Gamma Blade by Tim Stevens Read Free Book Online

seconds in which Venn tensed his neck, in anticipation of the bullet that was about to come ripping through it.
    The voice, when it came, was interested. Conversational, almost. “You think? How so?”
    “Because I’m wired,” Venn said. “Check my jacket, if you don’t believe me. Right now, everything you and I are saying is being transmitted. Recorded. The wire will pick up the shot. And you’ll be a cop killer, on the run from a department which has your voice on tape.” He felt his tone growing bolder. “You a gambling man? I sure am. But even I wouldn’t put money on your chances after that.”
    A flash of blue light swept down the alley from behind Venn, and he felt a flicker of hope. But  whatever it was, a cop car or an ambulance, it had passed by.
    The seconds ticked by, taut as a thread stretched to breaking point.
    Then the man said: “You’re lying.”
    Again, the soft footfalls. He was close to Venn now.
    Venn sensed the gun being raised. He pictured the pistol held at arm’s length, as the man drew a careful bead on the curve of his cranium at the back.
    And he knew he’d lost.
    Venn closed his eyes.
    Not because he was scared.
    But because he could see Beth better that way.
    He smiled at her image.
    Take care, Beth, he murmured silently. Of yourself. And of the baby.
    Above him, behind him, so close that in the final seconds Venn thought he might have a chance at lashing backward and doing some damage, the guy said, in a voice that was barely above a harsh whisper: “Nighty night, cop.”
    The pain exploded in Venn’s head a nanosecond before he was consumed by darkness.

Chapter 8
    Beth glanced over her shoulder, saw the flaring lights of the ambulance, its flasher strobing on top as it pulled up, and turned back to the man on the ground.
    He lay on his side, in the recovery position into which she’d gently maneuvered him: one knee bent, a hand beneath the side of his face, supporting it against the sidewalk, the other arm stretched out before him.
    She’d established quickly that he didn’t have a neck injury, so it was safe to turn him. His airway was open, he was breathing spontaneously, and he had a strong, steady carotid pulse.
    Still, he’d taken one hell of a blow to the head.
    Beth guessed he’d been struck by the barrel of a gun. There was a bleeding slash across the back of his scalp, a few inches above the hairline, and although the skin wasn’t visible under his dark hair she could feel the swelling already starting in the soft tissues.
    His pupils had been reactive to light, equally, and he was moving all his limbs in a vague but symmetrical manner.
    With the hem of her dress she’d stanched the flow of blood from the scalp wound. As the material had soaked red, she’d ripped a length of it free so that she could press it harder against the cut.
    Briefly, she’d glanced up and looked around, but Venn was nowhere to be seen. She remembered: he’d gone after the man who’d hit the guy she was attending to.
    And the man probably had a gun...
    Beth forced down this realization, and the surge of panic it provoked, and concentrated on her patient. His eyes were closed, and his lips moved in an uncoordinated fashion. There was no blood in his ears, no bruising beneath his eyes to suggest a base-of-skull fracture.
    But he was unconscious, and required immediate, higher-level attention.
    The ambulance drew up close and the first of the paramedics hopped down and ran to Beth’s side. Without looking up at him, she said: “Caucasian male, approximately late thirties to early forties. Sustained trauma to the back of the head. A blunt object, but with an edge. Maybe a gun barrel. Pupils are good, moving all limbs, resp rate is fourteen, pulse sixty-eight and regular.”
    The EMT squatted down beside her. “You a doctor?”
    “Yes.”
    He began running expert hands over the man, probing, evaluating. Beth glanced back and saw his colleague, a female paramedic, rolling a gurney