Act of justice, p.18
Act of Justice, page 18
“Of course. Doesn’t everyone these days?”
He grabbed a pen and wrote his, and Cruz’s, cell number on a notepad before tearing the sheet from the others and handing over the page. “These are our numbers. Keep them with you at all times.” He plucked a business card from a smoke-colored holder and glimpsed the bottom edge. “Is this yours…the 4501 number?”
LuAnn nodded. “Yes.”
After stealing a pen and a second business card, he backed away from her.
Cruz jogged ahead of him and pressed the ‘up’ button on the elevator.
“I need you to,” he pointed at LuAnn, “get me those vacant apartment numbers by the time I reach the top floor.” He managed a quick smile. “Can I count on you, Ms. Patterson?”
She perched on her stool and stretched out a hand toward a black binder. “You’ll have it before you get there.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Trailing Cruz, he retreated into the elevator. “I appreciate your assistance.”
Seeing the doors sliding shut in her peripheral vision, LuAnn wrote a number on a pad of paper. “Good to finally see,” she said under her breath, “some manners, young man.”
… … … … …
36 minutes…
“Thank you, Ms. Patterson.” He gave Cruz a business card. “Remember to stay glued to your phone, ma’am.” He shoved his mobile into his jacket pocket, while glancing at the numbers on a second card. “You clear your units. I’ll take these.”
Cruz surveyed her list. “The last one is on the fifth floor.”
He scanned his numbers and caught her attention. “Sixth for me, so I’ll meet you on the fifth floor then.”
She nodded her head one time. “Be careful.”
“You too.” He hurried away, heading for the first empty unit on this floor. “Remember Cruz,” he kept his back to her, “if you have it—”
“Take,” she pulled up short and compared the number on a door with one on her card, “the shot.” She drew her Glock 19M and slipped a master key into the lock. “Don’t worry. I will.”
Hardy stopped at the end of the hallway, threw back the right half of his jacket and jerked the Walther PPQM2 from its holster. After sliding his key into the door lock, he glanced over his left shoulder and eyed his woman.
Cruz met his gaze. A split-second later, she winked at him—their sign.
He curled up one side of his mouth and winked. That’s my girl.
Both of them twisted keys, pushed open doors and entered rooms, pivoting outstretched handguns back and forth in front of their faces.
… … … … …
With the collar of his shirt pushed up over his nose, he lifted the window sash a few inches, letting in a fresh, cool breeze. I should’ve done that an hour ago. While taking a long drag on a cigarette, he walked back to a table and looked down at an all-black Remington 700. Or brought some industrial strength air freshener with me. He ran a finger over the attached Knight’s Armament SR-25 sound suppressor—a few inches inside the window—while admiring the Nightforce 32X scope atop the rifle.
A moment later, he checked his watch, lowered himself into a chair behind the long gun and put the cancer stick in an ashtray; smoke continued to fill the apartment, helping to cover up the stench. Plucking a 300 Winchester Magnum cartridge from a block of five, he polished the three-point-three-inch round with a new, white cotton t-shirt.
He blew a puff of air over the shiny case, put the 300 into the 700’s action, and thumbed the round into the internal magazine. After repeating the process and filling the gun, he pushed the bolt handle forward and down. With both elbows and his left forearm on the table, he shouldered the Remington and adjusted the Harris Swivel Bipod.
Getting a clear field of view through the scope, he barely swung the gun left and right before acquiring his target. He spied his watch again, drew in a deep breath through his nose and slowly let out the air through his mouth. The next several minutes of breathing exercises would drop his heart rate to less than a beat per second, perfect for the job at hand.
… … … … …
9 minutes…
Leaning forward, her butt pressed against a fourth-floor hallway wall, one hand on her knee and the other holding her phone to her ear, “What about,” Dahlia breathed deeply and shot out a burst of air, “any new tenants…people who have recently signed rental agreements?” Even though she had fewer apartments to clear than Hardy and Cruz, hers were on opposite ends of each floor. And she had opted to use the stairs instead of the slower elevator. “Do you,” her chest heaved, “have anyone who did so in the last month?” She exhaled.
Through the phone’s speaker, a man’s voice: “Let me see.”
Dahlia heard a keyboard being worked.
“Nope…not in the last thirty days.”
Standing straight, she rolled her head and eyes. “Sh—”
“I do have someone from six weeks ago. He paid in cash and gave me six-months rent up front.”
Dahlia frowned. “Is that normal…to pay up front like that?”
“It happens from time to time, but on the whole…no. I remember him. Scarface was a real nice fellow…polite and smiled a lot too. Oops. I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
“Said what?” There was a brief pause.
“It’s just that…he had a scar on the side of his face. It stood out beneath the bow of his sunglasses.”
Dahlia hiked her brows.
“I didn’t mean to sound insensitive. You know…the scarface remark.”
“Did this man wear really, really dark sunglasses?”
“Yes. They were those ones with the wide—”
“And the scar you mentioned went from his nose to his left ear…a patch of burned skin?”
“Yeah…how’d you know th—”
“What’s his name?”
“Roman Pushkin.”
Dahlia headed for the stairwell. “Give me the room number?”
“You don’t forget a name like that. It just jumps out at you. After that first meeting; however, I haven’t seen—”
“Room number,” she snapped her fingers, “give me the number now.”
“Six-twelve.”
Coming to the stairwell door, Son-of-a— she shoved her mobile into a jean pocket and inwardly groaned. Why couldn’t it be on this floor? She barreled through the door and ascended the two flights, her knee boots clomping off the metal steps.
By the time she made it to the sixth floor, the tops of her thighs were burning. “Whew.” I’m counting this as my workout for the day. She ran down the hall and found room number six-twelve, the last one on the floor, on the right. She drew her Walther PPQM2 and tapped her earpiece. “This is Phoenix,” she whispered. “I’ve got a lead on a room rented by our guy, Pushkin. I’m going in—over.”
The door to number six-ten opened, and a teenage boy in dark shorts and a gray muscle shirt emerged, holding a tiny music player; black plastic wires ran from the device to his ears. He spotted Dahlia and smiled at her. A second later, he spied her gun and his expression changed.
Cruz: “We copy, Phoenix. Watch yourself.”
After pumping an open hand toward him and pointing at the badge on her belt, Dahlia took his skinny arm and led him further down the hall. “I’m with the FBI. Is anyone else,” she flicked her eyes toward the room he had exited, “in there…parents, siblings, anyone?”
“No.” He pulled out the earbuds. “Mom’s at work. My sister’s in school.”
“Good. I want you to—” she half closed an eye at him, “why aren’t you in school?”
The kid plastered a cheesy grin on his face. “Teacher in-service day.”
“Yeah…” tipping her head back and squinting at him, Dahlia drew out her next word, “right.” She gave him a push down the hall. “Go. Get out of here.”
He whirled around and hurried away.
“And,” her tone was hushed, yet commanding, “don’t come back, until I say you can.” She put her ear to room six-twelve’s door and listened for several seconds before easing a key into the lock. Pinching the silver master, she slowly rotated her wrist before clutching the doorknob, her grip on the Walther intensifying. She twisted the handle, slowly pushed the door inward and sneaked into the dimly lit dwelling.
… … … … …
6 minutes…
Standing in an empty fifth-floor apartment, looking out a window, at the football field below, one hand on a hip, Hardy held his phone in the space between Cruz and him. “Ms. Patterson, have you noticed anything out of the ordinary in the last week or month?” The FBI agents had searched every vacant unit before placing a call to the building manager.
Patterson: “Like what?”
“People you haven’t seen before…new people. Um, new renters who’ve maybe acted a little strange…”
“Strange?” The woman on the other end of the line huffed. “Honey, that describes fifty percent of the folks who live here.”
Cruz put hands on her hips. “How about your long-term tenants…any change in behaviors? Staying out later than usual…keeping odd hours. Please, Ms. Patterson, try to think of all the comings and goings of your people. Everyone gets into routines. When those routines are disrupted, people take notice. Have you noticed anything?”
Hardy sighed, shook his head at Cruz and went back to staring out the window. “We’d have,” he mumbled, “better luck if we just kicked in every door in this place.”
Patterson: “Now that you mention it…”
Hardy whipped his head back toward the phone.
Cruz stood straight.
“Mr. Devers has had a mailbox chocked full for the last week or more. I’ve called him and knocked on his door, but no response. Maybe he’s out of town. I don’t know. In fact, I just tried contacting him an hour before you two showed up. That’s not like him. He usually picks up his mail every day.”
Hardy eyed Cruz.
She read the look on his face. “We should check it out. It’s the only lead we have.”
He nodded once. “What’s his apartment number, Ms. Patterson?”
“He’s on the eighth floor…room eight-zero-four; second door on your right after you get off the elevator.”
… … … … …
4 minutes…
Standing in the press box above the bleachers, her eyeglasses resting atop her hair, Charity spun a knurled wheel with her middle finger, as she slowly swung the binoculars back and forth. Open and closed windows came into focus. Most of the apartments were dark; a few were lit. She saw people moving about inside.
She lowered the field glasses and glanced toward the makeshift stage, centered on the fifty-yard line and facing the rows of chairs. On the platform, the Joint Chiefs had lined up behind the lectern. Jameson stood on the west end—nearest the apartment buildings being searched—next to General McIntosh. Each military man had his head down, staring at three-by-five cards in his hands. Every seat in the audience was occupied.
After checking the time on her watch—4:58—Charity went back to scanning the structures six hundred meters away. Having heard the radio chatter, she knew Dahlia was preparing to make an entry. She panned across the sixth floor and stopped at room six-twelve. She yanked the binoculars away from her face and squinted at the window, That… before peering through the lenses again, wasn’t open a minute ago.
She sidestepped to her left, along the press box glass, getting closer to her target. Her finger rotated the focus wheel a hair. A heartbeat later, she drew in a sharp breath. Letting the binoculars hang from her neck, she scrambled for her cell. “Phoenix, this is Red Ryder. Do you copy?” Her fingers mashed the mobile’s screen and she put the device to her cheek. In one ear, she heard silence. Repeatedly tapping her boot on the wooden floor, she put a fist on the glass and scowled at apartment six-twelve. Talk to me, Dahlia. In her other ear, she heard a phone ringing. She shifted her gaze toward her boss and saw him reach into his jacket and haul out his cell phone. “Come on. Come on. Pick it up, sir.”
… … … … …
2 minutes…
Dahlia paused a few seconds to let her eyes adjust to the low lighting in the apartment. Two hands on her Walther, aiming the pistol straight ahead, but holding it closer to her body, she cleared the empty living room/entryway before moving down a carpeted hallway. The door on her left was open. She stopped, waited, listened. Hearing nothing, she put her back to the opposite wall, ‘sliced the pie’ and cleared the bathroom.
Whipping the PPQM2 right, she advanced and found the last two rooms barren of objects and people. With the west side of the dwelling taken care of, she fast walked to the east side, to the last visible door.
Coming to the closed, thin-paneled barrier, she reached for the doorknob, but flinched at the sound of an agitated voice in her ear.
“Phoenix, this is Red Ryder. Do you copy?”
Dahlia’s hand hovered above the round, smooth, fake brass handle. Yes, I copy, but… she leaned forward, straining to catch any noises on the other side of the door, I can’t really talk right now.
Charity’s hushed voice: “Come on. Come on. Pick it up, sir.”
Grasping the metal knob, Dahlia slowly rotated her hand. Inching open the door, she recognized a familiar sound—the metal-on-metal closing of a rifle bolt. Her eyes grew wide.
Charity: “Sir, it’s Cherry. Get the Joint Chiefs out of there. I think I saw a gun barrel in one of the windows, aimed at the stage.”
Gritting her teeth, Dahlia threw open the door, charged into the room and pivoted right. “FBI!”
… … … … …
Closing his left eye, he peeked through the scope and picked up his targets, six men in a neat and orderly line, standing nearest to farthest from his position. The sixth—and closest one—was not on the hit list. Oh well…wrong place at the wrong time.
He centered the black-suited man’s baldhead in the scope’s crosshairs, putting the geographical center on the black bow of the man’s eyeglasses, just forward of his right ear. At this angle, his first shot should drop the first two men. From there, the body count would depend on fast reloads.
He took off his watch, laid the timepiece on the table next to the Remington and spied the time. After resuming his shooting position and acquiring his first target again, he saw Baldhead reach into his pocket. A second later, the man held a cell phone to his cheek and looked toward the sniper.
… … … … …
1 minute…
Jameson pivoted his head and stared toward the buildings. “Are you sure about this, Cherry?”
“Ninety percent, sir. It was only a flash, but I’m sure I saw the end of a black sound suppressor. I’ve contacted Dahlia, but she hasn’t responded.”
Jameson beckoned his security detail with a wave of his arm. “Any word from Hardy yet?”
“They’re investigating another room in the other building, sir.”
Two black-suited men approached the man in their charge.
“All right, Cherry. Keep me posted.”
Wearing a gray suit, a middle-aged man with thinning salt and pepper hair stepped up to the lectern and adjusted the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, Joint Chiefs of Staff, honored guests, cadets…”
Jameson stowed his mobile, turned back and put his left hand on McIntosh’s right arm. “Gentlemen,” he looked toward the others, “we need to leave now.”
“…I wish to welcome you to…”
Jameson gestured at his security team and came back to the Joint Chiefs. “Your lives are in imminent danger. My men will escort you to safety.”
“…this joyous and historic…”
One of Jameson’s guards passed in front of the military men and took the lead. “Please follow me, gentlemen.”
“…celebration.”
McIntosh grabbed Jameson’s arm.
The director faced him.
The Marine Corps leader glimpsed the smiling faces of family members, and the proud cadets seated in front of those loved ones, before locking eyes with the other man. “Phil…”
Jameson released the hold on his elbow and directed McIntosh across the stage. “Trust me. One of my people spotted a rifle barrel in a—” Jameson felt something hit him from behind a split-second ahead of crashing into McIntosh. Both men toppled to the platform, as high-pitched screams mixed with the sound of folding chairs being overturned, or slamming shut.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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Chapter 35: Jean Jacket
5:00 p.m.
“Don’t move!” Dahlia closed the distance between her and the sniper, who was hunched over a table, his back to her; rifle shouldered and pointed out a window. She saw his body relax before going rigid again. Her lips formed the word for her next command, while her mind recalled Hardy’s words…
“If you have the shot…take it.”
Placing the front sight on the sniper’s neck, just above the shoulders, she got off three quick shots; a short line of bullet holes appeared, the last one centered on the man’s skull.
The killer’s head slumped forward and a single bullet, muffled by a sound suppressor, exited the barrel.
She came up on the man’s right side, her weapon going from being pointed at his head to his ear. Seeing the long gun was a bolt action, she closed in before he could work the action. She thrust out a leg, the heel of her knee boot driving the man off the chair, sending him thudding onto the floor. Her PPQM2 leveled at his eyeball, she watched and waited; the man’s open eyes never blinked and his body never twitched.
Dropping into the dead man’s chair, she ran the rifle bolt back and forth, emptied the gun and used the scope to survey the scene on the football field; a mass of people scurried away from the platform, running in all directions.
Dahlia leaned left and right, her shoulder taking the rifle butt with her and moving the scope in the opposite direction. She lifted her head, spotted suits and put her eye to the scope again. “This is Phoenix. The sniper’s been neutralized. I repeat…the shooter is down. Red Ryder, give me a sitrep on my father. Do you have eyes on him? Is—” her heart caught in her throat for a brief moment, “is he okay?” Dahlia waited two seconds. “Damn it, Cherry. Respond.”
