Ethan Justice: Origins (Ethan Justice #1) (33 page)

“Stay on the floor, Smith, or I’ll kill the girl in front of your eyes.”

John obeyed and slumped back to the ground, his eyes fixed on Wilson and his broken nose pointing to one side, blood dripping steadily onto the ground. Wilson raised his gun and pointed it at Smith’s head. His expression was blank, and he spoke like a man without a worry in the world.

“If you want to save this worthless lout, then you’d better shoot me before I shoot him. The safety’s off, so you just need to point the Berretta and pull the trigger. The two of you deserve each other. That’s the offer. Kill me and you both have time to make it out of here before Fisher pulls the trigger. I’ll count down from three, and you can decide what’s important to you.”

Savannah’s hands shook so violently she thought the gun might jump out of her grip.

“Three,” began Wilson.

“I’ll shoot, Wilson. Put the gun down.”

“Two.”

“I’m not kidding.” Savannah’s breathing quickened, her heart hammered so hard it hurt and her knees began to tremble. A wave of dizziness took hold, and she stumbled sideways. She couldn’t pass out, not now. The gun pulled her arms down like it was a fifty pound weight.

“One.”

Savannah lifted the drooping gun to chest height where her target looked the biggest, and, before the weight could drag her arms back down, she pulled the trigger. The bullet caught Wilson in his right shoulder, twisting him sideways and sending him two steps back. His left hand immediately jumped to the wound before any blood appeared. His mouth opened in a grimace, and his screwed up eyes stared back at Savannah.

The gunshot echoed around the station. Wilson’s demeanour took on a menacing appearance, anger surfacing through the pain. He looked like a wounded Pit Bull Terrier, lips stretched wide and teeth bared in a snarl. The gun echo faded and was replaced by a loud ringing in Savannah’s ears. Wilson pulled his hand away from his shoulder, revealing no penetration hole and no blood. At first she thought that her gun was full of blanks, and then her stupidity dawned on her. He had reeled from the impact. It must be the coat. No wonder they wore them all the time.

With a concerted effort, she raised the gun to his head and pulled the trigger once more but the shot missed and he was on her in a second, tearing the gun from her grasp and stuffing it back into his trousers. His top lip curled as he placed his own gun back in its holster and glared at Savannah.

“You’re no better than my drug-addicted slag of a daughter.” Wilson cocked his huge arm back behind his head and made a fist. “Well, you can die here with us. I’m done with you.”

Before the brute of a man could release the blow, John Smith grabbed the tree trunk of an arm from behind with both hands and hung on with every drop of strength he had.

“What the..?” Wilson exclaimed, turning his body and ripping free from John’s grip like his arms were made of paper. John ran at Wilson, but the thick arms swatted him away like a bothersome insect. The insect kept coming, blood pouring from his crumpled nose. Wilson swung and swatted until, with exasperation clear in his face, he raised his fist and unleashed a heavy punch straight into John’s nose which soaked up its second bone-shattering blow.

John travelled back several feet before stopping. His eyes glazed over, and he swayed like a flower in a stiff breeze. His nose erupted like a thick red geyser, he swayed one more time, and then dropped to the floor as if his legs had lost their bones. Savannah had watched enough boxing with her father to know that John was out cold.

“You bastard.” Savannah marched up to Wilson and began swinging her fists like windmills. The agent pushed her away and drew out his gun.

“In heaven you’ll see the light just like Kate,” he said, aiming the gun at Savannah’s head. “God has no use for you on earth.” Savannah closed her eyes. It was the end. A high-pitched whistle from her right filled the air, but before she could open her eyes, another shot rang out, and her thigh exploded in pain. She dropped to the ground clutching her leg and screamed.

*

I can’t believe what I’m seeing. Wilson is about to die. I am drawn to the conflict and the outcome. Wilson doesn’t see Johnson, and the tall agent is closing in fast. What’s that he’s holding? It’s another nuclear gun! It must be the one Bradshaw promised me. What if I could get hold of that one? I wouldn’t have to worry about Armageddon every time I fired it. Think of the death and destruction I could cause for years to come.

Johnson positions himself and raises the gun. I feel the excitement I thought Sasha had stolen forever. I realise that I don’t crave a cigarette. I am not done by a long shot.

*

Herb Johnson was thirty feet away when he made the shot which hit his partner in the left thigh and went all the way through both legs, leaving a two foot crater in the concrete behind the damaged limbs. The beam had not knocked his partner off balance but had literally cut right through him. He noticed that the closest entry wound was charred and smouldering as Wilson dropped to his knees, a mocking smile on his lips.

There was no debris around the crater. The concrete had disintegrated. He would have taken his partner’s head off, but he had no idea how far the energy burst would travel at head height and who and what it would go through on its way. There had been barely a sound to accompany the extreme devastation to both flesh and solid station floor.

He looked over to Savannah, who was fast losing consciousness in a growing pool of her own blood. Her screams had reduced to a low intermittent moaning. She needed urgent treatment. He bent down to check the damage to her leg and felt a sharp pain as a nine millimetre bullet entered his calf muscle.
What an idiot. Never turn your back on a madman until he’s dead
- he knew that. Wilson was fuelled with insanity. Johnson should have finished him before helping the girl. He turned to Wilson, who grinned at him like he’d just won the lottery.

“It’s too late, Herb. Fisher’s going to activate the explosion any second. You don’t get to save the girl or the day. I’m going to meet my Maker, and you’re going to Hell.”

“What happened to you, Max?” Johnson asked, bending down to pull up his blood-soaked trouser leg and hold his calf tightly to stem the flow of blood. His partner chuckled like an asylum inmate. He was no longer the man Johnson had known.

Johnson placed the nuclear gun prototype on the ground by his feet and, in one smooth motion, drew out his own Glock and put a bullet between Wilson’s eyes, sending the back of his head, along with unthinking brain matter, all over John Smith and the surrounding area. At least Kate would be happy. To the tall agent it was like putting down a rabid dog that had once been a close companion - best for everybody.

Johnson picked up the humming gun and, putting his weight mainly on his good leg, hobbled over to Smith and knelt down beside him.

“Smith, wake up,” he said, slapping his face hard.

Smith’s eyes opened into narrow slits which fought to focus on Johnson.

“Are we dead?” the prone figure said.

“Where’s Fisher? We have to get the other nuclear gun.”

“There are two?”

Johnson slapped him again. “Focus, Smith. Where’s Fisher?”

Smith raised his body on his elbows and pointed to the entrance where Fisher had been standing at Wilson’s instruction.

“He was there a few minutes ago,” Smith said, looking to each side of the entrance. “Maybe he ran off when the bullets started flying.”

Johnson grabbed Smith by the lapels of his jacket and sat him upright.

He offered the weapon to Smith. “Take this gun, find and kill him,” he said.

Smith’s narrow slits widened. “Me? Are you serious?”

Johnson pulled him close until their faces almost touched.

“My leg’s useless. There’s no time to argue. Find him and kill him or we’re all dead, and that includes Savannah.”

John Smith stood up bit by bit on shaking legs, and the world around him shimmered like a desert mirage. He blinked his eyes and twisted his head from side to side. Focus returned to his vision. He took the heavy weapon from Johnson’s outstretched hand. He wrapped his fingers around the grip and felt the pulsating tingle from the destructive power inside.

“Go, man!” Johnson said, crawling on hands and knees towards Savannah, who lay curled in a foetal position in a worryingly large circle of red goo. “I’ll take care of her. Go, for God’s sake, man, go!”

John stumbled towards the entrance as fast as his legs would carry him. There was an eerie silence in the station and not a soul in sight near the entrance. He saw a movement to the right and, leaping unsteadily sideways, took shelter behind a large green bin. John poked his head out and waited for the right moment to make his move.

*

Wilson is dead. I wish I’d killed him. I hear sirens and poke my head out of the glass doors. Blue and red flashing lights approach. I elect to entrust my future to chance and adjust the gun’s dials. A car’s tyres squeal as they brake. Two armed officers get out. I turn back to platform four where Johnson is leaning over Smith.

I have to go soon. There is no time to stay and take out Smith. But the thought makes my skin tingle. He is the biggest fraud of them all. I look through the glass doors. The two officers are halfway to the entrance. I want to use the gun, but it will attract Johnson’s attention.

I take cover behind a coffee cart. I wait. The gun is heavy. I turn the weapon around. The first officer swings his rifle from side to side. Where do they get these people? His attention shifts to Johnson and Savannah. I can’t see Smith.

I raise the heavy gun and rush out in one stride and sideswipe the officer’s head. His lower jaw is torn free from its ligaments and is no longer in line with his head. It is not the best blow, but now my eye is in and I finish the job. He looks like an extra from a zombie movie. I duck back behind the stand. His partner comes over to attend to him. He looks my way, but I am too quick. I have always been too quick. While he calls on his radio, I circle back around the stand and creep up behind him. It is too easy.

“Look out!” Smith screams.

Where did he come from? I bring the gun down four times until the officer’s shoulders and neck are broken. I can kill anyone. Protective helmets are not designed to withstand my attacks. Smith looks sickened and as pale as me. He has the other gun. It is my lucky day after all.

*

John turned to face Fisher, who stood, legs slightly apart, glinting gun pointing downwards, behind the dead body of an armed police officer. Fisher had killed two men before his very eyes, and now John was in the open facing death again. Why hadn’t he shot from behind the bin? There was only ten feet between the two men.

Fisher was SAS trained. What chance did John have? He was at the other man’s mercy. As John stared into Fisher’s eyes, he could see the man’s facial tics dancing across his face. They were not so obvious when he spoke.

“I’m not going to blow up the station, Smith. I was never going to. As soon as I’d killed Wilson, I was going to get myself up to York. All that soldier crap, who was he trying to kid? Shame Johnson had to steal all my fun.”

John had talked himself out of trouble before, and other than an old fashioned gun draw contest, it was his only option. Reinforcements would be coming soon. “You’re going after the social workers?”

“Exactly. I’m going to hunt them down and kill every one of them.”

“Can’t you hear the sirens? They’ll be swarming this place within minutes.”

“Not before I kill you. Besides, they’re no match for me.”

“You’re that good?”

Fisher brought his hand away from his head and looked at his gun. “Have you felt the power humming from these things? I think I’ll take my chances. If I get cornered, I’ll just take them all with me. Are you ready to die, Smith?”

John studied the man in front of him as he considered his choices. He was no match for an elite soldier in a gun fight. He recalled an Oprah Winfrey rerun one wet Sunday afternoon when they had suggested that running was the best option. Chances were that the gunman would miss, especially if you ran in a zigzag motion. John’s legs didn’t feel like there was a single zig left in them, although running did seem appealing in light of the alternative.

Using both hands, Fisher levelled the large shiny barrelled gun at John.

John felt his breath stop. He couldn’t die without defending himself. He had to think of something. “Do you know who the social workers were?” he said.

“What?”

“How do know who to kill?”

“I’ll kill everyone in the York office.”

“What if some have moved or retired or changed vocation?”

Fisher lowered the gun. “I’ll find them and kill them one by one.”

“You’re well and truly on the radar now. You get one chance, and then you’re jailed for life.”

As Fisher considered John’s remark, his attention left John momentarily, his eyes darting about the station.

“What about your sister?” John said. “What will she think?”

Fisher’s gaze returned to John with added intensity. “What do I care what she thinks? She’s made her feelings clear.”

“Maybe if you acted like her brother and stopped trying to hit on her she might feel differently.”

Checking behind him first, Fisher stepped over the lifeless body at his feet, raised the gun and levelled it at John’s chest. His face was undulating with tics and twitches. “You heard our conversation.” It wasn’t a question.

John could hear Oprah telling him to run. “Only the bit about you wanting her to talk dirty while you played with yourself,” he said.

Fisher’s face flushed beetroot red as he hung his head, dropped his arms to his sides and started talking to himself. “No one can know. It wasn’t my fault, it was ... my father. Who else knows?”

John looked around for signs of the cavalry, but other than Johnson tending to Savannah’s injury, there was no other movement in the station.

“I said who else knows?” Fisher shrieked, his face still staring at his own feet like he was ... like he was what?