Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls) (24 page)

Chapter Thirty-Three

“Have you seen this girl?” Mac held up the picture of Gianna.

A man in jeans and a T-shirt bearing the logo of a local bar emerged from his apartment, closed the door behind him, and locked it. He squinted at the photo. “I think she lives around here.”

“She lives in the next building,” Mac said. This apartment had a good view of the parking area. “She disappeared sometime last night.”

“Sorry. I’m a bartender. I work nights.” He took a step toward the lot.

“Have you seen any weird activity around here lately?” Mac asked.

“Nothing any weirder than usual. I gotta go. Hope you find your friend.”

“Thanks.” Mac tucked the picture into his back pocket. He’d knocked on every door in Gianna’s building, and every door with a view of her apartment or the parking area. Now what?

He walked back to stand in front of Gianna’s unit, facing the rows of cars. A strip mall lined the road on the other side of the cracked asphalt. Tattoo parlor, Laundromat, check cashing. He walked across. Cool moisture in the wind promised another storm.

He stepped onto the curb on the other side. The streetlight was out, and darkness smothered the sidewalk. A shoe scraped on cement. Mac froze, his instincts on alert.

In the storefront window, he caught the reflection of two figures moving in the shadows behind him. Mac ducked into an alley between the buildings. The narrow space would force the men to attack him one at a time, if that was their intent.

Since they followed him into the alley, he assumed it was.

A hulk of a man rushed him, his beefy arm looping over his head. Mac whirled and focused on his attacker’s hand. A knife. The blade ice-picked toward Mac’s head. He side stepped out of the weapon’s path and caught the man by the wrist with both hands. Redirecting his assailant’s momentum, Mac guided the weapon down. Following the natural arc of motion, the point slid into the man’s thigh.

He howled. A second man rushed at Mac from behind the first. Small, lighter, more nimble. Ripping the knife free, Mac swept the first man’s leg out from under him and shoved him at the second. Number two tripped over his pal and went face-first into the cement. He got a knee under his body and turned back, blood streamed from his nose and triangled over his chin. With a roar, he scooped a broken bottle from the ground and charged.

Mac ducked the first wild swing. The bottle came back at his head, number two’s eyes were white-rimmed and wild. He slashed back and forth, the jagged edged of glass sweeping the air in front of Mac’s face.

Mac plucked the KA-BAR from his boot and reverse-gripped his knife.

Hands in front of his face, he dodged the swings and waited. Number two backslashed. Mac leaped forward and blocked the backswing with an upward sweep of the knife. The blade sliced number two’s forearm to the bone. Mac hooked the point of the knife over the man’s wrist, slammed a palm into the back of the man’s elbow, and armbarred him to the ground. Mac pulled the arm, stretching the man out on his belly and pinning him to the pavement.

Still the guy struggled, his feet running in place, the toes of his black trainers scraping for purchase on the blacktop.

Mac checked the status of number one. No worries. The guy was busy trying to plug the gusher in his thigh with both hands.

“Looks like a bleeder,” Mac shouted at him. “If I were you, I’d want to get to a doctor ASAP.”

The big guy’s glare was wide with fear and pain. The man under Mac continued to kick his feet. Mac added a knee in the small of his back. The air rushed out of number two’s lungs and he went still.

“What. Do. You. Want?” Mac enunciated carefully.

“You,” Number two hissed. “You’re worth five grand to Freddie, and he don’t care if you come in a box or a bag.”

Freddie had put out a contract on Mac. He shouldn’t be surprised, but damn, he really hadn’t expected Freddie to go this far.

He called 911. Five minutes later, a patrol vehicle arrived, then an EMT vehicle. The paramedics bandaged the bleeder. The cop handed out handcuffs and took Mac’s statement. A steady stream of quiet radio chatter flowed from the open police car. An ambulance arrived and the thugs were loaded into the back.

The cop’s head swiveled toward his vehicle. “Hold on.”

He ran back and grabbed the mic. Snippets of the quiet conversation made Mac’s belly ice up.

“Shooting in progress. Officer down.”

Stella knelt next to Brody and wrapped her arm around his waist.

“Just go!” He waved.

“No.” Hauling him to his feet, Stella staggered under his weight.

A man in a white coat ran toward them from the pharmacy. “I called nine-one-one.”

He went to Brody’s other side and helped Stella carry him across the street and into the building, where they eased him down on the floor in front of the register. Sirens approached. “I told them you needed an ambulance.”

Weapon in hand, Brody tried to sit up.

Stella shoved him down. “Hold still. You’re leaking.”

Brody stopped fighting her and lay still.

“Did you get a look at him?” Stella kept one eye on the yellow house through the plate glass windows. She suspected their shooter was long gone, but she wasn’t taking chances.

“No.” Pain glazed Brody’s eyes. Blood soaked his pant leg and puddled on the gray linoleum.

Dropping to her knees beside him, she tore open his pant leg. “Can you get me some gauze?” she asked the man.

“Yes.” The man disappeared into an aisle. He returned a few seconds later with boxes of first aid supplies.

“I’m the pharmacist.” He opened a box of gauze pads and tore a package. “Bill.”

“Nice to meet you, Bill. I’m Detective Dane and this is Detective McNamara.” Stella exposed a nasty wound on Brody’s leg. A bullet had struck the meaty part of his calf. Covering the wound, she said, “We’re going to need more of these.”

“Try this.” Bill handed her a roll of gauze and an ace bandage.

“That should work.” She wrapped the wound, pulling the bandage snug but not too tight. “Are you hit anywhere else?” she asked Brody.

He didn’t answer, and his eyes were closed.

“Brody!” Stella felt for his pulse. It beat rapidly against her fingertips, but his face had gone dead-white. His leg wound hadn’t bled
that
much. “He must have another wound.” She ran her hands up his arms and legs.

“Here.” Bill moved aside Brody’s jacket. Blood soaked his dress shirt. “He must have been hit under the arm. How the hell did that happen?”

“He was below us.” Stella pulled at Brody’s jacket. “Do you have scissors?”

Bill ran to the counter and returned with them. She cut away Brody’s suit and shirt. Lifting his arm, she stacked gauze and applied pressure to the wound. The hole was smaller but more dangerous than the one on his leg.

Two patrol cars parked in front of the pharmacy. Bill went out to signal for the ambulance. Stella leaned into Brody. Blood welled between her fingers.

The next few minutes seemed like an eternity. Finally, two EMTs nudged her aside. Stella stepped back. They took vitals, started an IV, and applied a pressure bandage. By the time they loaded Brody onto a gurney and wheeled him into the ambulance, Stella’s legs were trembling and queasiness stirred in her belly like a toxic brew.

Lance rushed into the store, and Stella gave him a quick summary. Then she stumbled to the back of the store, went into the restroom, and heaved her afternoon snack.

She added Ring Dings to her list of foods never to be eaten again. Last time it had been apple cider donuts. At this rate, all her favorite sweets were going to be off-limits.

After washing her face with cold water, she opened the door. Bill the pharmacist was standing outside. He handed her a bottle of mouthwash. “Thought you might need this.”

“Thanks.” She went back into the bathroom and swigged a capful.

Second shooting of her career. Second after-shooting hurl. At least she consistently got the job done before letting adrenaline take over.

“Thank you. For everything.” She handed Bill the bottle and went outside. Three SFPD cars lined the street. Forensic techs crawled over the lawns under portable floodlights, and a mixed crowd of gawkers and reporters gathered behind sawhorses.

Lance led an elderly man with a cane to Stella. “This is Mr. Kiel. He’s the owner of the property. Lives in apartment one.”

Skinny, stooped, and sweatered, despite the blistering heat, Mr. Kiel could have been anywhere from seventy-five to a hundred years old. He squinted at Stella through Mr. Magoo glasses.

“Do you know where Mr. Crawley is?” Stella asked.

“Hold on.” He reached to his ear. A tinny sound, like feedback on a microphone, came from his head. “Sorry. I turned off my hearing aid to take a nap.”

“Where is the tenant for unit four?” Stella repeated.

He leaned both hands on the top of his cane. “Jim died of a massive heart attack last week. His kids live in Florida. They took his personal stuff with them, but they arranged to have the furniture donated. Someone is supposed to pick it up by the end of the month.”

“What about the unit below his?”

Mr. Kiel sighed. “That’s been empty for two months. With two empty units, I don’t know how I’m going to pay my bills.”

“Did anyone inquire about the empty unit recently?”

He nodded. “Got a call this afternoon. First bite in weeks.”

“Can you tell me anything about the voice?” she asked.

“Sounded like a man.”

“Do you have Caller-ID?”

“No,” Mr. Kiel said.

She’d have to request his phone records. Stella realized the sheer ridiculousness of her next question as she asked it. “Did you see or hear anything earlier today?”

He laughed. “I can barely see and hear you, darling, and you’re standing right in front of me.”

“Thank you,” Stella said. “We’ll be in touch if we have any more questions.”

The old man tottered away.

“Let’s get some uniforms knocking on doors.” Stella eyed the maze of juniper bushes and rhododendrons that covered the landscaping. The chances that the neighbors saw the suspect were slim. The shooter had plenty of time to walk away while Stella was busy keeping Brody alive. But she spent the next hour interviewing the residents of the surrounding houses anyway. No one saw the shooter. The uniforms were still canvasing the rest of the neighborhood when she gave up and found Lance in the street.

“I’m going to the hospital,” she said.

“Any word on Brody?” Lance asked.

“No. I’ll text you when I have news.”

Church bells rang as Stella walked to the car. As she turned toward her vehicle, her eyes drifted toward the sound. A few blocks away, a church spire towered over the neighborhood. She hadn’t realized Our Lady of Sorrows was this close.

A reporter broke through the line, jamming his microphone in Stella’s face. “Detective Dane, can you identify the officer who was shot? Was it Detective McNamara? Is that his blood?”

Her hand rose in front of her face in reflex. She glanced down, her stomach recoiling at the splotches of red soaking her clothes.

A large body blocked him. Lance. Before Stella could blink, he sent the reporter sprawling with a shove to the chest. The jerk landed on his back in the street. His microphone flew from his hand and skidded across the pavement.

Stella stepped in front of Lance. She put two hands on his chest, but he plowed forward. Her shoes slid on the blacktop. “Lance. Stop. Please.”

Rage widened his eyes. Breathing hard, he stepped backward. His fists opened and closed at his sides.

Stella signaled for a pair of sheriff’s deputies to take over crowd management. When she turned back, Lance was walking away. He climbed into his cruiser and drove off. Stella made a mental note to check in with him later. Maybe he’d returned to work too soon.

She got in her car, numb, and headed for the hospital, praying that Brody hadn’t lost too much blood.

Chapter Thirty-Four

He locked his gun in his glove box.

Now back to his original agenda.

We now return to your regular programming.

He felt so much better after letting the police know just what he thought of them. They’d be running from their own shadows. He’d need a cool head to ensure tonight’s mission went according to schedule. He had something special planned. He was pretty sure he’d found The One.

And if not, another judgment and more punishment would be delivered.

Back home, he checked the camera feed of the girl’s cell. She was curled up in a ball, unmoving. He should be anxious to get started. He should be preparing her challenge. Instead, he was filled with nothing but apathy. What was wrong with him?

He’d slapped the police. He should be focusing.

Pacing his control room, he reconsidered his plan. He glanced back at the monitor. She looked pathetic and weak. In choosing her, he’d wanted to test the will to survive against physical strength. Missy had been healthy. Physically, she should have had more stamina, but she’d failed. Dena had been accustomed to pain. He’d thought that would give her an edge. It hadn’t.

But this girl was a survivor. Pain and impending death were part of her daily life. She should have great resilience. But looking at her now, all he saw was frailty. He could do nothing and she’d die.

Hardly a challenge at all. In fact, he already felt like he was wasting his time. What had he been thinking?

What he needed was to be truly challenged. But who would give him what he needed? It would have to be someone who was both physically and emotionally strong. Someone intelligent.

Wait.

He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of it before.

He’d been selecting victims when he should have been seeking heroes.

Detective Dane was in for a big surprise.