Whiplash

Is that why you're trying to goad me? Make me lose it and come close enough for you to jump me? Good luck, Agent. I could break your skinny neck with one hand."
    Sherlock was elbow-crawling away toward the far end of the clothes rack as she called out, "Maybe I'll put the next bullet between your stone-dead eyes, Andy."
    "Don't you call me Andy!" He was angry, really angry, but not out of control enough to pull the trigger wildly. But she wanted him to keep coming, get him out in the open, to keep shooting.
    Rile him, rile him . She called out, "You don't think much of women, do you, Andy? Why? Is it that after a while women see beyond your good-looking face to the cold-blooded loser?"
    He growled deep in his throat, she heard it, and flattened herself, face against the dusty floor. He fired once, twice, the second bullet coming too close. She elbow-crawled two more feet back. How many bullets did he have left? Three, maybe four? Did he have another magazine? Not that it mattered, he had her SIG, and he'd used it to kill Mick. Then Sherlock finally realized what this was all about. She called out, "You must have been really pissed when Jane Ann called you in a panic, told you what she and Mick had done to me. You thought you had everything under control, thought you'd won, and now this debacle. Is that when you decided to come and mop up? Remove all three of us in a big shoot-out? Now you think you're home free?"
    He said, "I would have shot Jane Ann when I killed her loser husband, but she must have guessed something wasn't right, which is why she had her boy Mick there. As insurance. I should have killed them both right there, but then the two of you showed up. It took you long enough to figure it out, Agent."
    That was the truth, Sherlock thought. Mick had scrambled her brains good when he'd clouted her, and the drug Jane Ann had added to the orange juice hadn't helped. She did know one thing for sure-her only chance was to keep pushing him, to make him lose control. She paused a moment to look through the clothes. He'd stood up behind the luggage, trying to find her, fanning his gun from one end of the clothes rack to the other, his left hand still slapped against his neck. No way could she take the chance of shooting at him from this distance. If she didn't put him down with her second and last bullet, he'd walk over here and shoot her dead.
    She saw blood oozing sluggishly through his fingers. Too bad she hadn't hit an artery, but it was a start. Should she dare try her only other bullet? She was tempted, she was a good shot. Just maybe-
    Suddenly he grabbed a still limp Jane Ann, dragged her behind a leather sofa, then pulled her up in front of him like a shield. "You want to try again, Agent? Well, go ahead, this slut is no loss to the world." Without the pressure of his left palm, blood snaked down his neck into his jacket.
    She didn't know where she found it, but she laughed. "Hey, Andy, what do you call a male slut in German?"
    He fired once, lower this time, but still well above her head.
    She laughed at him again. "You're not in such good shape now, are you? You're bleeding all over the place. Hey, who knows? Maybe you'll bleed out. Talk about no loss to the world, but hey, I'm willing to make you a deal, Andy. You leave Jane Ann alive, and I'll let you walk out of here. No one else has to die today."
    " You will let me walk out of here? To run for the rest of my life? That's not going to happen. I'm the one in charge here, not you. When all of you are dead, my problems are over. You've figured that out, haven't you? All of you are going to hell. Where are you? " He raised his gun and fired two quick rounds. One was no more than six inches from the top of her head. Too close, way too close.
    She could hear rage simmering in his deep voice now, whipping up a mad brew. "You are nothing but a dried-up butch cop! What you are is dead, do you hear me?" She watched Jane Ann's head loll against his chest as he shifted her, clumsily trying to keep her in front of him so he could press his palm against his neck again. Holding Jane Ann with his gun arm hampered him, not that it mattered, Sherlock wasn't about to risk shooting Jane Ann.
    "To be honest here, Andy, at first I thought you were like a sore thumb-just sticking out there, this jerk foreign cop with nothing to do, bumbling around, but you had your own agenda. You only wanted to find out what we knew. You didn't spend much time with your assigned FBI