Blindside - By Gj Moffat Page 0,95

his head was about to explode. His finger tightened a fraction on the trigger of his gun. He started to walk slowly forward. Martinez copied him.

They were fifteen feet from the rear of the car.

The driver of the truck looked past his passenger at the FBI agent pointing his gun into the rear of the truck’s cab. He turned his head to look at the agent on his side. Finally, he looked back at Grange.

The two agents at the side looked scared.

Grange didn’t.

Looked like a gunfighter.

That was a problem.

‘Hands. Out. Of. The. Car. Right. Now,’ Grange shouted. ‘Last warning.’ The men in the back turned the rifles on their laps until they were able to get their fingers inside the trigger guards. They eased them slowly forward until they were, as best they could tell, aimed through the doors of the truck at the two agents.

Grange was done. These guys were not moving. Which meant only one thing. He squeezed the trigger of his gun twice in quick succession.

The truck’s windshield burst in a cloud of red as the bullets tore into the driver and killed him.

The two men in the back of the truck pulled the triggers of their rifles, the roar of the powerful guns deafening within the confines of the truck’s cab.

The rifle bullets crashed into and through the truck doors, most of them deflected from their true path as a result of the impact.

The two agents with Grange fired almost simultaneously, shattering the rear windows of the truck.

The truck’s passenger lifted the handgun he held in his lap to aim at Grange. Fired.

Bullets cracked out of the ruined windscreen and fizzed by Grange’s head.

Grange didn’t flinch. Took aim at the passenger and fired twice.

One of the bullets took the top of the passenger’s head off.

The agent to Grange’s left fell silently to the ground, half his face missing.

Grange emptied his clip into the interior of the truck.

The air in the truck fogged with blood and dust from the shredded seats.

The gunfire stopped.

The exchange had lasted less than five seconds.

In the truck: three dead and one seriously wounded.

Outside: one agent dead.

If Grange had notches on his belt the count would have increased to six.

23

Ruiz heard the gunfire; cracks in the near distance, the sound dissipating quickly in the air.

It stopped.

‘Man down.’ Grange’s voice sounded in his earpiece. ‘He’s dead. Truck is out of commission.’

Ruiz and Martinez kept walking. The passenger of the sedan came to a decision. He dropped his gun and slowly lifted his hands into the air.

Ruiz reached the door of the car, yanked it open and hauled the driver out on to the road with one hand. The man didn’t resist, a handgun slipping from his grasp and skittering away across the road. Ruiz put him face down on the tarmac, crouched over him and pinned the man’s neck with his knee.

Martinez told the passenger to turn around. When he did, Martinez stepped up and kicked the back of his knees hard. As the man fell forward with a shout, Martinez pushed him in the back. He moved quickly to put plastic ties around the prone man’s wrists. Ruiz did the same with the driver.

‘Sedan secured,’ Ruiz said over the radio.

He turned his head to the side, felt like vomiting on to the road. Managed to hold it in.

24

Webb had been watching the diner on the monitor when the gunfire at the truck started. The radio traffic that followed was brief. Both vehicles were secure, but he had lost an agent.

When he looked back at the monitor, the two agents at the front of the diner were now out on the street sprinting towards the sound of the gunfire. Webb had not told them to leave their positions.

The homeless man was walking around the internal dividing wall of the diner.

Webb turned and ran for the door.

Logan smelled the man before he saw him, his nose wrinkling at the stench. Cahill saw him come in and the gunfire started outside.

Cahill stood, his chair clattering back against the wall.

Logan noticed the homeless man did not even flinch at the sound.

Hunter got up and walked to the front of the diner as the FBI agents there drew their weapons and ran out the door.

Collins stayed seated.

The homeless man walked to Matt Horn’s table and stopped in front of Horn. He had on several layers of old clothes, including a hooded sweatshirt with the hood up. He reached up, pulled the hood back off his head and raised