The Templar Reprisals (The Best Thrillers Book 3) by James Best (free ebook reader for ipad .TXT) 📗

“Yeah, I guess she’s the one who yelled something as she ran out.”

“Which way?”

He pointed to the front door and hooked his finger left to indicate the direction she took outside.

“Can I have some men?” Evarts asked.

“One is all I can spare.”

He yelled some orders and a relatively fit man in his fifties sprinted over. Evarts made a follow-me wave with his hand as he ran out the door and then veered left. Wilson had once said she had been trained to run bad guys to ground. She wasn’t kidding. As soon as shots were fired, she was gone. Evarts stopped on the sidewalk and looked at the building across the street. He guessed she went for the entrance.

“Remove that blazer and take the right side of the building. I’ll cover the other side. Stop and keep an eye on the first exit you encounter. Do not confront the assailant. He’s armed and dangerous. Stand away from the entrance and try to get a description. See where he goes. That’s all. Got it?”

“Yeah,” he said nervously as he removed his bright blue, tell-tale blazer and laid it across a planter wall.

Evarts ran across the street, past the main building entrance, and around to the other side. He didn’t look back to see if the security guard did as he was told. He either did or didn’t. As he rounded the corner, Evarts saw no exit on this side of the building, so he picked up his pace and ran nearly full speed toward the back. He weaved through the crowded sidewalk, with his badge still held high. As he approached the street that ran along the rear of the building, he slowed to make the turn. Bam! He was flat on his back.

He assumed he had crashed into a pedestrian until he saw the man. His clothes were dark, casual attire, and he wore black tonal sneakers. When the stranger spotted his badge, his eyes told the story. This was the sniper. As the assailant reached into the small of his back, Evarts used his feet to push away from him as he reached for his own gun. Adrenalin slowed time. Drawing his weapon while on his back was not a practiced move and he saw that he was going to be too slow. As he glacially lifted his own gun, he saw the sniper’s automatic moving to center on his chest.

He was dead.

Just before the fateful muzzle flash, the sniper’s chest spewed blood. Without hesitation, Evarts double tapped the killer in the chest as he took more hits from behind.

Chapter 54

The body crumbled to the ground; his entire torso pulverized. He rolled to his feet and in a crouch kept his gun aimed at the man who had tried to kill him. He had seen enough death to know that life had left the assailant before he had fully hit the ground. Five bullets riddled the body’s center mass, two from the front and three from the rear.

Behind the assassin, Wilson stood in a flawless shooter’s stance.

Evart rose to his full height. “Thanks, Diane.”

“You’re welcome,” she said as she holstered her weapon. “Damn, is this going to be a hell of a lot of paperwork.”

“Drop your weapon!” someone yelled from behind. “Police!”

Evarts automatically snapped his safety and let the gun fall to the ground. Then he slowly lifted his hands in the air. No sudden moves. Wilson lifted her hands as well.

“My ID is laying on the sidewalk,” Evarts said.

A sergeant gestured that a patrolwoman should pick it up.

After an examination, she said, “He’s police. Santa Barbara, California.”

“This ain’t California, bub,” the sergeant said, not unkindly.

Evarts jerked his head to indicate the body behind him. “That man assassinated one of your citizens in a building on the other side of this one. You’ll find a high-powered rifle on the roof of this building.”

The sergeant talked into his shoulder. “Officers O’Reilly and Smith. We have a body on West 55th. Believed to be the 56th Street shooter. Suspect shot by an out-of-state police officer.”

He listened for a bit, then said, “I need to frisk you. Both of you.”

Evarts nodded acquiescence, and the patrolwoman patted him down collecting his personal possessions. She then stepped into the street to pass around the body to frisk Wilson. After she was done, she led Wilson into the street and around the corpse to preserve the sidewalk crime scene. During the entire process, her sergeant kept them under guard with a gun lowered but not holstered. After they were next to each other, the sergeant signaled that they could lower their hands.

After further examination of their credentials, the patrolwoman said, “This man is chief of police in Santa Barbara and she’s military police; sergeant first class, which makes her a senior non-commissioned officer.”

The police sergeant smiled, “Then I apologize but you’re still detained pending an investigation.”

“Understood,” Evarts said.

The patrolwoman whipped out a notebook to take notes.

The sergeant examined Wilson’s identification before saying, “Sergeant Wilson, are you here on official business.”

“No, sir. I’m friends with Mr. Evarts wife, Patricia Baldwin. She’s a famous author. The three of us were in Jeffery Methow’s office when he was assassinated. Actually, we had just exited to the outer office when the shots were fired. I raced out of the building in pursuit of the shooter. As I entered the lobby of this building, I saw a man exit the elevator that looked suspicious. I surreptitiously followed him out to the street. Mr. Evarts came barreling around the corner and collided with the assassin. Mr. Evarts fell to the ground and the assailant pulled a gun from the small of his back. As he raised the gun to shoot Mr. Evarts, I shot him from behind as Mr. Evarts shot him from the front. Then you and your partner came on the scene.”

The sergeant asked, “Mr. Evarts, why did the alleged assailant want to shoot