An FBI agent Allison Steven’s thriller – By Darrell Case

The first bullet shattered the windshield. Alison ducked down using the dash for cover. Shards of glass showered her back and head imbedding in her hair. The shooter was hidden at the right front of the car. Samuels threw open his door and tumbled onto the ground. He rolled over and over until he was clear.

Jumping to his feet, he shouted, “Get her! Get her! Don’t let her get away.”

With lightning speed Allison slid across the seat to the driver’s side. She quickly searched found the motorized button that moved the seat back and pressed it. Even moving it back gave her little room to maneuver. She pulled the key from the ignition. Using the key on the ring, she unlocked the cuffs and shook them off. Federal officers kept their extra firearms in the trunk. She keyed the icon on the fob.

The trunk sprang open; several bullets pinged off its surface.

With the driver’s side door as cover, Allison sprawled to the ground. Bullets peppered the car, blowing out the right front and rear tires. Trying to escape the line of fire, Samuels had leaped into the roadside ditch. Alison dismissed him as a non-threat. Moving slowly she worked her way to the back of the car. Several bullets blew rock dust in her face.

Staying low, she reached into the trunk. Just as she suspected, Samuels had a small arsenal. There were two rifles and a shotgun. She shoved a magazine into the Remington and returned fire.

She swiveled her head looking for the best way to run. The ground rose to the north and lay low to the south. A quarter mile to the east sat a burned out farmhouse. Too far, too much, open ground.

There was movement to her left. Samuels, his head and right arm exposed, aimed a pistol at her. She rolled over on her back and raised the Remington She squeezed the trigger, firing over his head. He ducked and fired. The bullet struck the car three inches above her head. Gas spurted out onto the gravel. The rapidly expanding pool spread toward her. She would have to get away from it. She had seconds to decide where to go.

Allison brought her rifle lower aiming at Samuels head. She hesitated reluctant to shoot a law enforcement officer, even one as corrupt as Samuels.

She suddenly realized the firing from the south had stopped. The assassin was on the move. He was coming after her or moving into a better position. Samuels stood up and stepped into the road.

“Couldn’t you just die quietly? Why did you have to complicate things?”

The Glock bucked in his hand. Alison threw herself to the side. She felt the wind from the bullet as it whined past her ear.

He was going to kill her. She had no choice. It was kill or be killed. She aimed at his heart.

A shot rang out Samuels fell to his knees and looked at her stupidly. He tried to raise the gun. Another shot echoed. A hole appeared in the marshal’s forehead. His body rocked backward and came to rest with the heels of his shoes touching the back of his head, or what was left of it. They had killed Samuels, their own man. What would their enforcer do to her? She put it out of her mind.

Allison crawled out of the way of the pool of gas, flattened and waited. She lay still and noiseless on her belly. If the shooter thought she was dead, he might expose himself. One minute, two minutes.
She started to panic. A dead marshal, an escaped prisoner. Her prints were all over these weapons. No way would anyone believe it was a set-up. They intended for Samuels to die, either by her hand or the assassin’s. they’d make it look like a shoot-out between her and the marshal. Arrange the scene before the cops showed up. She wouldn’t believe it if it hadn’t happened to her.

Three minutes. Allison shifted and started to rise. She saw movement out of the corner of her eye. Instantly she assumed a death pose. A figure in full camouflage gear, his face painted green, emerged from the weeds to the left. Why hadn’t she seen him cross the road? She had no answer. She watched his feet. He wore heavy combat boots made for jungle fighting.

Seventy, sixty, fifty feet. He stopped. Something caused him to pause. Could he see her breathing? She held her breath, willing her body not to move. She looked up. The rifle in his hands swung loose, its muzzle pointing toward the ground. It was now or never. If she hesitated, she would die. Under her abdomen, she gripped Samuels Glock. Tensing herself in anticipation of a barrage of gunfire, she leaped to her feet.

Bringing up the pistol, she fired, hitting him square in the chest. He fell on his back, his body armor taking the impact.

Instinctively his finger tightened on the trigger. Bits of gravel peppered the side of the car and flew into Allison’s face, momentarily blinding her. Blood oozed from a dozen cuts on her face, forearms and hands. Steeling herself, she fired multiple rounds at him. All but one bullet passed harmlessly over him. As he started to rise, one struck him; piercing the palm of his right hand.

On her feet, Allison shoved another clip into the Glock. Sirens blared in the distance. Shifting the rifle to his left hand, the assassin regained his footing.

Alison’s time had run out. Reaching into the trunk she grabbed a rifle and a box of ammunition. She ducked behind the car, and then sprinted for cover in the ditch. Expecting a bullet in the back, fear forced an adrenaline rush through her body, propelling her feet like rockets. The pounding of her heart matched the beating of her feet.
She was a fugitive, a criminal on the run from one murder charge, now two. They would consider her armed and dangerous. If they found her, she would die. Breathing hard, she slashed her way across a stream, up a small hill and into a cornfield. The corn was only waist high. From the air, she would be exposed like a black bug on a white rug. She had to find cover. Within minutes, they would call in air support.

Bursting out of the field, she raced across a meadow. The sirens were converging on the road behind her. She had to get out of sight. But where? There wasn’t a house or building in view.

His hand was on fire. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage. He had to abort the mission. Let the cops do their job. When she was back in custody, he would sneak into the jail and kill her. And he would make her suffer for the pain she caused him.
Wiping the blood from the stock of the rifle, he laid it in the weeds. Not looking back, he drifted away. His getaway plan was flawless. The challenge now was to disguise his injured hand but he’d find a way. By the time, he reached the Taurus he had stripped off his body armor and the rest of his battle gear.

Now he was a one- armed Kirby vacuum cleaner salesman.

He had just made his first sale when the cop car pulled up to the farmhouse. The housewife was horrified. A federal officer murdered only a few miles away and a killer on the loose? She quickly canceled her order and locked the door behind. The deputy cautioned him to be careful and to inform them if he saw anything out of the ordinary. He assured him he would.

Back in the car, he smiled, and then broke into laughter. If that farmer’s wife only knew she’d had a killer standing not three feet away right there in her living room.