The Terminals Read Free Page B

man said. Distant. On the far side of the restaurant.
    Handso crawled to the stove. The order counter above would offer him a view of two-thirds of the diner. His empty palm mashed through raw bacon strips and hash the cook had strewn over the floor.
    â€œNo, no, I wanna try something.” A grunt of frustration and a shriek of pain—Agnes.
    Handso stole a glance. Hillar the Killer was thick-set with strange sideburns. He wore a wife-beater that strained against muscle and tendon. While his gun pressed against Agnes’s forehead, his other hand hauled her hair downward, forcing her chin up. Handso would have ducked, but Hillar was too intent on his victim. Two patrons hid beneath their table, a third huddled in the corner, holding a butter knife and a cell phone. With any luck, she’d be recording a video and the takedown would soon be on YouTube.
    â€œThatta gal, now look me in the eye.” Agnes did as she was told. A smile spread across Hillar’s face. “Yeah, yeah, wider.”
    The smoke streamed upward from the skillet, and Handso’s vision blurred. A cough itched in his throat, and he fought it off by swallowing.
    Hillar closed the distance between Agnes’s eyes and his own. When his face was inches from hers, Handso shouted.
    â€œPolice! Put the gun down!”
    Hillar didn’t move, but he didn’t freeze. Relaxed and loose, he stared straight into Agnes’s eyes.
    â€œRemove the gun from her head,” Handso ordered.
    But Handso appeared to be background noise. Agnes began to wail, the long shriek only broken by sobs for air.
    â€œIt’s there, I see it coming!” Hillar shouted, the grin spreading. “It’s like … it knows.” Drool strung from his lip.
    The shot rang out. Handso registered the acrid smell mingling with burnt steak, and then he was moving.
    He burst through the swinging kitchen door and hooked his legs over the counter, catching a cake stand with his foot. Black forest chocolate smeared across a tabletop.
    â€œOn the ground!” Handso hollered. “On the ground!”
    Hillar the Killer lay on the cold, white, and black-checkered tiling with a smile on his face. Handso had aimed for the shoulder but struck a good twelve inches above, nearly taking off the top of the killer’s skull.
    Beside him, Agnes was on her knees, clutching her throat, eyes bulging.
    â€œYou okay?” Handso asked, not removing his focus from Hillar.
    â€œNo,” she told him, stunned. “It’s like he tried to take my soul .”
    Agents and officers crashed in through the doors. Patrons screamed as if suddenly given voice. Handso’s hands went up, gun dangling from his thumb. Agnes buried her face in her palms. The FBI held their positions until Volt pushed past the group. He stopped short at the killer’s body.
    Without a word, Volt bent over, checked for a pulse, and shook his bald dome.
    â€œDo you know how long a child can last without water, Officer Handso?” The agent’s tone was cold and tight.
    Handso chewed his cheek. He knew the rule of thumb.
    â€œThree days in good conditions. That leaves at best seventy-two hours to search the whole goddamn state of Iowa.” He made a sound that underscored his opinion of the lieutenant’s work. “You just traded the life of your cousin for the lives of eleven kids. I’d steer clear of the governor if I were you.”
    A shudder crept along Handso’s spine and it wasn’t due to missing kids, or the fact he’d just killed a man.
    It was the look in Agnes’s eyes.

Chapter 3
    I kept the bullet as a souvenir. A .45 caliber, it fit my handgun. No doubt I’d use it soon, but two days after first meeting the general I still wasn’t dead, though the trip to New York had been almost enough to finish me. The general had gone on ahead while I had another session of dialysis, and so I ended up on a return flight with a group of