Page 101 of The Fourth Option
The cop was whispering in her ear to stay quiet. His right arm was extended and his Glock 22 .40 pistol was pointed at the door, the door that Walker had almost entered moments earlier.
The hole in the wall was just small enough that Walker could see into the room or feed his rifle into it, but not both. He needed the barrel of his rifle and the IR laser on its rail to have a perch along with a clear line of sight from his NOD so he could align the laser with his target’s head.
Think!
What the 2005 floodwaters had not destroyed, they had left to rot. That rot had infected everything. He reached out and felt the drywall in front of him. It crumbled in his hand. The other side must be the same. Hope again? No, it had to be.
He heard sirens.
Shit.
Walker positioned his suppressor on the edge of his side of the drywall.
One punch and start sending rounds, or slowly work it through so there is enough room to see the target, align the laser, and take the shot?
Slowly, that should work. With the cop’s and Belle’s heavy breathing and elevated heart rates, and the physical exertion of holding her in place, Walker figured he could maneuver his rifle into position. All he needed to do was push out a piece of drywall just below the already existing hole, making it larger.
He took one last look and was about to exert pressure against the inside of the wall when the cop let Belle go, pushing her onto the floor in front of him. Walker watched as he shifted the Glock to his left hand and reached for the inside of his left ankle. He was going for a drop gun. There was only one reason for him to do that. To kill a witness.
Change of plan.
Walker punched his rifle forward, but it didn’t penetrate the drywall.
The cop heard the sound and spun in Walker’s direction, raising the Glock and a smaller revolver from his ankle, pressing both triggers in wild abandon.
With Belle on the ground, Walker’s shot required much less precision. It didn’t need to be an accurate head shot. All Walker needed was rounds on target.
His finger found the trigger, and he sent round after round through the drywall. His first shots impacted the wall to the cop’s left. Walker quickly adjusted. He continued to fire, his bullets finding a knee, then a thigh. As the cop stumbled, Walker pressed his attack, sending rounds into the officer’s pelvis, then into the body armor that protected his stomach and chest, then through his exposed neck and face.
Walker pulled his rifle from the hole and sprinted down the hall to the bedroom door. Throwing it open, he marched past Belle and put another round in the cop’s head before rushing to Belle’s side.
“Are you okay?”
She looked at him.
“What took you so fucking long?” she asked.
“You’re okay. Let’s get out of here,” he said, dragging her to her feet and toward the door.
“Wait.”
She broke away from him and ran to the dead police officer. “This bastard has my phone, car keys, and cash.”
She pulled them from his pockets and ran back to Walker.
The sirens were getting louder.
“Let’s go,” he said, leading her into the hallway and to the stairs, where they stepped over the dead body of cop number one. They rushed down the steps and over Flat Brim.
Walker turned left.
“That’s not the way,” Belle shouted.
“I know,” Walker said, stepping into the kitchen, toward the counter.
Belle followed.
He pressed the button on the back of his Scout light and illuminated the cardboard boxes on the counter with white light. They were marked with different names in thick black pen: “Yellow Jacket,” “Pez,” and “Snowball.”
