Page 58 of South of Nowhere (Colter Shaw #5)

58.

For a moment no one moved.

Then Colter Shaw stepped forward. A nod at the gun. “I’ll take it.”

The man’s eyes went wide.

He pulled the trigger again.

Now, nothing. Not even a click.

Before he’d ascended into the mine entrance, knowing Millwood was here, Shaw had pried the Hornady Defender slugs out of the shells—liked he’d done on the bee project—but left the primer caps in, so that if Millwood knew guns and pulled the slide back to look at the chamber, he’d see brass and believe it was loaded with live rounds.

Shaw shook his head. “That was not wise.” He pulled the gun from Millwood’s hand, hoping he’d make a move.

It was unprofessional. But Shaw wanted badly to take him down, plant the man firmly on his back, knock the breath out of him. Have pain radiate the way pain did in a moment like that. Efficient and unstoppable.

But sadly, John Millwood was in gaping mode. Frozen.

Shaw swapped the fake mag for a real one, and worked the slide, ejecting the brass in the chamber and loading a live round. The gun went back into his holster.

“Now, turn around.”

“You can’t do this! You’re not a cop.”

Shaw removed zip ties from his right rear pocket.

“Bullshit. That’s illegal.”

Not true. Citizen arrests were authorized under California Penal Code Section 837, if someone saw a felony committed in their presence.

“Turn around.”

Millwood gave a cold smile and his hands curled into fists. He stepped forward.

Ah, thank you, Colter Shaw thought.

It didn’t turn out to be as much fun as he would have liked.

Millwood was probably a very good domestic abuser but when it came to somebody who fought back, well, he didn’t do so great.

After his first swing, Shaw simply ducked, stepped in and performed a variation of the takedown he’d been thinking of just a moment earlier: left forearm against Millwood’s chest, right sweeping into the back of his knee. Then a swift push and lift.

Down he went.

The fun was over all too fast, but there was a delightfully hard landing.

Wheezing and gasping, the man clawed at his chest.

Fiona Lavelle looked on with some pleasure.

Shaw rolled the debilitated man over and zip-tied him.

“Too tight?”

“Ah, ah…”

But that wasn’t in response to the ties. Shaw assessed they were fine.

He walked to a pile of rocks near where Fiona had set up her little home. He lifted his burner phone from where he’d set it earlier, before Millwood’s arrival. The unit was in live-stream selfie mode so he was looking at himself. In the lower right-hand corner was a miniature TC McGuire.

“How’d it work out?” Shaw asked.

“Hollywood,” the man offered. “As they say, it’s in the can.”

The text Shaw had received forty minutes earlier, as he’d stood in the command post, was from the desk clerk at the motel where Millwood was staying. Shaw had given him a hundred dollars to text if the man left his room and drove off.

Then Shaw had slipped two hundred to one of the town sandbag volunteers to hang out in his pickup truck on Route 13. If someone matching Millwood’s description in a white Lexus SUV had showed up near the scene of the Camaro accident, inquiring about a young woman, he was to direct him toward the cliffs.

Shaw said to Lavelle, “They got it all. Hi-def.”

Millwood muttered, “You are in so much trouble…” His voice faded as he struggled to take in air.

“You’re insane.” Lavelle’s voice was a cold whisper.

His mood flipped instantly. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry…Really. I am. I was only doing it for you! Maybe I pushed a little too hard. Please forgive me!” It was eerie how quickly he jumped from one state to the other.

“Shhh,” Shaw said. He turned to Lavelle. “Bring the important things with you. We can come back for the rest.”

She gathered up notebooks and her electronics, placing everything in a big yellow backpack.

They walked outside, Shaw leading Millwood by the arm.

“I’m going to sue you.” Millwood was gasping, wincing at the pain too. The limp was impressive. And gratifying.

Shaw said, “Save your breath. I mean that literally. You’ll feel better if you don’t talk.”

They walked—and shuffled—down the mining trail. At the bottom, Debi Starr was standing beside her Public Safety Office pickup. Squinting, she examined Millwood’s zip ties. They passed muster and she led him to the backseat and helped him in.

“I was watching the stream,” she said. “We’ve got battery, menacing, brandishing. And attempted murder. That’s the ace in the hole.”

In California firing a weapon at someone, even a toy, is attempted homicide if you believe it’s real and loaded.

Starr turned to Fiona. “You all right, miss?”

“I’m fine.”

The deputy said, “You know every domestic I’ve answered, it’s always: he said/she said and we’ve gotta figure out which wound came first, the iron burn or the serving fork. Now, we’ve got evidence that’s pure gold. And may I add, Ms. Lavelle, you are a fine actor.”

“Thank you. I told Mr. Shaw the situation and he said me hiding out from him wouldn’t do it. People like him, sociopaths, you have to put them away.”

Through the partly opened rear window of Starr’s cruiser came the words: “This is entrapment, you assholes!”

Without even turning her head, Starr called, “No, it’s not. All right I’ll read him Miranda, and hand him off to the sheriff’s office. The stinker can cool his heels there until county intake opens up again. I’ll need statements from you both but they can wait. We’ve still got a levee that’s debating whether or not to come down.”