Insidious by Catherine Coulter Read Free Book Online Page B

couldn’t fire again, couldn’t take the chance of hitting her.
    He stepped out into the service alley, heard Sherlock yell, “Stop right there, it’s over! You try to shoot again and I’ll blow off both your ears.”
    He saw the shooter now, crouched behind the garbage cans, looking back toward Sherlock, and he moved forward, his Glock center mass on the shooter. “You heard her, drop your weapon!” His voice brought the shooter’s attention back toward him, but the shooter rolled and came up, running, his gun raised, and fired off two shots at Sherlock. Savich’s heart was beating madly as he ran toward them. He heard another gunshot and his heart stopped. When he came around the alley into the service road, he saw Sherlock standing over the shooter, rocking back and forth on his knees, moaning, holding his right wrist, Sherlock standing over him. His gun—it looked like a .45 Chief’s Special—lay on the ground beside him. Sherlock kicked the gun away, looked up and grinned at Savich. He slipped his Glock back into his waist holster as Sherlock planted a knee in the middle of the shooter’s back, pulled out her handcuffs, jerked back his left wrist and snapped a cuff on. She hesitated. She couldn’t very well handcuff his other hand, not with his wrist shot up. “All right, stay down—” The shooter grabbed her knees, threw her off, rolled and pulled a knife out of his jacket with his left hand. He was panting with pain, and fury, jabbing the knife at her as she jumped to her feet, her Glock aimed at him. He cursed, and took off down the service road.
    “Not smart, you moron!” she yelled after him. “Don’t make me shoot you again.”
    She started after him, but Savich ran past her. He was on the man fast. He stopped, reared back on his left leg, and kicked out at the shooter’s left arm. He heard the bone break above the elbow, watched the knife go flying. The shooter screamed and fell to his knees, bothhis arms at his sides, his right wrist gushing blood, the handcuff dangling off his left.
    They looked down at the groaning man who was now in the fetal position. “A real tough guy,” Savich said. “You okay, Sherlock?”
    “Yes, but this dude isn’t.”
    Savich knelt down by the shooter, pulled out a handkerchief and wrapped it around his bleeding right wrist. “I suggest you press hard to stop the bleeding.” The bleeding wasn’t that bad now, but thinking about it might focus his brain and keep him quiet. He ran his hands over the guy’s legs and belt, no more weapons.
    The shooter looked up at him, eyes glazed with pain and shock. Then he looked over at Sherlock. Savich saw rage in his dark eyes, and he wanted to kick him again. “Now both your arms will be out of service for a while. I doubt you’ll lose either of them, although you deserve to for being so stupid.”
    Sherlock said, “I’m giving Ollie a big kiss. If he hadn’t called with those crime scene photos, we wouldn’t have been here.” She went down on her knees. “We’ve got help coming. You want to tell us your name?”
    The man whispered between groans of pain, “You bitch.”
    “Well, that’s a unique name.”
    He whispered bitch again, turned his head away, and said nothing more. She imagined the pain had to be over the top. Then he whispered, his voice blurred with shock. “I can’t believe you’re FBI, I mean, driving that fancy Porsche? I watched you talk, talk, talk to the old biddy, and then I heard you rev that engine and leave.”
    They heard sirens.
    Savich leaned over him. “And then Mrs. Rasmussen stepped out of the house and into her car and you decided it was your chance. You didn’t count on her driver protecting her, did you? He nearly drove right over you. Who paid you to kill Venus Rasmussen?”
    The shooter could hardly focus, his eyes rolling in his head. “I saw you leave. You were gone.”
    Four Metro cops came running down the narrow service road toward them, guns drawn. Savich and