by James Hunt
Kimmings wiped the sweaty bangs from her forehead. She squeezed her eyes shut, her face pained as if her hand were holding in a pressure meant to explode from the top of her head. “Look, give me some time, and I’ll—”
“No. It has to be now.”
“All right.” Kimmings looked back down the street toward the news station. “Let me run and get a few things and then we’ll—” A couple approached from down the street, and Cooper turned her face toward the building until they were past. Kimmings lowered her voice even though they were out of earshot. “I’ll get a few things from the van. Camera, sound gear. It’ll take me less than twenty minutes.” She reached into her pocket and retrieved a pen and paper. “This place is close, and it’s secluded. I’ve used it before.” She ripped the paper from the notepad and balled it into Cooper’s palm. “When you get there, tell the bartender that you have a date with me. He’ll know what that means.”
“No, I don’t want anyone else involved in this.”
“I can’t do it any other way, Detective!” Frustration reddened Kimmings’s cheeks, and she gripped Cooper by the shoulders. “Just trust me, all right?”
“Make it fast.”
And with that Kimmings hurried back to the station, doing her best to stay casual and not sprint through the crowds and draw attention. Cooper unwrinkled the balled-up paper and examined the address written on it. The name of the bar was Paper Cups, and when Cooper arrived, she understood why Kimmings had chosen it.
Aside from the heavy smell of smoke that greeted Cooper when she opened the door, the place was empty except for a middle-aged barkeep wiping down glasses. He didn’t acknowledge her presence, even after she sat down. She drummed her fingers on the counter, and only after he was done with the set of glasses did he come over.
“What are you having?”
Cooper eyed the bottle of whiskey on the shelf behind the bartender then glanced around at the empty establishment. “Jack on the rocks. Make it a double.”
Wordlessly the barkeep reached for the bottle and glass. Ice cubes clanked against one another, and the whiskey splashed over the frozen rocks, some of it spilling over the brim. He set the drink down in front of Cooper and tossed the towel on his wrist over his shoulder. “You want to start a tab?”
Cooper reached into her pocket and pulled out the last twenty bucks she had left from McKaffee’s wallet. “Whatever this will get me.” She lifted the glass to her lips and drained the first round quickly, the whiskey burning all the way down but offering its sweet escape from the reality she was stuck in.
The barkeep was quick to refill the glass, and Cooper savored the second round, bathing her tongue in the liquid before letting it wash down her gullet. Her fingers grew cold and wet from the condensation, and she cooled her forehead with her hand.
“Must have been some night.”
Cooper looked over to the barkeep, who had shifted to a new case of glasses to wipe down. He kept his eyes on his work, and at first Cooper thought she’d only imagined him speaking. “What?”
“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning.” The barkeep finished the glass then picked up another, methodically emptying the crate. “So it must have been a hell of a night.”
“Hell of a week.” Cooper lifted the glass to her lips again, tilting the drink back until the ice smacked her upper lip. She shook the empty cup, the ice jingling, but the bartender just pointed to the bottle that was already near
The bartender squinted at her as she set the bottle back down. “Say, don’t I know you?”
Cooper lifted the glass, feeling the liquid courage and heightened sense of apathy the liquor provided. “Probably.”
The door opened and flooded the dimly lit bar with sunlight as two men stepped inside, both covered in dust and clothed in construction attire. “Damn, I need a drink! Hey, Ronnie! Two beers!” Both men took their seats at the end of the bar, and Cooper lowered her ball cap and turned away, but it was too late. “Hey, baby, you drinking alone?”
“Yeah,” Cooper said, keeping her voice cold and her head down. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”
The man’s friend whistled, slapping his buddy on the shoulder. “Looks like she ain’t buying, Hank.”
Hank shrugged his friend’s hand off. “Well, that’s because she doesn’t know what I’m sellin’ yet.” He slid off the barstool, beer in hand, and found a seat right next to Cooper. He extended a dirty palm and tried leaning his head closer to get a better look at her face. “I’m Hank.”
“And I’m not interested.” Cooper backed off the barstool with drink still in hand, but the man grabbed her arm.
“Hey, baby, what’s the hurry?”
The moment Hank’s fingers curled around her arm, she turned, prepared to smash the glass of whiskey across his face, but the harsh bark of the bartender stopped both of them from going any further.
“That’s enough, Hank!” The bartender stormed across the bar and pulled him back to his seat, handling him roughly. “The woman doesn’t want to be bothered, and it’s too early for me to be dealing with this shit, so knock it off!”
Bewildered, Hank sat down, squinting at Cooper in the dim lighting. “Hey, don’t I know you?”
The door opened once more, and Janet Kimmings burst inside with her gear and a cameraman in tow. The bartender looked to Cooper and then to Kimmings, making the connection nearly immediately. “I didn’t realize you had a date today.”
Kimmings sped past the two construction workers and headed toward the back. “Yeah, it was last minute.” She jerked her head and motioned for Cooper to follow. “I thought I told you to—”
“Well it’s too late now.” Cooper drained the glass and slid it onto the bar as she stepped into Kimmings’s wake. “And what I have to tell you won’t take long.”
Without questions or even speaking, both Kimmings and the cameraman set up their gear in the small back room, barely large enough to fit all three of them inside. Kimmings ran the mic through Cooper’s shirt and pulled the ball cap from her head and examined her face. “You look like shit.”
“Just make sure it’s recording.” Cooper adjusted herself on the chair and faced the camera, the operator counting her down from three, two, one…
***
The red light on the camera blinked off, and Kimmings exhaled, giving a nod. “All right. I think we’re good. Tommy, we have everything?”
“Yeah. Footage and sound were solid.”
Cooper unclipped the mic, the rush of the whiskey gone and replaced with a light pounding in her head. She reached for the ball cap and tucked the tangled mess that was her hair back underneath. “Listen, something’s going to happen tonight.” She looked at Kimmings, who’d frozen at her words. “And after it goes down, things are going to happen fast for me.” She pointed to the camera. “No matter what happens, you make sure that goes out.”
Kimmings nodded. “I promise.”
The door to the small room opened violently, and the barkeep burst inside. “You need to get out of here now.” Cooper peered over the barkeep’s shoulder and saw that both construction workers had disappeared.
But before Cooper even had a chance to think, Kimmings grabbed her by the arm. “Go out the back door and look for our van.” She shoved the keys into her palm. “It’s got a full tank of gas and should get you to wherever you need to go.”
The bar’s front door opened and light crept inside, revealing the silhouettes of two officers, followed closely by the construction workers. Kimmings shoved Cooper out the back door. “Go!”
Both officers made eye contact with Cooper and reached for their pistols. “Hey! Stop!”
But before either of them got close, Cooper sprinted out the back, shielding her eyes from the bright burst of afternoon sunlight, her muscles lax and uncoordinated from the whiskey and sudden demand for action.
Cooper stretched her hand for the van’s door and yanked it open, climbing inside and thrusting the key into the ignition i
n the same motion. Tires screeched and smoked as she peeled out into the street and watched the officers burst out of the back of the bar, weapons in hand.
Bullets thumped into the back of the van just before Cooper veered out of the back alley, the gear in the back of the van sliding across the floor on her sharp turn right. Another crossroad appeared on the left, and she shifted directions again, zigzagging through the downtown streets. Every turn triggered a harsh brake, then quick acceleration, the engine revving and the tires screeching.
The wail of sirens suddenly filled the air, and Cooper pivoted her head in every direction, looking for the source. A squad car crossed one of the streets ahead of her but then slammed on its brakes. Cooper did the same, the smell of burnt rubber filtering through the vents as she reversed down another side street then spun one hundred eighty degrees and slammed the shifter back into drive.
The tight grip on the steering wheel drained the color from Cooper’s knuckles and blue and red lights flashed in the mirrors. She turned a hard right, heading east. Another squad car joined the pursuit, and the van jolted forward from the light nudge of the police car behind her.
“Pull over. Now.” The officer’s voice blared over the speaker, and when Cooper failed to comply, he rammed the van’s rear bumper again, this hit harder than the first. The wheel spun from Cooper’s grip for a split second, and she was jerked hard to the right, but she quickly steadied.
Traffic thickened the farther east she drove, along with the growing escort of police cars. She laid on the horn, cars scrambling to get out of her way, pedestrians screaming and pointing at her as she barreled down the streets. One more turn south, and then a quick right set her direction back to the east, where Cooper saw her one chance at escape.
Another ram into the rear bumper smacked Cooper’s head into the steering wheel. The rush of pain blinded her for a moment, and when her vision returned, a truck veered into her path. Cooper jerked the wheel hard right and sideswiped a sedan in her attempt to avoid the crash. The grind of metal rattled the van, and she jerked the wheel again, separating the two.
Shaking, Cooper steadied the van, her vision focused on the whitecaps of the river where the road ended. With the path cleared and the police slowing behind her, she floored the accelerator, reaching for the seat belt and clicking it into place.
Buildings passed in a blur. The water neared. The engine’s noise grew louder. Cooper tightened her grip on the wheel, every muscle in her body burning and tense. The van collided with the curb, shaking the inside of the cabin like an earthquake, but the seat belt kept her in place, and her foot kept the accelerator glued to the floor.
The van slid forward and downward, the rushing waters of the river the only thing in sight. Cooper felt suddenly weightless on the quick drop down, but the sensation ended with the violent crash into the water. Her body slammed against the seat belt, which pulled tight across her chest and waist. Her arms were flung upward, both hands smacking the roof violently.
Water rushed in through the vents as the van leveled out in the river. The current rotated the van left, and just before it dipped below the river’s surface, she saw the line of squad cars on the sidewalk.
Cooper waded through the rising water inside the van, her pants and shoes already soaked, on her trudge to the back door. She reached for the handle and heaved it open, straining against the water pressure, which erupted in her face the moment the door cracked open. The frigid water soaked her to the bone and rose to her neck as the van thumped and settled on the river bottom.
One last gasping breath of air and Cooper submerged herself completely. The fresh water burned her eyes as she struggled in the current, climbing toward the surface and trying to put as much distance between herself and the van as she could. The water lightened the closer she reached the top. The tightness in her chest grew insistent, and bubbles erupted from her mouth. She clawed the water faster, her lungs constricting, begging for her to take a breath. Her mind grew weak and tired, and just when she thought she would sink back down beneath the water, she broke the surface.
Cooper gasped for air, hacking and coughing as she paddled in the river that took her swiftly downstream toward the ocean. She looked up to the ledge and then behind her where the police vehicles had stopped, some of them heading in her direction. But the river’s current rushed her away faster than they could run.
The coastline of walled docks and boats soon turned into rocky beaches of dark-brown sand with nothing on their lands except trash. Cooper swam toward the shore and stumbled over the beach, her feet sinking into sand and muck with every step. She collapsed to her knees, out of breath and exhausted.
Cooper pushed herself up and trudged toward the small thicket of brush. She checked her waist and saw that only the revolver and knife had survived the swim. When she checked the rounds in the chamber her hands trembled with exhaustion. But with the meeting with Quentin in a few hours, rest wasn’t a luxury she could afford.
Chapter 10
Boarded-up windows and doors lined the dozens of rows of houses of the neighborhood. What portions of the homes weren’t covered in faded paint were marked with graffiti. Ever since the housing crisis, the surrounding neighborhood had suffered foreclosure after foreclosure, and it wasn’t long before there were more unoccupied homes than occupied ones. Once that happened, the drugs came into play, and what had once been a safe neighborhood turned into a meth-infested war zone. Addicts, the homeless, gangs, all of them had a hand in this territory.
It was one of the reasons Hemsworth and his team had wanted to watch the area. If they couldn’t find the killer on any security footage or in the more populated areas of the city, then it would be natural for him to hide out here. But Cooper knew better. If this guy could build a cabin in the woods with an underground tunnel and get away with murder for the past thirty years, then he had a better system than hiding out in the slums with homeless people.
Cooper remained a block away from the meeting location with Quentin, and she kept her eyes locked on the unmarked FBI van that sat across the street from the abandoned townhomes. To the FBI’s credit, they’d done a fairly good job of blending in, but Cooper could smell a stakeout a mile away, and she’d noticed the old, rusting van with new wheels and tinted windows the moment she approached the area.
A caravan of black sedans turned onto the street from a crossroad two blocks down, and the fatigue in Cooper’s body suddenly dispersed. The three vehicles passed the FBI surveillance team and then parked and idled right in front of the meeting spot. A few seconds later, the doors to the sedans opened, and seven men stepped out into the road. All of them wore suits and ties, with sunglasses over their eyes and shoulder holsters strapped under their jackets.
Then the final door to the middle sedan opened, and out stepped Quentin. He was at least a head shorter than his security team, and his time out of office had not aged him well. Snow-white hair sprouted in thin wisps from the top of his head, and the attempt to hide his age with plastic surgery had left the majority of his face disfigured.
While his security team stepped inside the building, a swarm of bodies hummed around Quentin at all times. Cooper waited for all of them to go inside then sprinted toward the building, making it a point to be seen by the FBI surveillance. If Quentin’s presence didn’t raise any alarms, then hers certainly would.
Cooper slithered down the side alleyway and started the climb up the fire escape, moving quickly, knowing that if Quentin’s security team was as good as she thought they were, they’d move to the roof to secure a bird’s-eye view of the surrounding area. She kept her footsteps light against the old metal rungs that begged to clang with every step, and she paused just before reaching the top, slowly peering over the concrete railing of the roof’s perimeter.
The building’s rooftop had a few plants, but aside from the vegetation and the roof access door, the area was clear. Cooper slid over the concrete rail and sprinted over the thick tar panels that had grown war
ped from the sun and weather. Just as she reached for the handle, the roof access door swung open and she stared into the surprised face of one of Quentin’s guards.
Time froze for a second, but when the guard reached for the pistol in his holster, Cooper slammed her entire body into him, knocking them both to the floor. Sharp stabs ran through her arms and legs as the two rolled boundlessly over the rooftop. Twice she felt the debilitating jab of his fist into her stomach, but Cooper countered with a knee to his groin that ended the jabs.
Cooper stumbled to all fours while the guard groaned and held his crotch, spitting curses. She tasted blood on her tongue and then noticed that the pistol from the guard’s holster had skidded across the tar. She scrambled toward it, the rust shaking from her knees and legs as she sprinted as fast as she could toward the weapon, which the guard saw as well.
The two collided back on the ground and rolled until they smacked into the rooftop access door, their hands twisted and intertwined around the pistol, both jamming their legs and elbows into one another. Cooper caught the guard on the chin with her shoulder but was given a bloody nose for her efforts.
The guard twisted his body, using his weight to pry the gun from her hands. When he turned to aim the weapon, Cooper already had the knife in hand and thrust the tip into the soft flesh of the guard’s neck. The pistol dropped from his hand, and he clawed at her face, choking on his own blood.
Cooper felt the warm claret run over her hands and watched the color and life drain from the guard’s face. Once he was motionless, she yanked the blade free and reached for the pistol. She checked the guard for more ammo, and after he’d been picked clean, she made her way to the rooftop door and stepped inside, gun first.
The heat from the afternoon had left the old building hotter than an oven, which only amplified the rotten smells of whoever had taken up its occupancy. Cooper descended the staircase, listening to the light footsteps of the guards inside. Sunlight filtered through the dirty windows and provided some clarity of where they were positioned, but there were too many shadows to get an accurate telling. Murmurs from the first floor drifted up the winding staircase, and Cooper made sure to keep both hands on her pistol, checking the doorways she passed on her descent to ensure that the coast was clear. The closer she moved to the bottom, the louder Quentin’s voice became.
