Craig Kreident #2 Fallout Read Online Free

motivation.
    He heard a scuffed footstep, saw a steel-toed workboot — then the man sprinted out the open doorway to the outside at the base of the dam, by the spillway and the turbine outflow that became the churning tailrace beyond the generators.   Perhaps the terrorist had a getaway vehicle among those parked on the narrow access road.
    Craig ran after him, dumping caution now that the suspect had fled outside.   He did not dare let the militia man slip away.
    Sunshine dazzled him for a moment, but Craig didn’t waste time with sunglasses.   He blinked repeatedly, trying to focus as he rushed blindly forward.   The militia man had turned right, racing down the asphalt access way.   As Craig rounded the corner, he saw the suspect duck behind a twelve-foot-high transformer.
    The terrorist popped out from cover again and fired.   Craig shot back, but both bullets missed.   He dove behind one of the generators, spooked by Danger — High Voltage signs mounted on the machinery.   The high-tension wires suspended across the canyon contained more electricity than he ever wanted to touch. . . .
    Craig glanced between the steel tiedowns that held the transformer machinery in place against the canyon wall.   He debated waiting for his backup — but by that time the man might have slipped away.   He clicked his walkie talkie.   “This is Kreident.   I’ve got him at the transformers.   Hurry.”
    Craig dashed away from the big transformer and slipped between the next two, advancing on his quarry.   He made another jump and scrambled behind the transformer.
    The militia man fired once at him as he peered out, but Craig waited an extra second.   He knew he was getting closer.   His own handgun remained drawn.   He took the time to put his sunglasses on now, so the light would not dazzle him when he leaped back out of the shadows.
    “You can’t get away, sir!” Craig shouted, his words carrying above the loud buzz of the transformers and the vibration communicated through the rock wall from the spinning turbines.  
    The militia man didn’t answer.   After what Craig hoped was an unexpected interval, he bolted out again, trying to go around two more stations in the row of transformers — but the terrorist had been waiting for him, taking no cover whatsoever, standing out in broad daylight, his revolver pointed directly at Craig’s chest.
    Craig dove to one side as the man shot once.   The bullet came close enough to burn through the sleeve of his jacket.   He felt a sting, but didn’t think he had been seriously injured.   But he was totally vulnerable, dead in the man’s sights . . . and the terrorist did not hesitate.   The man followed him with his weapon —
    Craig shot while rolling on the ground.   His bullet spanged off the metal transformer behind the terrorist, causing him to spin about, smacking his wrist into the machinery.   The weapon clattered to the ground, and the militia man scrambled for it as Craig fired again at his feet.   A white starburst of ricochet blossomed on the concrete by the scuffed workboots.
    Craig steadied his own Beretta.   “Hands up!   Move it!”   He had the man helpless, unable to do anything . . . except surrender.
    “Let’s just take this from the top, sir,” Craig said.   His voice was even, professional, uninflected.   He had learned to be calm, never to lose his cool even in a standoff such as this.   “You are under arrest — and you are going to tell me exactly what you’ve done to sabotage the dam.”
    The militia man looked at him with an astonished expression.   Craig was amazed at how . . . average the man looked.   Medium height, medium build, mousy brown hair, plain features — not handsome, but not ugly.   He was the sort of man who worked in every out-of-the-way gas station, in every hardware store, any service industry where the customers forgot their helpers moments after leaving the store.   He could move about anywhere