by Steve Gannon
With a chill Kane realized that the higher he climbed, the more he would stress the loosened bolts. He glanced at the street below, considering a retreat. Rejected it. His hands would give out long before he got there.
The fourth-floor windows lay six feet higher. The one nearest the pipe looked old, the caulk on the panes curling like dried mud.
By now Kane’s right leg had begun to shake. Praying the bolts would hold, he gingerly moved up. Then, using a slight hopping motion, he inched his toes onto the windowsill, running over the move in his mind.
No time. Do it.
Taking a deep breath, Kane released the pipe with his left hand. As he began to swing backward away from the pipe, his fingertips found the edge of the window opening, slipped . . . held. He pressed until the bones of his fingers made solid contact with the brick. Then, with a grimace, he transferred weight to his foot on the ledge, quickly reversing his right-handed grip on the pipe to keep from peeling off.
Heart slamming in his throat, Kane hung for a terrible, sickening instant, fighting the fatal urge to lean into the bricks. Seconds passed. Balanced between the window in front and a crippling drop behind, he held on. Carefully, he inched his toes farther onto the ledge. Next he brought over his other foot. Knowing he would get only one chance, he leaned back as far as his handholds would allow and then propelled himself toward the glass, letting go with his left hand at the same time.
He punched as he swung inward. Surprisingly, the glass didn’t break. Instead, the entire window flew into the room, the weathered framework splintering under his fist. Kane’s arm shot through. As his momentum stalled and he started to topple backward, he grabbed the inside edge of the wall.
A moment later he was in.
Kane glanced around the fourth-floor apartment in which he found himself. It appeared to have been unoccupied for some time. A rat’s nest of old clothing left by some former tenant cluttered one corner, platter-sized chunks of plaster had peeled from the ceiling, and the room stank of urine, rodent droppings, mold, and age. He had never been more happy to be anywhere in his life.
Withdrawing his automatic, Kane moved to the door. He listened, then eased it open. Outside, a deserted hallway ran in either direction. To the right, a window looked out on the street below. Doors, elevator, and a stairwell to the left.
Kane slipped into the corridor, heading for the stairs. Moving silently, he stepped onto the upper landing and glanced down the central shaft.
Nothing.
He descended quietly, staying to the outside of the treads. As he neared the third floor, he heard the unmistakable scratch of a match.
Halfway down the hall, the large man who’d arrived with Escobar stood beside the window, facing the street. A cigarette drooped from his lips. In the backlight his figure appeared shrouded in a nimbus of smoke. Kane noticed an Ingram Mac-11 .380 machine pistol hanging loose in his right hand. Three extra magazines were carefully lined up on the floor.
Kane braced his Beretta against the stairwell corner. His finger tightened on the trigger. Head or heart? He thought about the Mac-11, able to spit six rounds per second. Even a perfect shot to the heart gave a man a few moments before he dropped. The head. He hesitated, then relaxed tension on the trigger, resisting the temptation to end it right then.
“Police. Freeze,” he said softly.
The man stiffened. His shoulders pinched. He spun, dropping to the right, rolling, his hand bringing up the pistol . . .
As the Mac-11 began its deadly stutter, Kane’s first shot penetrated the man’s chest a handbreadth below his neck. The second blew off the back of his skull.
“Ogden? What’s goin’ on?” a voice yelled from a partially open door at the end of the hall.
Kane backed into the stairwell, training his gun on the corner apartment. Answer or not? Chance it. “Nothin’,” he grunted.
“What the hell are you shootin’ at, then?”
Kane left the stairwell and moved silently down the hall, Beretta extended in both hands.
“Ogden?”
Kane ran the final few feet and kicked open the door. He dived to the left, instantly taking in his surroundings.
Escobar by the window. Woman beside him. Gun.
“Police!” he yelled. “Drop it!”
Escobar looked up, his eyes widening as he saw a massive red-haired man burst into the room. Instinctively, he pulled Sylvia Martin in front of him and raised his pistol.
Ignoring Sylvia’s terrified scream, Kane squeezed off a round. The shot missed Sylvia by inches, catching Escobar in the right shoulder. His pistol clattered to the floor. Bellowing in pain, Escobar clutched his arm, which now appeared attached to his body mainly by the thin fabric of his shirt. The woman glared at Kane. “You cocksucker, you coulda shot me!” she screamed.
“Keep talking. It’s not too late.”
Sylvia looked into the pale, dangerous eyes of the man before her and decided to save her complaints for later.
Kane motioned to the center of the room. “Both of you on the floor. Now.”
His face pale with shock, Escobar stumbled behind Sylvia to the middle of the room. Blood had already soaked through his shirt and was running in bright rivulets from his fingers to the filthy, threadbare carpet. “I need a doctor,” he moaned.
“Down.”
Escobar and Martin dropped facedown on the floor. Kane handcuffed the woman. After retrieving Escobar’s pistol, he glanced over at the couch and addressed the young Chicano girl they had taken hostage. “You live in this building?”
She nodded, eyes wide with fright.
“Where?”
“Next floor down, apartment 2-C.”
“Go there and wait. Some men will come for you.”
The girl looked apprehensively past Kane into the hallway.
Kane’s tone softened. “He’s gone. It’ll be okay, I promise. Just go.”
As soon as she’d left, Kane backed to the window. “Deluca, if you’re recording, shut it off,” he said aloud. “Get the FBI guys off the street, but don’t come up till I signal.” Peering down, he spotted Deluca’s thumbs-up from the storefront.
Kane returned to the center of the room and turned Escobar over with his foot. “I’m sure you know from watching TV that I’m supposed to arrest you now and read you your rights,” he said. “I’m not going to do that just yet. Know why?”
Escobar stared stubbornly at the ceiling, his face covered with sweat. The bleeding in his shoulder appeared to have increased. “Kiss my ass, cop. Get me a doctor. I’m bleedin’ to death here.”
“Maybe you will,” said Kane. “That depends on you.”
Escobar shook his head, still staring at the ceiling. “Like I said, kiss my ass.”
Kane glared down. “Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Escobar’s eyes traveled the room in a fruitless search for some means of escape. He found none. Finally he looked at Kane.
Kane stared back, his eyes veiled and callous, seeming to take in the man on the floor without feeling anything at all. “I’ll make this easy, so even a punk like you can understand,” he said, his voice chillingly flat. “You’re going down for the two feds you and your pal shot out there on the street, along with the guy you tossed out the window. But before we get to that, you and I are going to have a talk. Nothing you say at this point can be held against you or used in a court of law. No attorneys will be present, so anything that takes place will just be between us. Now, here’s what is going to happen. I’m going to ask you a question. And you’re going to answer.”
“We don’t gotta say nothin’,” Escobar croaked, his eyes darting to Martin for support.
Kane nudged him sharply with his foot. “I told you to look at me.”
Escobar groaned. Reluctantly, he returned his gaze.
“That’s better. Now, what did you say?”
“I . . . I said we don’t gotta tell you nothin’.”
“Wrong,” Kane said softly. “L
isten up, dirtbag. I’m going to ask my question now. I’m only going to ask it once. And if I don’t like your answer, you’re going to find out just how wrong you are. Ready?”
Escobar swallowed nervously.
“Where’s the kid?”
To purchase A Song for the Asking and continue reading: Click Here
Kane (A Kane Novel) Los Angeles is terrorized by a grisly series of murders. One man can stop the killer: Detective Daniel Kane. But for Kane—devastated by personal tragedy and haunted by a secret that could destroy his family—to do so may cost him everything, including his life.
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Allison (A Kane Novel) Allison Kane, a journalism student at UCLA, takes a summer job as a TV news intern, soon becoming involved in a scandalous murder investigation and the media firestorm that follows—a position that pits her squarely against her iron-fisted police detective father.
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Kane Boxed Set #1 (50% Discount) Boxed Set includes Kane (A Kane Novel), Allison (A Kane Novel), and Stepping Stones (Award-winning Short Story Collection).
To purchase Kane Boxed Set #1 at Amazon, Click Here
L.A. Sniper (A Kane Novel) In the streets of Los Angeles, a sniper is hunting cops. Panic grips the city as Detective Daniel Kane tracks the killer, embarking on the most terrifying investigation of his career. Building to an electrifying climax, L.A. Sniper tells a story of heartbreak and loss, of love and redemption, and surprisingly, of hope.
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Glow (A Mike Callahan Thriller) Mike Callahan picks up his daughter for a motorcycle ride up the California coast, embarking on a journey that will lead to death, rebirth, and a final chance for redemption—as well as testing the limits of his sanity. And possibly yours . . .
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Stepping Stones: What do a Las Vegas insomniac, an amateur inventor whose tinkering triggers a war, a boy with a strange and terrible gift, a medical researcher who discovers the secret of eternal life, a beautiful woman in a coma, and a homicidal rock climber all have in common? Read Stepping Stones to find out!
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About the Author
STEVE GANNON is the author of the bestselling “Kane Novel” series, which includes A Song for the Asking, first published by Bantam Books. Gannon divides his time between Italy and Idaho, living in two of the most beautiful places on earth. In Idaho he spends his days skiing, whitewater kayaking, and writing. In Italy Gannon also continues to write, while enjoying the Italian people, food, history, and culture, and learning the Italian language. He is married to concert pianist Susan Spelius Gannon.
To contact Steve Gannon, purchase books, check out his blog, or to receive updates on new releases, please visit Steve's website at: http://stevegannonauthor.com
STEVE GANNON Books (Available in eBook, Print, and Audio)
A Song for the Asking
Kane
Allison
Kane Boxed Set
L.A. Sniper
Glow
Stepping Stones
Infidel
