Three
The figure was very still - predatory - as crouched for action as the dog had been. "Maybe," he agreed at last. The sibilant hiss of his voice made her shiver. "Or maybe I just shoot your dog too. Heh?"
He gave Steve another shake and Cheryl's heart pushed into her mouth as she watched the bloody head loll lifelessly against the pipes. She fought the urge to close her eyes to the sight - kept her gun straight and steady. Each abuse upped the ante, wearing away at Steve's stamina and lessening his chances for survival, sloughing away at her resolve.
"Maybe." She was pleased to hear that her voice didn't wobble. "But while you're busy with that, maybe I'll shoot you too. Maybe I'll even shoot you before you can get a shot off."
The figure's outline shifted to a swagger. "With that little popgun?" The chuckle was derisive this time. "No me lo digas. And, of course, he would still be a dead man. I don't think you want that."
Cheryl took a deep breath. "No. No, I don't. But you'd be dead too. And I don't think you want that, either."
"No." The head dipped in a light-hearted salute. "So then we - what? Wait? We continue our stand-off until either your cop friends arrive or he dies? An interesting contest. How much time do you suppose he has remaining now?"
He nudged Steve's mangled arm with his foot, and Cheryl had to lock her teeth together to keep from screaming at him to stop. It was growing lighter in slow but steady increments, and she could almost see, rather than just sense, the spiteful, watchful amusement that settled over him. "So, Guapa. Who do you think will give in first? Him? Me? Or -" The flashing white smile again, devoid of any real humor. "…you?"
Cheryl kept her eyes firmly away from Steve and fixed on her target. "Well, it won't be me." Where the HELL is my backup? "And it won't be him - he's survived worse. So I guess that leaves you."
This time the mocking chuckle sounded truly amused. "Ai, ai, ai…" He shook his head. "Beautiful and strong. Y policía? Such a waste."
"I guess it all depends on your point of view." Cheryl was fighting to distract herself from the ache in her back and arms, the burning that had settled there from holding the same position for too long. A small part of her brain wondered how long she would be able to last, but she thought of Steve and crushed it down ruthlessly. If he could hold on then so could she. So hold on, Steve.
"If you want to deal…" The voice was kinder this time, mellow, "…then here is what I propose. You put down your gun and come with me. We leave your dog for the policía to find. Maybe he even survives. What do you say?"
Cheryl was sorely tempted, her mind flipping rapidly through the possible scenarios. You're kidding yourself, she reminded herself firmly, and hardened her heart. "I have a better idea. You put down your gun, and then when my cop friends (my really slow cop friends) get here, I don't let them shoot you. And I put in a good word for you with the DA."
The man seemed to consider for a moment, then he shook his head sadly. "No…" he decided regretfully at last. "You see, I do not care to go to jail. I think maybe I take my chances here. Or maybe your dog will beg for his life? Maybe that would change your mind, heh?"
Cheryl felt the air freeze in her lungs. "I wouldn't count on it," she forced out. "He's not the begging kind. You know the sort. Proud."
"Ah." The head bobbed in solemn agreement. "This is too bad. But maybe I can change that. A man close to the end of his life can suddenly change his mind about many things."
Cheryl remained silent. Despite his cool nonchalance, she was knew her opponent's need to make a move was becoming urgent, pushing him to do something reckless - or even deadly. If Steve died, he lost all value as a hostage and that would leave them in a pure shootout situation. Also, the longer they stalled, the more likely it became that her backup would arrive and throw his odds out of favor. He needed to make a move. And she needed to be ready for it. She sucked in her breath. "I don't think so. You see, he's the stubborn sort too."
"I see." The voice grew even softer. "Pity." He sank slowly into a crouch, the gun muzzle never budging from its position, jammed against the side of Steve's head.
Cheryl tried to scare up some moisture in her arid mouth, her throat convulsing in a useless swallow. Now in order to keep her eyes on her adversary, she was forced to look at Steve, too. A thick dark stain gleaming wetly over his whole front made her want to shriek with panic. She tried to keep her gaze fixedly at her opponent's eyes instead. She could just make them out as they drilled into hers, marble hard.
"So, how about you, Guapa? Maybe you'll beg for his life?" The smile again, but this time, tight-lipped - watchful. "Or are you the proud sort too?"
Cheryl grabbed a breath. "Me? Oh, no." She tried to keep her mind from brooding over what he might be planning. "Our partnership wouldn't work if we both were. Me, I'm the practical sort." She felt her finger tighten convulsively on the trigger, forced it to loosen. Relax, Cheryl. Relax, relax…
"Ah? Good." The head nodded slowly. "Practical is good. Practical - " The feral smiled beamed out. "Saves lives." He prodded Steve's scalp with his weapon, stopped in shock when Steve groaned softly and turned his head away.
Cheryl felt her heart quicken. Good boy, Steve - you hang on.
The voice held a touch of grudging respect. "You did not lie. He is stubborn. A shame to see such a strong man die, eh?"
Cheryl tried not to be distracted by the urge to check Steve out, see how he was. "Yes," she breathed. "It would be a shame."
"Yes." He nodded pleasant agreement. Without warning, he yanked Steve's damaged arm and twisted.
Steve's roar of pain was weak, but there was something in the sound that filled Cheryl's ears and sliced directly through her stomach. She sighted down her weapon, looking for an opportunity to fire. It was another second before she realized that some of that yelling was actually coming from her.
She slammed her mouth shut, trying to stop the gun from shaking in her grip, noticed the narrow eyes resting on her. The smile was faint now, amused, triumphant. A rush of anger roared through her, and it was all she could do to stop herself from blowing his head off.
Steve slumped forward.
He loosened his grip on Steve's arm, but didn't let go. The gun never wavered. "So, what do you think?" he hissed softly. "What does a practical policía do now?"
"Let him go." Cheryl was shocked at how steady her voice sounded around the bile that was flooding her throat.
The genial head bob repeated itself. "I could do. And what would you do for me in return?"
"I've already told you that."
"Ai, yi." The head shake seemed disappointed this time. "And I have told you that that is not good enough. Perhaps you need more persuading…?" He gave Steve's arm another twist, holding it this time.
"Stop it!" Cheryl knew the outcry was exactly what he was hoping for, but it flew from her mouth before she could swallow it.
"You can stop it." The voice was hard now, implacable. "What do you say, Guapa, are you ready to beg? To be practical?" His eyes seemed to burn into her, like dry ice.
Cheryl chewed her lips, trying to block out the choking gasps of Steve's struggles to breathe, to focus, to think. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to do.
He must have read her hesitation correctly, because he gave Steve's arm another, more violent, yank. Steve jerked convulsively in his grip, threw his head back. It banged into his tormentor's chin and for a second - just a second - his gun slipped. There was the sharp report of a pistol shot, and Cheryl felt her police special kick in her hands.
The mocking eyes changed, darkened with indignation and surprise. His gun stuttered, spraying the ground with bullets. Then he dropped forward like a stone.
TBC