Page 118 of One of Us Is Guilty

Bloch thought about her tactical vest. It was a Mil-Tec tactical combat vest. With two polyethylene plates in the carriers. One in front. One in back. Each plate gave level-three ballistic protection, but weighed only three and a half pounds. She hadn’t skimped on the plates. They would stop a standard NATO round, and were five pounds lighter than a steel plate.

If Landry shot and hit the chest plate . . .

Bloch would be sore. But just fine.

The vest would save her.

Too bad it was still safely locked in the trunk of her Jeep.

Bloch closed her eyes.

And waited for the shot.

48

Bloch

Bang!

She flinched.

Eyes shut.

Waited for the pain. The fear crushing her chest like an anvil was pressing on it.

Nothing.

No pain.

Bang!

That sound again, but hearing it for the second time, it didn’t sound like the crack from a .45 or a .22 caliber pistol.

It was different.

The second time she heard it, she sensed that it was closer.

Landry still had the gun on her. He hadn’t fired, but it was pointed square at her chest.

And he was looking over his left shoulder.

Staring at the driveway.

Then Bloch heard a different sound.

An engine.

Not a healthy one.

It was the sound of a six-cylinder V6 running on maybe three, maybe two cylinders.

Revving high.

A shit-colored Pontiac Aztec came tearing up the gravel driveway at speed.

Landry checked Bloch hadn’t moved. She was still on her knees.

He turned back to the car, completely taken by surprise. Bloch imagined he had no clue who the hell was in this shit heap. But he was a police officer, a captain no less, in uniform, with his gun pointed at a suspect. He could send whoever it was away just as fast as they arrived.