Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4), Brian Shea [free reads .txt] 📗

the target. Plus, the bomber was tucked so tightly against the operator that it would be an impossible shot.

"I need everybody to back up,” the hostage operator yelled. “He's rigged with a bomb vest and says there's enough charge here to take out a city block." The operator’s voice cracked under the strain.

"Somebody shoot this guy," one of the patrol yelled.

Any shot had to be precise. If he wasn't killed instantly, the possibility of Smith's finger muscles contracting and detonating the bomb became a major risk factor. The only way to take Smith out now would be to put a bullet between his eyes, severing his ability to make that decision, either consciously or instinctually, and effectively shutting his brain down before he could depress the trigger.

Smith was moving, sidestepping along the storefront toward the corner where the Arrest and Control Team had launched their failed attempt at apprehension. The remainder of the team backed up but maintained their vigilance as they shadowed his movement and waited for an opportunity to end the threat.

"Back up," the hostage operator said. "He says you have three seconds or he's pressing the button."

"Everyone fall back to the perimeter." Captain Lyons reassumed control of the operation.

There was no argument, but Kelly could feel the tension in that decision. Even though the hostage's face was shrouded with the balaclava and Kevlar helmet, Kelly could see his eyes. And in them he saw the fear. No worse place to be than the one the operator was in.

Smith shuffled him along until they came to a heavily tinted dark blue Honda CRV tucked along the alleyway between the watchmaker's building and the one adjacent to it. Kelly realized this car must belong to Smith.

"He's going for the car," someone chimed in over the radio.

Smith maneuvered his human shield around the back end of the vehicle. He opened the driver's door and managed to back inside the car while keeping his hostage in front of him. Then he pulled the captured SWAT operator inside and closed the door.

"Still no shot from Sniper One," Sniper One radioed.

"No shot from Two."

In less than half a minute, the SWAT operator was in the driver's seat and Smith was tucked tightly behind. Due to the tinted windows, Kelly could only see a bit of Smith's trench coat peeking out between the seats. The roar of the engine caused his heart to skip a beat.

The headlights activated, momentarily blinding Kelly's view of the Honda as it accelerated forward, driving toward the perimeter where Kelly and his group were standing. Everybody had their guns drawn, but there was no clear shot.

"Do not let him get mobile!" Lyons commanded over the radio.

Kelly knew they were stuck between a rock and a hard place. No way could they let Smith get past the perimeter. The imminent threat to civilian life was too great. But if the shot was off, Smith would detonate, taking dozens of police with him. It was the kind of split-second decision that Kelly, and those who held the line against evil, had to make on a daily basis.

The operator driving the CRV hurtled toward them, accelerating at Smith's command. Kelly held fast. His department-issued Glock was pointed out in front of him, the sights hovering in the small window of space left of the hostage's head.

The car was now ten feet away, and Kelly felt some of the nearby officers and investigators shift out of the way. His vision tunneled, he barely picked up on their movement. He was solely focused on the approaching threat.

Kelly looked into the captive officer's eyes. In that infinitesimal speck of time when their gazes locked, Kelly saw a flash of anger in his desperate eyes. He threw his head down, breaking the chokehold and exposing Smith. The Honda swerved to Kelly's right, slamming into the front end of the command post's massive RV-style vehicle. The operator held his left hand out the shattered window. In it was the detonator. "Target down!"

The bang of the gunshot had shocked Kelly. Not only was it deafening, it had also caught him off guard. Because he wasn't the one who had fired it. Barnes had pulled the trigger, sending one round through the windshield and striking Smith in the forehead.

The shot killed any chance Smith had of detonating the bomb strapped to his chest. It also killed any chance of them being able to ask him why.

35

Kelly sat on Barnes's couch. Bruschi was purring loudly between them, the hum and vibration having an almost therapeutic quality.

"I think he's really starting to like you."

"I grow on people," Kelly said.

"Seems to have worked with Langston."

A little over eighteen hours had passed since Barnes put an end to the bomber’s kill streak. Discharging a duty weapon, even when righteous, still carried with it an intrinsic burden. Unlike the media's portrayal, less than one percent of police officers discharged their weapons in the course of their careers. Each bullet was scrutinized. Kelly had been through it. Justified or not, having your gun taken moments after firing it was unsettling. It was the reason Kelly put his own gun in her holster after Halstead had removed hers on scene last night.

"You doing okay?"

"I guess." Barnes ran her cupped hand from the cat's head down its spine and to the black-tipped tail. "There was no way around it. No way I could let him get through that perimeter. He hurt so many people and would have hurt a lot more if he escaped."

"I know. Everybody knows. You did the right thing, Kris." Kelly's hand found hers. He caressed it with the same gentleness she'd shown her cat. "You saved a lot of people by what you did."

"I just never entered into this job thinking I would have to take somebody's life, even the bad guy’s. It wasn't why I signed on."

"I know." Kelly had been there himself and knew the conflict that lay within an officer-involved shooting. Accolades were sure to follow this one. Barnes