get—”
“Hang on, now,” Cutter interrupted. “You’re only going to tell me once? And then what? Do you plan to shoot the only person between you and a bullet in your eye? That can’t be right, son. Best not to start throwing down ultimatums. Ultimatums get people killed.”
“Shut your mouth!” Spittle ran down Ponytail’s chin. His voice dropped from a ranting screech to a wobbly sob. “You want to know what gets people killed? When cops don’t listen. That’s what gets people killed.”
“How about you tell me what it is you want?”
“My demands …” Ponytail sniffed back a nervous sob.
“Right,” Cutter said. “Demands. Let’s start there.”
“Clean out your ears,” Ponytail said. “I already told you. Move them damned trucks.” He gave a slight nod toward the 18-wheelers behind him.
The movement was barely noticeable. He carried a revolver similar to Cutter’s, but it loomed much larger next to his quaking hostage’s stricken face.
Fortunately, the outlaw had not cocked the hammer, meaning he’d need to put more than a little pressure on the trigger to make the gun fire.
It wasn’t much of an advantage, but Cutter would take whatever he could get.
Ponytail was forced to hold the girl with one hand and the gun in the other, leaving his body few ways to bleed off the enormous pressure of this situation. His shoulders bobbed and jumped like a marionette in shaky hands.
Cutter gave a slow nod, regulating his breath. “I’m gonna need some kind of guarantee you won’t hurt the ladies.”
“I’m holding the cards here, mister,” Ponytail said. Again, he glanced behind him. Again, the gun barrel moved slightly away from the girl’s head when he turned his body. “Don’t follow us and I’ll let them both go down the road. Unharmed, if you do what I tell you.”
Anyone in their right mind would have known there was no way out.
There would be just as many lawmen on the other side of the trucks as there were back here.
Desperation made it nearly impossible to see the light at the end of a tunnel was an oncoming train.
The only way Ponytail was leaving this place was in handcuffs or in the back of a morgue truck.
Cutter let the front sight of his revolver hover a scant two inches from the girl’s right elbow, in line with the outlaw’s hip.
A shot in the pelvis would put him down, but it wasn’t likely to kill him right away—a dimmer, not an off switch.
Even if Cutter’s aim was perfect, there was too great a risk Ponytail would reflexively pull the trigger before he realized he was dead.
Cutter needed another plan.
Ponytail gave it to him.
“Move the damned trucks!” the outlaw screamed. “You might get off a lucky shot, but the girl dies alongside me if you so much as—”
“Okay, okay.” Cutter stayed aimed in. “You win. Deputy Johnson!” he called over his shoulder. “If you’d be so kind as to get on the CB. Ask the Kenworth along the right side of the highway to pull forward and make a hole for this Pontiac.”
The kid cleared his throat—something he always did when he thought he had a better idea. “Why don’t we—”
“Johnson!” Cutter barked.
“Ten-four …” Surely feeling his initial suggestion absolved him from a bad plan, the younger deputy kept any other thoughts he had on the matter to himself.
Cutter braced his gun hand against the door pillar and began to count. He made it to twenty-five when the Kenworth belched smoke and gave a barking squawk as the trucker threw it into gear. A moment later, the trailer lurched forward.
Ponytail couldn’t help himself. He craned his head around in earnest now, astounded that his plan was actually working. This slight movement took the muzzle of the revolver away from the hostage’s head and exposed Ponytail’s right leg all the way to his groin.
Cutter’s time in the military had taught him to chop the target that presented itself.
His first .357 magnum round shattered the outlaw’s knee.
Underpinnings gone, Ponytail listed sideways, his shoulder and then his head tipping into view—where Cutter was waiting.
The outlaw made the fatal decision to hang on to his gun.
Cutter took advantage of both new targets, firing three shots in total—knee, shoulder, head in quick succession.
The lifeless outlaw toppled sideways, slamming into the Pontiac’s wheel before slumping across the steering column like a rag doll.
His handgun clattered harmlessly onto the convertible’s hood.
Revolver in one hand, Cutter dragged the former hostage away with the other, passing her to a stunned Lafayette Johnson.
Far from being frozen in fear, the girl’s mother began to scream with rage, smashing her fists over and over into what was left of Ponytail’s face.
Cutter holstered his gun and put a strong arm around her shoulder, guiding her away from the gore and out of the car.
The poor woman’s legs buckled as soon as her feet hit the ground. She collapsed into Cutter’s arms, her face and chest spattered with her captor’s blood.
“Is … is it over?”
“It is,” Cutter lied.
A dozen sirens wailed in the distance. At least one of these bastards was still on the run.
This was far from over.