Page 195 of The Fourth Option
“Come with me,” he said. “We’ve got to help Stanton’s partner.”
With his arm supporting Belle, they made their way outside, stepping over the body in the doorway and moving to the front of Stanton’s FBI Tahoe, where he knelt cradling his partner’s head. His M4, trauma kit, and a Streamlight were next to him.
“She’s breathing and has a pulse, both are weak,” Stanton said as Walker knelt. “Come on, J.J.”
“Hold this light, Belle,” Walker said, handing her the black flashlight.
Walker started at J.J.’s feet and conducted a visual inspection while feeling for blood and broken bones.
“Did you see her go down?” he asked.
“I did. They beat her in the head with a rifle.”
“She needs to get to a hospital. Help me get her to your truck.”
They carried J.J. to the left rear passenger door of Stanton’s vehicle and laid her across the seats.
“Was Bates driving his Charger?” Walker asked.
“Yes,” Stanton responded.
“Belle, go with Agent Stanton. Ride back here with J.J. Hold her head and neck.”
“You need to get to the hospital too,” Stanton said.
“I’m going after Bates.”
“Not like that you’re not.”
“Don’t try and stop me, Stanton.”
“On the contrary,” Stanton said. He reached into the back cargo area and threw Walker a navy-blue windbreaker emblazoned with gold letters that read “FBI.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-EIGHT
WALKER PUSHED THEold AMC Eagle to the limit, its four-wheel drive grinding through the gravel around the back-road turns. He checked the Sons of Liberty AR and Staccato pistol he had taken from Dupuis, the weapons that Bates had stashed back in the Eagle. They were ready to go to work.
A subtropical thunderstorm that had worked its way up from the Gulf began its attack as Walker hit the freeway and turned south. He wondered what he would do if he was pulled over by a Louisiana state trooper.
His body felt cold despite the humidity and sweat, drained of energy, permeated by a numbness accentuated by a painful tingling, like it had been cooked from the inside.
You’re dying.
That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?
The car’s heavy V-8 engine groaned in protest as Walker accelerated to a max speed of just under ninety miles an hour.
How far could Bates have gotten?
“Come on!” Walker shouted, urging the car to go faster.
A few cars drove through the downpour in the opposite direction on the other side of the grass median, leaving New Orleans in their rearview mirrors. Walker weaved around a Ram truck, a Jeep Cherokee, and a Mini Cooper as he ate up the distance between him and his prey.
He concentrated on the hunt to keep his mind off the burnt flesh on his feet and between his legs. He could feel the knife wound on his thigh bleeding through his makeshift bandage.
There, taillights ahead. Was it the Charger?
Walker killed his headlights.
