Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #2: Books 5-8 (A Dead Cold Box Set) by Blake Banner (best desktop ebook reader .TXT) 📗

than I could. It has to go through his superiors. And there you are going to run into a problem, because within the next five minutes, you are going to be declared an ISIS terrorist, and the U.S. government does not negotiate with terrorists. See, if it had been just a car, maybe you could have gotten away with it. But now that you want the money as well, that’s never going to happen.”

His gun hand was trembling wildly now. His eyes were staring like crazy. “You trick me. You told me ask for money! Now you tell me money is the problem! You lie to me!”

“I’ll tell you what might work, though, Ahmed.”

His voice was shrill. “More tricks?”

I shook my head. “Take me as your hostage. I have more value than Sylvie because I am a senior police officer. Take me instead of her and they might just agree to your demands.”

He stared at Dehan, then at me. Then, he waved the gun at us each in turn. It was flapping around like a loose sail in a high wind. I had seen what Sylvie had done. I knew there was nothing I could do to stop her, so I wanted to give her the best chance of surviving that I could. Our eyes made contact for a split second and we understood each other. It was now.

I spoke in a completely flat voice as I held out my cell phone to him. “Here, you talk to him.”

He cried out, “No!”

I dropped the phone, grabbed the barrel of the rifle and levered it up. It spat three rounds into the ceiling, and as it did so, Sylvie pulled the knife from the sleeve of her cardigan and rammed it into Ahmed’s thigh. Her expression was diabolical. He screamed a high-pitched screech and his leg went into spasm. She wrenched out the blade and slashed at him again. I grabbed the rifle with both hands, planted my foot on his belly and shoved hard. He went staggering back and fell against the sofa.

Suddenly, Mary was squealing again and Humberto had started howling like a wounded wolf. Ahmed was staggering backward, with his leg pumping blood, and jumping like a hooked fish, and Sylvie was storming after him, stabbing and slashing with the knife. I shouted at her to stop, and meanwhile Dehan went after him shouting, “Ahmed! Freeze!”

Instead, like the jackass he was, he turned and ran, staggering and stumbling. Sylvie went after him and so did Dehan, shouting, “Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” to the cops outside.

I was on the phone.

“Stone! What the…!”

“Shut up, Captain! Ahmed proceeding through back garden into church grounds. Unarmed and wounded. Pursued by Sylvie Martin! Armed and hysterical. Paul is down. Urgent medical assist! We are in pursuit! Storm the house! Repeat, storm the house!”

I hung up and ran.

As I leapt into the garden, ahead of me I could see, silhouetted against the flashing strobes of the patrol cars, the grotesque, limping figure of Ahmed, racing toward the hedge. I could hear radios crackling and voices shouting as the officers ran across the church grounds to intercept him. I could see Dehan reaching out for Sylvie, shouting at her to stop. I saw Sylvie swipe at her and push her away.

Dehan fell and I skidded to a halt beside her. “Are you okay?!”

“Yes, goddamn it! Get her!”

I ran after Sylvie. With his badly gashed leg pumping blood, Ahmed was getting weaker and slower with every step. Ahead, I saw officers, three or four of them, forcing their way through the hedge. I was closing in on Sylvie fast but she was closing on Ahmed faster. The officers were maybe thirty feet away. Ahmed fell and Sylvie fell on top of him. I hollered, “Sylvie, don’t!”

But it was too late. She was sitting astride him, holding the knife with both hands, and she plunged it into his chest, once, twice, three times. By the fourth time, I had got to her and grabbed her wrists. She was thrashing and kicking, screaming through clenched teeth, as I dragged her away. The knife fell to the grass. I saw his legs twitch and blood burble from his mouth.

One of the officers knelt and felt for a pulse. He looked at me and shook his head.

“He’s gone.”

With a suddenness that was shocking, Sylvie screamed one last time. It was a horrible, high, shrill, histrionic sound as she glared at his dead, twitching corpse.

“You bastard! You filthy, fucking bastard! May you rot in fucking hell for eternity, you fucking piece of miserable fucking shit!”

We all stared at her for a moment. Then she collapsed against me, sobbing with deep, guttural grief. I led her back to the house as the captain and his 7th Cavalry spilled out of the French windows. He hurried toward me with a scandalized look on his face. As he approached, he drew breath. I fixed him with my eyes and shook my head. He clamped his mouth shut and watched me walk past, with Sylvie in my arms and Dehan at my shoulder.

Twenty Six

Maybe Paul’s God had been looking out for him, after all. The knife had pierced his left side and missed all his major organs. It had made a nasty cut in his abdominal muscles, but it was not life-threatening. The paramedics had insisted he should go to the hospital. He’d said he would, but after he had talked to me and given me his statement.

Ahmed was not so lucky. Sylvie had stabbed him through the sternum three times and shredded his heart like confetti. He had died instantly. There was no need for a CSI team, as we had witnessed everything in person, and after an hour, the ambulances and the squad cars left, taking with them Ahmed and the two