Chasing China White, Allan Leverone [feel good books to read txt] 📗

waited for the cop to pass them and continue to the sidewalk. One thing at a time was about all he could handle right now.

The officer was approaching at an angle, and Derek hadn’t spotted him yet. Greg wondered where the steak knife was and whether the cop could see it. He didn’t think so, because it looked like Derek’s hands were shielded from the cop’s view by the open passenger door.

Derek glanced right as the cop entered his peripheral vision and did a double take. He froze, standing at the side of the car, trying his best to appear nonchalant but succeeding only in looking guilty of something.

The cop did exactly what Greg knew he would do. He did exactly what cops everywhere do a hundred times a day: he checked them out as he plodded past. First he studied Greg’s face for maybe half a second, and then he turned his head to do the same with Derek, seemingly not suspicious of them beyond the typical cop suspicion of everyone and everything.

He took another two steps and then stopped, and for maybe half a second Derek and the cop stood staring at each other, separated by no more than six feet, as the cop’s eyes narrowed and Derek’s widened. Greg watched it all unfold almost in slow motion.

The cop began reaching for his gun as he opened his mouth and said, “Stop right there. Don’t you move.”

But Derek moved.

He stepped around the still-open Mustang door as the cop grabbed for the gun in his holster.

And missed it.

And then Derek was on him. He moved straight to the cop, knife held low in his right hand, and then he swiped the weapon upward as the man stumbled back and reached in desperation for his gun a second time.

“No!” Greg shouted, knowing it was pointless but unable to stop himself.

The knife disappeared into the cop’s ample belly and he hit the pavement, dropping onto his ass and then striking the back of his head with a crack that Greg could hear clearly, even from at least ten feet away.

Greg found himself moving without conscious thought, rushing forward toward his brother and the cop, the unease that had begun developing the minute he received the phone call from his wife now exploding into black despair.

Derek dropped to his knees next to the downed cop and scrabbled for the gun, unsnapping the man’s holster and sliding the weapon out like a seasoned firearms expert. If the cop had been able to do it as cleanly a second ago, the situation would probably be over now.

“Dude, what the fuck have you done?” Greg heard himself say as he reached the two men.

“Get away from me!” Derek shouted as he swung the gun around. His eyes were wild and glazed and his face had twisted into a look of sheer panic, a look unlike anything Greg had ever seen, on his brother or any other human being.

Greg skidded to a stop and backpedaled, hands held up in a gesture that would be utterly futile if Derek decided to pull the trigger. “Slow down and get a grip.”

“Help me get him into the diner,” Derek said. He licked his lips and looked up at Greg with recognition dawning in his eyes, and Greg thought maybe he’d live beyond the next couple of seconds after all.

“Derek, stop,” he said. “You’ve got to stop before anyone else gets hurt. This has to end.”

But Derek ignored him. He tucked the cop’s handgun under his arm and crouched behind the man, slipping his hands under the cop’s armpits and lifting his upper body off the ground. His movements were awkward as he tried to make sure he didn’t drop the gun. Blood bubbled out from the stab wound, soaking the cop’s uniform shirt.

“Get back here right now,” Derek hissed. “I can’t move him by myself. I’m too fucking sick.”

Greg hesitated and then did as he was told. He circled the cop’s prone body, and as he did, Derek removed his right arm from the cop’s armpit and pulled the gun out from under his own arm. He pointed it for the second time at Greg and said, “Drag him into the diner.”

“Don’t point that fucking thing at me,” Greg said, the fear and the stress and the confusion exploding into anger.

“Just do as I say, Greg. Please don’t make me shoot you. Please.”

Sirens began sounding in the distance, an unsurprising development considering a cop had just been stabbed in a moderately busy parking lot in the middle of a Wednesday morning.

Greg gestured at the sound. “Dude, it’s OVER. You just stabbed a cop. The police are on the way. What do you think is going to happen next?”

“Shut up and pull him inside!” Derek screamed. The panic was back in his voice and he was panting as though he’d just run five miles, and Greg knew if he didn’t do as he was told, right now, someone else was going to get hurt even if it wasn’t him.

He crouched behind the cop and grabbed him under the armpits, exactly as Derek had done. Derek moved back a few feet. He continued to hold the gun in Greg’s general direction.

And Greg started dragging the man. He was sickened by the amount of blood exiting the wound, and while he’d never been a fan of the cops, prayed silently that the guy wasn’t bleeding out because of all the jostling.

By the time they reached the diner’s front entrance, Greg’s arms were burning. The cop really was heavy, overweight as well as naturally stocky. Derek yanked open the door and Greg dragged the cop the rest of the way inside to the sound of chaos: toppling chairs and smashing dishes and panicked screams as patrons rushed the kitchen, crowding toward the service entrance to escape the madman with the gun and the knife.

And that was fine with Greg. Hopefully everyone would run. The last thing the situation needed was a bystander trying