by Colin Conway
Immediately, Garrett understood his disadvantage. He was in the open of the living room. There was no easy cover to take and nothing to conceal him. His gun was in his weak hand and his right hand was full of cash.
There was no time for a plan, Garrett decided. He would have to react to the detective’s play and look for an opening. He might as well start the game.
“What took you so long, Ward?”
“Drop it,” Clint commanded.
Chapter 53
Clint kept his gun pointed at Garrett, who made no move to obey his order. Garrett held the gun loosely in his left which he was sure was his weak hand, but Clint remained diligent. All officers trained to shoot with the off-hand, and on SWAT, they were religious about it. He doubted Garrett was anywhere near the same proficiency as with his shooting hand, but at this range, it might not matter.
“I said to drop it,” Clint repeated.
“No,” Garrett replied, his voice dropping to a husky whisper. “I don’t think so.”
“Do it now.”
“Or what, Ward? You’ll shoot me?” Garrett shook his head. “Nah, that’s not you. You might love the idea of putting a bullet in me, but you couldn’t live with yourself if it wasn’t a justified shooting. We both know that.”
Clint kept his gaze on Garrett’s eyes, but his peripheral vision focused on the hand holding the gun. “You think after all the rules I’ve broken to get a case on you that I won’t hesitate to put you down?”
“If that was true, you would have shot me already.” Garrett gave him a confident smile. Sweat streamed down from his temples. “How’d you find me, Ward?”
Clint said nothing. He moved around the edge of the wall and stepped a little closer to Garrett. He ignored the man’s attempts to distract him.
“Did you just guess?” Garrett asked.
Clint hadn’t. He’d arrived on Decatur in time to find Zielinski staggering out of the alley and to see Garrett’s vehicle careening down the street, already two blocks away. Once Zielinski got into his Impala, Clint had given chase, keeping Garrett in sight until he got a sense of his direction. Zielinski stammered out a long, confused rambling but he was able to gather that Garrett hadn’t managed to make it into the house. That meant he still needed money. And there were only so many places he could go for that.
He laid back, letting Garrett’s speeding vehicle get out of sight. When Zielinski protested that Garrett was slipping away, Clint ignored him. The longer he stayed visible behind Garrett, the more of a chance the man would spot him. Clint didn’t want a vehicle pursuit. Not only was his Impala no match for the much bigger engine in Garrett’s rig, but the public danger of a pursuit was off the charts.
Based on Garrett’s direction, there were only two likely zombie houses he could be heading toward. Clint took an alternate route, speeding to the first one. He saw no car outside. Clint didn’t stop, knowing that Garrett had gone to the other house. When he arrived, he saw Garrett’s vehicle in the alley, parked askew.
“Stay here,” he ordered Zielinski.
“No,” the veteran cop argued, still half in a stupor. He reached for the door handle.
Clint grabbed his collar and jerked him close. “You’re in bad shape, Ray. You’re a liability. Stay here and if I’m not the one that comes out of that back door, you know what to do.”
Zielinski stared back at him, his dull and shaken eyes barely registering Clint’s words. After a moment, he nodded.
Clint got out of the car and slipped into the house.
“I think you guessed,” Garrett said now, watching Clint edge toward him.
“You don’t have enough time to try that move,” Clint told him.
Garrett smiled. “What move?”
“The one you’re thinking about.”
Garrett let a sly smile play on his lips. “You read minds now, Honey Badger?”
“Even factoring action versus reaction, you can’t make it,” Clint continued, ignoring the taunt. “I have every advantage. I’m expecting it. I have my weapon trained on you, center mass. And it’s your weak hand. You don’t stand a chance.”
Garrett looked down at the gun in his hand and then at Clint. “Then why do you look so worried, Ward?”
“Put it down. You’re under arrest.”
Those last words seemed to anger Garrett. His eyes flashed and his jaw set. “I already told you no.” He shrugged. “You say I can’t shoot you before you shoot me. Okay, fine. But I say you won’t shoot me unless I point this gun at you. That sounds like a stalemate to me.”
“It’s a stalemate I’ll eventually win, when more cops show up,” Clint told him.
Garrett considered, then shrugged again. “If you called any. Which I don’t think you did. Otherwise, why did you have that old drunk Ray Zielinski checking houses?” Garrett chuckled, though it sounded forced to Clint. “Face it, you can’t win.”
Clint didn’t answer. He shuffled a little closer. He now stood two strides away from Garrett. He kept his gun pointed straight at the man’s chest while he stared directly into his eyes. “I will win,” he told Garrett.
Garrett laughed, but Clint heard the strain in it. “That’s not how this goes.”
“It only goes one of two ways, and you know it.”
“Oh, I do?”
“Yes. If we stand here for much longer,” Clint said, “more cops show up. At that point, you’ll surrender. I put you in cuffs, so I win.”
“Or?”
Clint took a precise half-step forward. He settled into a solid stance, his knees bent, his joints loose. “Or you get stupid with that gun, and I pull this trigger. I put you in the ground, so I win.” He curled his lip in contempt. “Either way, you don’t get to decide.”
Garrett fell silent. His eyes lost their mocking light and became flat. Clint knew the man was thinking over what he’d just said. It would either make him angry and force his hand or cause him to despair and surrender.
“You don’t get to win,” Garrett said to him fiercely, baring his teeth.
“I’ve already won.”
The world slowed suddenly. Clint heard the sound of footsteps and the door swinging open behind him. He didn’t take his eyes from Garrett’s. He saw the man’s recognition in a nanosecond and knew the intruder was Zielinski, barreling in through the front door instead of staying in the car like he’d been told.
Garrett exercised magnificent motor control. He barely jumped at the sudden commotion, and once he identified its source, his eyes flicked back to Clint.
He dropped the money in his right hand.
The falling bundle caught Clint’s eyes, but he forced himself to ignore it.
Garrett’s left hand shifted, and the gun swung upward.
Something was off in the way Garrett moved, but Clint didn’t have time to process it. He began to depress the trigger of his Glock, ready to drill Garrett in the chest with three quick rounds. Hoping he could stop at just three.
Then, at the last moment, he realized what he was seeing by how Garrett’s body moved, and he let up on the trigger before the gun barked in his hands.
Meanwhile, Garrett jammed the muzzle under his own chin. He brought his now empty right hand in to join his left and support the pistol.
Tyler Garrett closed his eyes.
Clint let his Glock fall from his hand. In one fluid motion, he shuffled forward, reaching for Garrett. His right hand found Garrett’s wrist and he twisted it outward. The barrel tilted slightly to that side. At the same time, he slammed the knife edge of his left hand onto Garrett’s clavicle. The force of the blow drove Garrett’s shoulder back, and shifted the barrel a little more, even as it boomed and spewed smoke and flame toward the ceiling.
Garrett cried out in pain and rage. His head jerked back as a bloody furrow appeared along the side of his face, creasing his cheek from jaw to temple. Warm blood freckled lightly onto Clint’s face, but he ignored it. He swiftly brought his left hand to Garrett’s gun hand, completing th
e levering motion to take Garrett to the ground. Still yelling, Garrett landed hard on his back, grunting as he hit. Clint pivoted and stepped over Garrett’s outstretched arm, applying a twisting pressure until he felt and heard a pop.
Garrett screamed in agony.
The gun clattered to the floor.
Clint used his toe to flick the weapon. It skittered across the wooden floor toward a dumbfounded Zielinski, who stood holding his .38 in his hands.
Garrett screamed again, all of it primal pain and rage.
Clint reversed his direction, quickly working Garrett onto his stomach. The man bucked and struggled, but Clint maintained control of his arm. Coupled with the pain from the dislocated shoulder and possibly his elbow, too, Garrett was unable to stop Clint from handcuffing first one wrist and then the other.
Garrett’s chest heaved as he bellowed in pain. He cursed Clint, calling him every horrible name he could summon, but Clint didn’t respond. His knee pinned Garrett to the wooden floor in that abandoned zombie house as he waited for the man to scream himself out. While he endured Garrett’s cries, he looked over at Zielinski, who was still standing at the door, stunned at what he’d seen.
Clint got Zielinski’s attention. He raised his finger straight up and twirled it a few times, then pointed at Garrett. Zielinski took his meaning.
Call for a patrol car.
Zielinski stepped out onto the porch, pulling his phone from his pocket.
Garrett slowly stopped shouting, gulping in his breath and letting it out in huge, racking exhales that sounded almost like sobs.
Clint waited until he heard sirens in the distance before he leaned down closer to Garrett. “You hear that?” he asked.
“Fuck you,” Garrett growled back, then winced in pain.
“That’s justice coming,” Clint said. “The beginning of it, anyway. The rest of it is you in prison for the rest of your natural life.”
“I’ll kill you!”
Clint patted Garrett’s good shoulder. “You had your chance. But that’s not how this goes.” He smiled a little as he threw Garrett’s own words back at him. “You don’t get to be a hero anymore,” he told him. “Everyone is going to know who you really are.”
Garrett didn’t say anything to that. He kept breathing in painful fits and starts. Zielinski stepped back inside and gave Clint a nod. Clint nodded back, keeping Garrett pinned to the floor. Together, all three of them listened to the sirens, and waited.
Chapter 54
“Does it grate you that they booked us on the redeye?” Danielle Watson asked.
Esteban Curado shrugged. “Why’s it matter?”
“Because we could have spent the night here and flown out early in the morning.”
“And lose your whole day?” Curado asked. “This way we sleep on the flight and wake up at home. The day will be ours.”
“It’s a four-hour flight, Steve. We lose three hours due to time zones. Plus, we have a layover in Minneapolis. Not like you’re going to get much sleep there.”
“Esteban,” Curado joked. “You know I prefer Esteban.”
Édelie Durand listened to her team banter behind her with only partial attention. They were waiting in the Delta Airlines baggage check at Spokane International Airport. Every minute or so they moved one spot forward. She was unsure if this line was supposed to qualify the airport as busy, but she was pleased there was only a handful of people in front of them. This was about to be her third flight of the day—the first couple being the early morning visit to and from Seattle—and she was tired of airports.
She had called Roland prior to leaving the police department. It was a stilted call, though. He coughed most of the time. Durand asked how he was feeling, and he deflected her concerns by asking how the investigation “out there” was going. She loved the man, but it was clear when he didn’t want to talk about his feelings or his condition. In those instances, he would avoid her questions or shut down the conversation. Since Durand didn’t want that to happen, she told him what they learned.
When she was finished, he asked, “Shouldn’t you stay? Sounds like there’s some unfinished business.”
She hesitated before saying, “I want to come home.”
“The way you tell it,” Roland said, “that department needs help. Maybe you need to be out there for a full investigation.”
Durand shook her head even though her husband couldn’t see her. It almost sounded like he wanted her to stay in Spokane.
“If you have to, Lee…” He was the only person to have ever called her that nickname. “I understand. What you do is important.”
She whispered, “I need to come home.”
“Then come home, baby. I miss you.”
Durand wondered how much new sick time she had accrued over the past few weeks. She’d already used up her vacation days for the year along with the few personal days she was given. Then she burned through her sick time taking care of Roland. Now, the only time available would be the new days she accrued. The overtime she’d gotten on this trip coupled with that sick time might get her a few days, maybe even a week with her husband. After that, if she wanted more time, it would be unpaid.
She made up her mind then to do just that. She’d deal with the financial and career repercussions later. Once Roland got better, he could help her figure their way out of any quagmire.
The line ahead of them moved and Durand stepped forward.
“We should be staying,” Watson said flatly.
The way she said it grated Durand. She glanced over her shoulder to her subordinate.
“I’m just saying,” Watson said as her eyes widened.
“Would we have that authority?” Curado asked.
Watson clucked her tongue as Durand turned forward.
She’d had her fill of these two. They were good investigators and good people, but she wanted to go home and be with her husband. His cough sounded worse. He was probably doing too much without her around.
“I mean,” Curado said, “do we have the authority to change our flights and hotel reservations? We did our job, right? We’ve been out, reviewed files, conducted interviews—”
“And learned this place needs oversight.”
“We don’t know that,” Curado said.
“Edie,” Watson said. “Edie, what do you think?”
Durand glanced over her shoulder. “We write our report and have it ready for Monday. As Esteban said, we did our job.” Her voice was harder than she expected, but she didn’t apologize for it. There were more important things than this job.
“But we’re here now,” Watson said. “Everything we’ve learned…What you heard today, Edie, that’s enough for us to stay and dig further.”
When she didn’t respond, Watson pleaded, “Edie—”
“Enough,” Durand snapped and turned around. “Give it a rest.”
Watson leaned back, clearly hurt by her supervisor’s sharp tone.
Durand knew she’d gone too far. She reached out and gently wrapped her hand around Watson’s upper arm. “I appreciate your enthusiasm, Dani. I do. But I need to get home.”
Watson studied her face. “Is everything okay?”
Curado asked, “What’s going on, Edie? Anything we can help with?”
“I’m fine,” Durand said. “Everything’s fine.” Her next words were delivered in a staccato fashion. “I just need to go home.”
The younger woman lowered her eyes and nodded. Curado glanced away.
Durand turned around and stepped forward. The team was next to the check-in associate.
In a moment, Curado asked, “Are you twittering now?”
Watson chuckled. “I use it to keep up with the latest news…Dad.”
“What’s going on in the world?”
“Says here that the president is lashing out against Switzerland.”
“For what? They refuse to send the best chocolates?”
A spot at the counter opened, and a pale-skinned woman with platin
um blonde hair waved. “Next!” she called.
Durand grabbed the handle of her bag and muttered, “We’re up.”
She walked to the end of the counter. The ticket clerk stepped behind her computer and asked, “Checking bags? Or do you need to check in also?”
“Checking bags,” Durand said and hefted her bag onto the scale.
From behind her, Watson mumbled, “Holy shit.”
“What?” Curado asked.
“ID, please.” The clerk said as she took Durand’s already offered driver’s license. “Where are you headed?”
“Washington,” Durand said, then belatedly added, “D.C.”
The woman behind the counter smiled. “Two Washingtons is confusing, isn’t it?”
“Edie,” Watson said as she tapped her supervisor’s shoulder.
Durand faced her.
Watson held up her cell phone with its screen turned outward. “SPD just arrested Tyler Garrett.”
She leaned in to read the news alert.
“For murder,” Watson said.
Durand’s shoulders slumped slightly. Thoughts of love, duty, and regret raced through her mind.
“Does it say who he murdered?” Curado asked.
“It doesn’t,” Watson said. “The department is going to hold a briefing later.”
Durand’s gaze shifted to her subordinates who now watched her keenly. What she did in this moment mattered, not only in the eyes of the department, but in their eyes. They were still at the beginning of their careers and had years to grow and mature within Justice. How she responded would forever impact them.
Would she be a leader to emulate or to eschew?
She knew what Roland would tell her.
Édelie Durand turned back to the counter. She pulled out her identification wallet and showed it to the clerk behind the counter. The woman’s eyes widened. They widened further when Watson and Curado showed theirs as well.
“There’s been a change of plans,” Durand said. “We need to shift our flights.”
EPILOGUE
I am not the law, but I represent justice so far as my feeble powers go.
