Instinct by Jason Hough (best memoirs of all time TXT) 📕

me that help. But not from Granston. Okay? Now tell me, your Jeep, does it have a standard power outlet?”

“It has two.”

“I could kiss you right now.”

The Luger is cold and heavy in my hand.

Before Kyle showed me this one, I’d only ever seen them in movies. World War Two films, usually. Some German officer wearing the pistol high on the hip, ready to draw and fire at the first sign of insolence from a captive. Kyle said the man who gave him this one found it in Vietnam, but that still means the damn thing is an antique.

I stare at it, wondering if it will even work. It could just as easily jam, or explode in my hand. It’s awkwardly weighted compared to a modern pistol. Back heavy, I guess is the way to describe it. It beats a fake knife, though.

Kyle’s got a flashlight in a kitchen drawer that I grab as well. I test the beam against my hand, cupping it over the bulb to block any illumination from giving me away.

His bedroom window overlooks Main Street. Even though the window is closed, the repetitive voice of Mrs. Conaty still manages to push in, blaring from the SUV’s speakers in constant droning repetition. “Kill the liar… Kill the liar…” And my name. Over and over.

I glance at the clock. Kyle’s task should take fifteen minutes, maybe twenty if he has to stop and hide from the gunmen. That’s assuming he makes it at all.

I can’t stand the idea that I might have put him in danger, but he was right, of course. I need help. If only I could keep that idea in my head for more than thirty seconds.

Maybe I can increase Kyle’s chances. Cause a distraction.

I head for the door, open it. Dark stairs lead down. I creep into the hall and take the first step before I recognize the change.

Conaty’s mantra about killing me has stopped.

I freeze on the darkened stairwell and listen.

Replacing the recorded order to kill me is her voice, talking normally. I turn and go back into the apartment, moving quickly through the living room to Kyle’s bedroom, around the bed, and to the window. I pull the blinds back slightly and look out at the street below, listening to her words.

“… all night chasing you, but there’s another way. You can come to us. Give up. And perhaps you’ll save some lives. These are, after all, the people you swore to protect.”

I swallow. This is something I had not expected.

The SUV is parked in between O’Doherty’s and the police station now, right in the middle of the street, all four of its doors open to let the sound of Conaty’s voice out. Of the woman herself there’s no sign. Two of the bodyguards, or whatever they are—mercenary seems more apt—stand beside the vehicle, assault rifles held at the ready. Their eyes scan the buildings. I have to duck back and let the blinds close as one of them glances this way. A second later, I peek through again. He’s facing the other side of the street now, still looking for me. I let out a breath.

“Hugh Wilkinson,” Conaty says, “step forward please. To the truck.”

My mouth goes dry as the owner of the diner emerges from the police station, almost robotically. He comes up beside one of the mercs.

“That’s perfect, stop there.”

Hugh complies.

“Officer Whittaker? Last chance,” Conaty’s voice booms.

I’m frozen in place, knowing what’s about to happen but not yet believing it, paralyzed by the ramifications.

“So be it, Mary. This is on you. Hugh Wilkinson, shoot yourself in the head.”

There’s no time to call out, to scream for her to stop this. Without even the slightest hesitation, Hugh Wilkinson, the mild-mannered longtime citizen of Silvertown, pillar of the community, owner of the diner, and Clara’s boss, lifts a pistol to his temple and fires.

He crumples to the ground, lifeless; a spray of blood hits the road beside him a second later.

I close my eyes, shut them as tight as I can, trying to get that image to go away. The spray of blood and brain, the innocent man collapsing.

Worse, though, is knowing exactly what Conaty will say next. The bitch doesn’t disappoint.

“Plenty more fodder where he came from, Mary. You can stop this whenever you like. All you have to do is come out of your hiding place and no one else need die.”

The weight of what she’s doing is like nothing I’ve felt since the day my partner was shot back in Oakland. I felt so helpless then, watching him bleed as the perp got away and the ambulance took way too long to arrive. I was helpless then, but I’m not helpless now.

Conaty’s right. I can stop this. I must.

I reach for the window, grasping the latch to slide it open. Even in the darkness I can still see the words on my hand.

YOU NEED HELP

Too late, I think. Help’s not going to get here in time. Kyle won’t be fast enough.

And for perhaps the only time in my goddamn life, going it alone is the right choice. It’s going to save lives.

“Greg Gorman,” Mrs. Conaty booms through the SUV’s speakers. “Approach the vehicle.”

And there he is. My chief. The man who’s had to bear the burden of a town ripped apart by his actions. All because he did the right thing. And now it’s all come back. Conaty has come back.

“More blood on your hands, Mary,” she’s saying. “Greg Gorman, shoot—”

I yank the window open. “Okay!” I shout. “Okay. Enough.”

A dozen flashlights swing to the window, illuminating me from below. I hold up a hand to block the glare.

“Well, well,” Conaty says. “Do not move. Someone will be up to fetch you.”

Her voice still comes from the SUV’s stereo, but it suddenly occurs to me that she’s watching all this. She’s nearby, or at least being fed a video of the situation. The former seems more