a freight train as his injured shoulder made impact with mother earth. He kept rolling and rolling until a dip in the terrain let him gain his feet. The child smelled of peanut butter and baby powder and was so stunned that she lay like a rag doll in his grip until he reached the trees. Then she struggled and cried out for her daddy. A daddy who would never hold her again as her sugarplum dreams became nightmares of his murder.
Rico clamped harder on to his anger, sure he would tear the sniper apart with his bare hands, limb from limb. This violence should have never touched the child’s life.
“Thank God. Oh thank God,” the woman cried as she ran to meet them.
“Don’t let go of her. Hide quickly.” Rico thrust the little girl into the woman’s arms and pushed them behind a tree, toward the woods. He spared a glance in Angie’s direction but couldn’t see her. He prayed to God that she’d stay covered just as he thanked God that Lauren hadn’t brought Matt and Mitch to the picnic as planned. The twins had been through hell and didn’t need this. Nobody needed this and he had to stop it.
He ran harder. His lungs ached and heaved, dying for air he couldn’t seem to get enough of. His injury from Lebanon screamed bloody murder at him and his other muscles tried to cramp up and freeze on him. The surgeries had taken a toll on his body.
Turning toward the sniper’s position, he backhanded the sweat from his eyes and ran even harder. A police siren wailed in the distance, assuring help was on the way.
Yet the sniper squeezed off another round and Rico heard a distant scream.
He couldn’t move fast enough to satisfy the boiling anger in his gut. Less than two minutes later, armed with a heavy branch, he crested the tree-covered knoll where the sniper had shot from.
Brass shell casings—.30 caliber WSMs—littered the churned ground. The guy probably had a Remington 700 rifle.
Fifty yards to the left, disappearing around a copse of trees, Rico saw a man in fatigues and moved at a cautious run forward. The man appeared to be confused, running zigzag as if looking for something. He didn’t have the rifle with him, which meant the guy had ditched it in the park. Rico poured on the steam and tackled the bastard from behind.
They both went down, hitting the ground hard. Rico saw stars as a bolt of pain shot through his shoulder and neck. He tried to pin the guy, but the man went berserk, screaming wildly, arms and legs flailing in a mindless defense. At about six foot, the guy weighed an easy two twenty, all muscle and deadly power unleashed.
Rico could have held his own in a sane fight, but this insanity was impossible to contain and a blow to his injured shoulder had him rolling away from the guy, fighting for consciousness.
Instead of going for the kill that Rico wondered if he could stop, the man turned and ran. Rico gained his feet, sucking for air and followed, digging for his cell phone. There were people running and shouting for others to run as the man he was after weaved between them. Others stumbled back in confusion, unsure which direction to go. Rico dodged teenagers with skateboards, a mother with kids carrying kites, and a plump elderly couple with their dogs.
Stopping the guy was out, but a picture would work. The man exited the park onto a busy street at a dead run. Rico kept after him, fixing the man’s image in his mind and trying to get cell pics of the guy before he jumped into a beat-up black Jetta and burned rubber. Only three letters of the license plate were visible.
“Holy Moses, boy. You got trouble?”
Rico turned to see a beret-wearing homeless man, complete with shopping cart of belongings, camped out at the park entrance. “You can say that and a prayer,” Rico told the man. He called 911 as he headed back into the park gate, hurrying to Angie. He moved against the flood of panicked people pouring from the park. The emergency dispatcher answered just as he tripped over a
Rico clamped harder on to his anger, sure he would tear the sniper apart with his bare hands, limb from limb. This violence should have never touched the child’s life.
“Thank God. Oh thank God,” the woman cried as she ran to meet them.
“Don’t let go of her. Hide quickly.” Rico thrust the little girl into the woman’s arms and pushed them behind a tree, toward the woods. He spared a glance in Angie’s direction but couldn’t see her. He prayed to God that she’d stay covered just as he thanked God that Lauren hadn’t brought Matt and Mitch to the picnic as planned. The twins had been through hell and didn’t need this. Nobody needed this and he had to stop it.
He ran harder. His lungs ached and heaved, dying for air he couldn’t seem to get enough of. His injury from Lebanon screamed bloody murder at him and his other muscles tried to cramp up and freeze on him. The surgeries had taken a toll on his body.
Turning toward the sniper’s position, he backhanded the sweat from his eyes and ran even harder. A police siren wailed in the distance, assuring help was on the way.
Yet the sniper squeezed off another round and Rico heard a distant scream.
He couldn’t move fast enough to satisfy the boiling anger in his gut. Less than two minutes later, armed with a heavy branch, he crested the tree-covered knoll where the sniper had shot from.
Brass shell casings—.30 caliber WSMs—littered the churned ground. The guy probably had a Remington 700 rifle.
Fifty yards to the left, disappearing around a copse of trees, Rico saw a man in fatigues and moved at a cautious run forward. The man appeared to be confused, running zigzag as if looking for something. He didn’t have the rifle with him, which meant the guy had ditched it in the park. Rico poured on the steam and tackled the bastard from behind.
They both went down, hitting the ground hard. Rico saw stars as a bolt of pain shot through his shoulder and neck. He tried to pin the guy, but the man went berserk, screaming wildly, arms and legs flailing in a mindless defense. At about six foot, the guy weighed an easy two twenty, all muscle and deadly power unleashed.
Rico could have held his own in a sane fight, but this insanity was impossible to contain and a blow to his injured shoulder had him rolling away from the guy, fighting for consciousness.
Instead of going for the kill that Rico wondered if he could stop, the man turned and ran. Rico gained his feet, sucking for air and followed, digging for his cell phone. There were people running and shouting for others to run as the man he was after weaved between them. Others stumbled back in confusion, unsure which direction to go. Rico dodged teenagers with skateboards, a mother with kids carrying kites, and a plump elderly couple with their dogs.
Stopping the guy was out, but a picture would work. The man exited the park onto a busy street at a dead run. Rico kept after him, fixing the man’s image in his mind and trying to get cell pics of the guy before he jumped into a beat-up black Jetta and burned rubber. Only three letters of the license plate were visible.
“Holy Moses, boy. You got trouble?”
Rico turned to see a beret-wearing homeless man, complete with shopping cart of belongings, camped out at the park entrance. “You can say that and a prayer,” Rico told the man. He called 911 as he headed back into the park gate, hurrying to Angie. He moved against the flood of panicked people pouring from the park. The emergency dispatcher answered just as he tripped over a
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