Irrevocable Trust (Sasha McCandless Legal Thriller Book 6) (33 page)

The officer tipped her cap and continued on her way. Then, she turned back, like she
’
d just remembered something.

“
Your boy got a phone call. Whoever it was scared the crap out of him
—
he turned pale and started sweating. He blew it off to me like a wrong number, but he went out front and told his secretary to knock off early for the day and then locked the front door.
”

Hank
’
s eyebrows crawled up his forehead.

“
Thanks for letting us know, Officer
…”

“
Truman. Like the president. No problem. Good luck.
”

She reached her car and slid inside, shifted her plastic-covered dry cleaning from the passenger seat to the back, and turned the key in the ignition.

They continued in through the metal loading dock door and ran straight into Pulaski, who was pacing, wild-eyed, in the hallway. When he saw them, he began to rant.

“
You
’
re the cavalry? The three of
you
. Fan-freaking-tastic. I might as well swallow a bullet myself and save him the trouble.”

Sasha bit her tongue.
Let Hank deal with him.

“
Mr. Pulaski, we believe your client
’
s on his way to kill you. Mr. Connelly and I have a real-time, live link to an elite squad of federal agents that are currently set up in the manager
’
s office in the Applebee
’
s up that hill.
”
Hank pointed toward the back of the building.

Pulaski stopped pacing and listened.

Hank went on,
“
Mr. Connelly and I are more than competent to save your sorry hide if Bricker shows up.
”
He glanced at Sasha.
“
As is Ms. McCandless, but I think she
’
d view your demise as a net benefit to the legal profession.
”

Sasha coughed to cover her laugh.

“
Here
’
s a bullet-proof vest. Put it on.
”
Hank lobbed the heavy vest at Pulaski.
“
Or don
’
t. I don
’
t really care. I want to catch Bricker. That
’
s my primary goal, just so we
’
re clear.
”

Pulaski huffed but struggled into the vest.

Then he turned and led them into his office.

“
You know, I didn
’
t ask for any of this,
”
he said, stabbing an angry finger toward Sasha.
“
The judge saddled me with this psychopath.
”

“
Karma,
”
Connelly observed mildly.

Pulaski narrowed his eyes at Connelly but held his tongue.

“
Tell us about the phone call,
”
Sasha said.

“
What phone call?
”

“
The phone call that almost made you wet your pants. The one that caused you to send your secretary home and lock the door. You know, the wrong number?
”
Sasha tried to keep her sarcasm dialed down, but it was a losing battle with this guy.

Pulaski sank into his desk chair and gestured vaguely toward the other two seats. Connelly walked around behind the desk and stared out the window. Hank set up near the door.

“
We don
’
t need to sit. We need you to hurry up and start talking, so we can assess the premises and make a plan,
”
Hank told him.

Pulaski
’
s eyes sparked, like he was considering feeding them a lie, but then he shook his head.

“
Fine. He called right as I walked back in the door from the hearing. That female cop who just left was standing in the reception area and started yammering about protective duty. Becca butted in and said I had a call I had to take. I took it right there in the lobby. He said he
’
d heard I didn
’
t contest Sasha
’
s appointment as trustee. I explained that I did but that the judge punted the issue to Kumpar. I
told
him I wasn
’
t a probate lawyer, but he wasn
’
t listening. He just kept saying in this menacing, super-calm voice,
‘
you
’
re going to pay for this.
’
So I hung up and sent Becca home.
”

Pulaski turned and gave Sasha a baleful look.
“
You can think whatever you want about me, but she
’
s only twenty. She has a kid. I
’
m not going to let her be exposed out there like a sitting duck.
”

“
What I think is that you might have a heart under your exterior crust of misogynistic crap. But the jury
’
s still out,
”
she told him.

Connelly interjected.
“
How did he sound?
”

“
How
’
d he sound? He sounded crazy, how do you think he sounded?
”

“
Was he out of breath? Did his voice sound like he was in pain?
”
Connelly probed, talking slowly as if Pulaski were a child.

“
Not really. He just sounded pissed off. Why?
”

“
Agent Connelly wounded him earlier today, during an alteration outside the courthouse. We don
’
t know his condition, but it
’
s reasonable to assume he
’
s not in peak physical form,
”
Hank said.

“
You wounded him? And then you let him get away? For Chrissake.
”

Connelly
’
s face darkened.

“
Listen, Andy, Connolly was more focused on saving Cole
’
s life. If I were you, I
’
d tread carefully. There
’
s an argument that you exposed Cole by sending that process server around. You don
’
t want to end up in front of the board on an ethics charge, do you?
”
Sasha smiled sweetly.

Pulaski opened his mouth to fire back.

“
Enough,
”
Hank said.
“
Sasha, stay here with Mr. Pulaski. Leo, come with me. We
’
re going to assess the environment and figure out Bricker
’
s most likely point of entry.
”

Hank headed for the door. Connelly paused beside Sasha.

“
Do you want my gun until we get back?
”

“
No. I don
’
t trust myself not to shoot him. Besides, I have this.
”
She gestured toward the knife, which was now strapped to her waist.

Connelly smiled and kissed her lightly on the forehead. Then he was gone.

She looked at Pulaski. He looked back at her. Under the best of circumstances, they didn
’
t have a relationship that lent itself to small talk. So they just sat there in silence, watching one another
’
s faces.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Bricker focused on keeping his breathing shallow and quiet. Luckily for him, Andy Pulaski kept his office at the temperature of a meat locker, so his noisy air conditioning unit was working hard and loudly.

As an added bonus, the chilled air would help cover any scent he might be giving off, which, to be sure, was probably considerable given that he couldn
’
t remember the last time he showered with the benefit of hot water and indoor plumbing.

He shifted from side to side, trying to keep his muscles loose in the cramped, freestanding wardrobe that was shoved in the corner of Pulaski
’
s office. Despite the cool temperatures, he was soaked in sweat. In part from the stress of having spent the afternoon waiting for a chance to strike. In part from the hot, searing pain radiating from the bullet wound in his arm.

He
’
d dug out the bullet with his pocketknife and had done his best to clean it out with the lukewarm water left in his canteen, but eventually he
’
d need to attend to it better. Antibiotics, a sterile bandage, maybe even some painkillers.

He raised his head and spots danced in front of his eyes in the dim light that managed to penetrate his particle-board hiding spot. His stomach growled.

He had two energy bars stuffed in his pockets, but he didn
’
t dare open them. The rustling of the wrappers would probably go unnoticed by his attorney
—
for all his blustering and tough guy posturing, Pulaski was a soft target. Unobservant and weak.

But McCandless was just feet away, on the other side of the wardrobe. She was no doubt alert and watchful.

Still, this might be the best chance to strike.

It would take the two feds some time to canvas the space. And if they were thorough, which they surely were, they
’
d also take the time to walk over to the Vietnamese nail salon on one side of the law office and the computer repair shop on the other, flash their badges, and inspect the shared walls, looking for a crevice, crawlspace, or other means of ingress.

Yes, this was his opening.

Think it through.

Presumably McCandless and Pulaski were both still sitting out there, although if they were, they weren
’
t speaking to each other. He assumed Pulaski would be seated behind his desk, which was directly across from the closet where he hung his cheap suit jackets. There was no telling where McCandless might be, so he had to plan for the worst possibility
—
act as if she would be standing on the other side of the wardrobe door with a weapon drawn.

His primary goal was to kill Pulaski. Easily achieved. Burst out shooting. He
’
d almost surely hit him squarely.

But he had secondary and tertiary goals that mattered, too. Secondary goal: kill McCandless. That was nonnegotiable, really. She had to pay, too. But
this
mission was aimed at Pulaski, she was just gravy. Tertiary goal: Avoid capture. It went without saying that he didn
’
t intend to let the government put him back in a cage. But with a squad set up in the restaurant on the hill, according to Richardson, it would be difficult to make a clean escape.

Unless
…

An idea was forming. He probed it for weaknesses, but it seemed solid. Shoot Pulaski and leave him for dead, grab McCandless and use her as a hostage/human shield to make his getaway. Connelly would be paralyzed, unwilling to act to harm her. Richardson would hesitate. And once he was out of the building, the agents rushing to the scene would be instructed to hold their fire. He
’
d get away and could kill McCandless at his leisure.

As well-thought-out plans went, it stunk. But for an improvised action, it had appeal, logic, and a chance of success.

He fished the chunky Cougar out of his pocket and hefted it in his palm.

One
…
two
…
go!

He exhaled, kicked the doors open, and leapt from the wardrobe. He wasn
’
t prepared for the light. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Once his vision cleared, he took aim at Pulaski
’
s chest and pumped one, two, three bullets into his mid-section.

Pulaski slumped over his desk.

McCandless had been standing at the window behind the desk. She turned, startled, and then dove for the floor.

Bricker strode toward her.

He could hear footsteps running down the hallway, presumably Connelly and Richardson. But it didn
’
t matter.

He reached down, grabbed a fist full of her hair, and dragged her to her feet. He eyed her chest.

“
A bulletproof vest? Nice,
”
he said as he shoved his gun against her temple.