The Death in the Willows Read Free Page B

pronounced edge of fear in Lyon’s voice.
    â€œMaybe there is.”
    Lyon looked up the aisle to where the hijacker sat on the floor. His profile was well below the window line and protected from police sharpshooters. What did they do in cases like this? Talk the man out? Rush him? Yes, there had been a good deal of that lately. Percussion grenades combined with overpowering firepower and a quick dash by special teams who hoped to move fast enough to save most of the passengers. Most of them …
    He leaned back with the newspaper crushed between his hands, and tilted his head toward the aperture between the seats. “Any ideas?”
    â€œYou ever in the army?”
    â€œLong time ago. Korea.”
    â€œFired a weapon?”
    â€œWell, yes, but …”
    â€œYou have a newspaper. I saw it. Hold it over the space between the seats.” The voice was low and commanding.
    Lyon held the newspaper over the aperture and felt something metal thrust into his hand. He glanced down to see that he held the barrel of a large revolver. He automatically reversed the weapon until the butt rested in his palm and his finger curled over the trigger guard.
    â€œKill him,” the voice behind him whispered.
    â€œI can’t do that.” His voice was a hoarse whisper.
    â€œYou have to.”
    â€œTake this back.” He tried to force the gun through the seat opening, but felt unyielding pressure, probably the man’s knees pressed against the opening.
    I was an intelligence officer, he wanted to say. I never fired at the enemy. But he had once.… One quiet night he had gone to the division Ranger Company’s forward position to debrief a patrol that had returned to their lines. He was hunched over in a bunker with a pad on his knees when it started. Loud bugles … noise … so much noise, and then the searchlights reflecting off low-hanging clouds as they all rushed to the parapet. He’d automatically grabbed his M-2 carbine, switched it to full fire, and was on his second clip when a large hand pressed against his shoulder.
    â€œYou’re blowing away our defensive wire, Captain,” Rocco Herbert, the Ranger commanding officer, had said. “Please open your eyes.”
    Again, long ago, he had fired at a man with his eyes open. The vision still haunted him and peopled his dreams with a guilt that no rationalization could remove.
    â€œI won’t be able to do it,” he said aloud.
    â€œWhat’s going on back there?” The hijacker stood in a crouch and aimed his weapon toward the rear of the bus. “You hear me? What’s going on? Answer me!”
    Lyon tensed. His hand holding the large revolver perspired against the cool metal. He pushed back against the cushions.
    â€œYou going to answer me?” Willie Shep’s voice cracked in an adolescent quaver as it reached the top range of its register. “You … second from the toilet.” The gun pointed directly at Lyon. “Yes, you, buddy boy. Stand up, motherfucker.”
    â€œI’m not doing anything,” Lyon said in a low voice. He wondered if his words carried to the front of the bus. His hand was moist as it gripped the revolver, his finger refusing to curl around the trigger. He tried to remember long ago days in the army. The gun he held was large, probably a .44 Magnum. Would its characteristics be different from the standard army .45? He remembered days on the pistol range when he had fired the bucking .45 … and his inability to hit anything.
    The humane action would be to shoot the hijacker in a nonfatal part of the body … perhaps the shoulder, the projectile numbing his gun arm and throwing him backward into a position where they could easily overpower him. Realizing his lack of expertise with a handgun, he felt he’d probably miss and possibly even kill one of the other passengers. They must wait. The police would eventually make their move. They’d