Violet Darger | Book 8 | Countdown To Midnight

by Vargus, L. T.

  The SWAT officers held quite still on the street. All the helmeted heads flicked back and forth between the officer next to the door and the commander kneeling next to the fender of the armored truck giving him hand signals.

  Darger felt like she was floating above the scene. An observer. Weightless.

  When the officer next to the door got the signal, he fired the Holmatro. The metal bar bucked once, and the door swung free. The only sound the device made was a faint thud when it clattered to the ground, its job complete.

  The lead officer lurched for the building, the riot shield strapped to his forearm forming a smooth wall that glided before him, his face pressed to the clear cutout in the matte black polyethylene armor. The shield was graded to withstand multiple shots from a .44 Magnum or .357 SIG, an impressive ballistic feat for something that weighed roughly ten pounds.

  The rest of the officers filed behind him in something of a forced jog, bodies hunched, assault rifles cradled in their arms before them. They disappeared into the building’s mouth one by one.

  “First-floor hallway secure,” a deep voice barked into the radio. The sound jarred Darger, making her realize how quiet the chatter had gotten for a bit there.

  She turned to watch the monitor, where Fitch was still clicking around between cameras.

  A narrow stairwell bobbed on the screen. Everything here rendered in shades of beige. Peeling wallpaper and floor alike.

  Steps and risers scrolled endlessly upward like an ancient TV with the vertical hold broken. The frantic bouncing of the camera made Darger feel like she was watching some gritty police documentary, like COPS or something. After a second, she realized she basically was — live and in brilliant beige.

  Yelling on the radio interrupted the thought. Multiple voices lifting, straining, tangling over each other.

  “Down on the ground!”

  “Get down! Now!”

  “Hey! Hey! Face down! Face down!”

  Fitch swore under his breath. Flicked to different cameras on the laptop until he found a piece of the excitement.

  An older woman lay face down on the thin carpet of the hallway floor. Dyed black hair shorn close. Vivid blue shirt swaddling her torso, the sticklike arms coming out of her middle looking bony and out of proportion. Her pudgy middle trembled, lurching shaky breaths into her chest.

  Two bags of garbage had plunked down on either side of her, and what looked like spaghetti sauce was trickling out of the mouth of one, red juice cascading over the yellow drawstrings and puddling on the floor. A miniature marinara waterfall.

  Again the voices of the officers twisted over each other. Muddled and chaotic. Darger couldn’t make out what was being said.

  The SWAT officers helped the old woman up, her wild eyes flashing on the screen for just a second. Big and scared, pupils like sliced black olives. Then she disappeared into the door there, presumably shoved back into her apartment, out of the way.

  The garbage remained face down on the carpet, the river of Newman’s Own flowing freely.

  “Second floor clear,” a voice said finally.

  The next few several floors went without a hitch. Within a few minutes, all six floors and the roof were secure. The streets outside were locked down as well, crawling with police, both SWAT and regular uniforms.

  Now they’d send in the strike team.

  Yet another group burst into the building, looking identical to the others. Riot shields out in front. Black tactical gear. Assault rifles. All swinging knees and elbows as they raced up the stairs, staying tighter in formation this time.

  They clustered in front of the apartment door in question. Antsy. Shoulders swaying. Weight rocking from foot to foot. They looked like a high school football team about to rush out onto the field, crashing through some paper banner.

  Instead it was this rectangle of wood that stood in their way. The thinnest barrier between them and the objective, between them and the end of all of this.

  Another Door Blaster was fastened between the lock and the doorknob. The circular plate bucked the door with its silent explosion. This time kicking up splinters where it snapped the wood around the deadbolt and tore the door out of the jamb. Made the heavy oak thing look like some plastic toy.

  The SWAT team rushed into the opening. Single file. Face first into the breach, into the danger. Angry. Zealous. Exuberant.

  The edge of the splintered door got clipped by the edge of the riot shield. Bounced off the wall once and then stayed the hell back, out of the way.

  The last of the men charged through, his camera showing the backs of the others as they parted. Darting all directions. Left. Right. Straight ahead.

  Fitch switched cameras in time to see the perp belly-flopping onto the linoleum in the kitchen. The body cam bobbed then as the SWAT officer ducked back.

  A bowl plunged out of the perp’s hands as he went down. Dive-bombing alongside him. Broth and noodles flung everywhere. A strange ramen wave arcing in the air. Slapping down on the floor.

  Bowl and spoon shrieking as they hit down. Clattering. Crashing.

  All seemed quiet for a beat after that. Darger could hear the breath of the officer wearing the body cam. Could hear the tiny metallic sounds of his hands adjusting their grip on the M4. And then the yelling started.

  “Freeze! Hands on your head. Hands on the back of your head. Do it. Now.”

  The prone figure put his hands on the back of his head.

  The camera swung down. Finally gave a clear view of the perp — the back of his head, anyway.

  Darger’s eyes cataloged the features. Dark gray t-shirt. Navy sweatpants. Bare feet. Short brown hair. Average height. Slender build. It all fit.

  It occurred to Darger that the hair was too dark and too short to be the brother’s. Jesus. It was really him.

  “It’s him. We got him,” the officer in the kitchen said. His voice had gone shaky with adrenaline, sounded tight coming out.

  Heavy footsteps rushed into the room. Shuffled around in the small space between the fridge and the quartz overhang of the island.

  More metallic sounds. More yelling.

  “Rest of the place is clear,” one voice said.

  The camera angle made it hard to tell, but they must all be in the kitchen now. The entire strike team. Huddling. Crowding. A bulge of humanity jammed into the doorway. Boot treads making heavy sounds on the linoleum.

  With an overkill of M4s pointed at the facedown figure, one of the officers stepped forward at last. Straddled the perp’s back. He looked like an oversized toddler asking his dad for a pony ride. Instead, he wrenched the arms down one at a time and cuffed him. The click of the cuffs seemed to signal some release of tension in the room.

  The agent administering the handcuffs stepped back. Big smile splitting his face. All teeth beneath the visor.

  His grin spread to the others. Washed over the whole room. And they all leaned forward to look down at the man.

  He looked smaller now. Squirming a little on the kitchen floor. Sweatpants fallen down enough to show just the top edge of butt crack.

  “Fuck yeah!” the arresting agent said, high-fiving another. This too spread among the ranks.

  After more excited chatter, they finally got the perp to his feet, a pair of officers looping a gloved hand into each of his armpits and lifting in unison.

  As they swung him around, his face filled the laptop screen at last. Wide eyes blinking rapid-fire. His grim expression looked, Darger thought, quite a bit like the photograph on his driver’s license. Feeble. Nauseous. Eyes all wet-looking. Like he had something hard wedged deep in his throat.

  Except this wasn’t Tyler Huxley.

  CHAPTER 61

  A heavy feeling entered Darger’s chest. Some leaden injection that sank down into her gut. Solidified there. Settled. Rooted her to the ground again.

  No more soaring exhilaration. No more thrill of the hunt. No triumph of victory.

  Huxley was one step ahead of them. Again.


  She chewed her bottom lip. Tried to fight off the flashes of the explosion replaying in her head. That flickering death livestreamed on the laptop screen. Dobbins squatted down to get at the paper beneath the shoebox under the bathroom sink. Breathing one second. And then the flash and the bang, and he was gone. Gone. A curtain of black smoke spiraling over the frame.

  Angry voices barked on the radio. Irritation plain in every syllable. The ends of the words bitten off. Chewed. Swallowed.

  Word spread by way of profanity-laced radio chatter that the man they’d cuffed in the kitchen was Huxley’s cousin from Ohio visiting his aunt in the big city. He’d come to town for what everyone had thought would be Tyler’s funeral.

  “Should we keep the building locked down for now?” one of the voices said on the radio.

  Darger thought it was Laboda, but she wasn’t sure.

  “The fuck for?” Fredrick said. Her voice sounded gruffer than before. Tired.

  “Well, uh… the light in the background of the video. Way I figure it, that’d shine in any of the windows around here, right? He could be holed up in one of the other apartments. Not hiding out at home, maybe, but somewhere nearby.”

  The radio chatter went quiet for a beat. Then a heavy breath rattled in the speaker.

  “Maybe. That’s smart. I mean, if the light in the video is even what we thought it was…”

  Darger felt a twinge of blame. Was this her fuck up? Had she been wrong about the flickering light? She’d been so sure. Felt such satisfaction at figuring Huxley out.

  Fredrick was still talking.

  “The problem is we’ve only got a warrant for the mom’s place, and we can’t have a small army of SWAT officers locking down a couple city blocks indefinitely.”

  “Yeah. Shit.”

  To Darger’s right, Loshak stood and stretched. His head looked small atop the elongated neck, like a featherless baby bird straining for its wad of regurgitated worm. She could hear creaking sounds coming from his back, a sequence of vertebrae cracking like knuckles. Normally, she might have made a joke. Something about how the old man’s body sounded more and more like a rickety wooden ship every day. But nothing seemed funny at the moment.

  She followed his lead. Straightened to her full height and tried to loosen her tense muscles. After huddling behind its concrete cover for so long, it seemed strange to rise up over the parapet. It made her feel exposed. Vulnerable.

  Some of the strike team had spilled out onto the street now. Their formerly cocky body language sagged into slumped shoulders and hung heads as the confusion set in, the anticlimax of it all.

  “Back to the drawing board, I guess,” Loshak said, adjusting his helmet again. “Feels like he’s close, though, doesn’t it?”

  Darger swiveled her head. Eyes scanning up and down all the buildings on the block. The bomber might be behind any one of the windows facing this little section of the cityscape.

  Then again, maybe not. He could be miles from here. Could be anywhere.

  The pinwheel turned over and over on the balcony across the way, jutting out of its potted plant. It was settled partially in the shade now, so the motes of light kicking off it weren’t as intense as before. She stared at the neighboring apartments, squinting her eyes down as if it might give her the ability to see through the walls.

  A flicker of movement caught her eye, but then she realized it was just a plastic bag tangled in the scaffolding that blocked off the row of apartments two down from Huxley’s mother’s place.

  And then Darger was lurching forward. Grabbing the radio out of Fitch’s hands. Speaking into it before she even knew what she’d say.

  “Vacant apartments,” Darger said. “Could we get a warrant to check the vacant apartments on this block? It’s just these buildings right here that have a clear view of the light source. And how many vacant apartments would there be with windows on this side? A handful or less?”

  Another prolonged silence. This time a deep chuckle rattled the speaker instead of a sigh.

  “You think he’s squatting, huh?” Fredrick said. “OK. That’s smart. I’ll get someone to contact the landlords for the buildings here. We might not even need a warrant if we can get permission from the building owners to search just the vacant apartments, but we’ll run it up to the judge anyway. Cover all our bases.”

  Just then a loud bang drew Darger’s eyes sharply to her left. Wrenched her out of the conversation.

  A pale blue rectangle thudded against a concrete wall on the roof next door. The steel door shivered there like a tuning fork.

  And then he emerged.

  Tyler Huxley stepped into the doorway and looked both ways. His eyes seemed to snap to Darger’s for a split second. Locking there. Fastening.

  Then he turned and raced across the rooftop. Running away from her. Tennis shoes bounding up from the black rubber membrane coating the top of the building.

  When he reached the end of the roof, he stepped up onto the stone ledge and leaped over the edge.

  CHAPTER 62

  Fitch grabbed the radio from Darger. Growled into it. Explained what they’d seen.

  But Darger couldn’t hear him. Not really.

  She blinked. Twice. Stared at the empty space where Huxley had been.

  Nothing. Nothing. Just a stone edge cleaving off into the open, into the sky. A straight concrete line separating form from void.

  Did he… Could he just…

  Her chest shuddered. She sucked in a breath. Felt hot wind on her teeth, dry air roiling in the hollow of her throat. Realized that her mouth was open. Jaw unhinged.

  And then she was moving. Rushing to the edge of the building. Stopping short at the thigh-high parapet wall there.

  She still couldn’t see him. Just that naked rock edge where he’d launched himself into the abyss from the rooftop next door.

  Next her gaze drifted closer. She looked at the gap. It was about five feet to the next building, and the roof there was a few feet lower. Manageable.

  Finally her eyes veered down all the way. Speared the emptiness between the buildings. Peered into the alley below.

  A collection of shimmering mud puddles looked back at her like twenty eyes. The open dumpster next to them gaping like an open mouth. It all seemed tiny from up here. Ant farm features.

  She backed up a few steps. Needed to get a running start.

  Just as Loshak yelled, “Don’t do it!” she moved. Lunged forward. Launched herself onto the parapet. Kicked off. Hurled herself into the breach.

  A floating feeling came over her. Weightless. Adrift.

  Wind blowing. Gravity sucking.

  She kept her eyes up. Aimed up at the target, not at the ground.

  The sky looked huge before her. A vast emptiness that stretched up, up, and away.

  The wind a loud whisper in her ears, drowning out everything.

  At last her vision wheeled downward. She saw the emptiness of the alley give way to the stone parapet, give way to the black sheen of the rooftop.

  She soared over it. Easily cleared the gap.

  And then the black terrain came rushing up at her.

  She hit down. Hands first. Then feet. Rubbery roof hot against her skin.

  Her ankles flexed from the impact. The momentum pushing her forward, off her feet.

  She angled herself to the side. Rough landing on elbow and hip.

  She rolled. Unblinking. The world tumbled around her — the view from inside a clothes dryer.

  Light and dark. Roof and sky.

  And then she stopped. Pushed herself up onto hands and knees. Took a few deep breaths. Eyes blinking down at the inky membrane.

  Heat rose from the black surface. Coiled around her calves and wrists. Radiated to touch her chin and cheeks.

  A couple of thuds landed on each side of her. Fitch and one of the snipers. The second sniper clomped down a beat later.

  Fitch lifted his head. His grin looked tilted. A crooked line beneath his visor. Ecstat
ic.

  He chuckled then and clapped Darger on the shoulder.

  “Goddamn, Agent Darger. I’d heard some of the stories, but…” he said. Then he turned to face the others and lifted his voice into a bellow. “Did you guys fucking see that? Let’s go!”

  They got to their feet. Dusted themselves off. Gray clouds wafted up from Darger’s jacket like smoke.

  Loshak spoke up from behind them.

  “I’ll just, you know, take the elevator down.”

  Darger turned. Saw him standing at the edge of the wall. One leg up on the parapet, though the knee was a little wobbly. He pulled his foot down from the ledge and stumbled backward, chuckling nervously to himself.

  Then she swiveled back to where Huxley had leaped. Darted that way. Crossed the spongy rubber coating of this roof.

  Felt it give under the balls of her feet. A little melted from the heat, she thought. Soft now like cream cheese spread over a rubbery bagel.

  She reached the next ledge, the others alongside her. Together they peered over the edge.

  Her eyes dipped low to check out the ground first this time. Another alley. Empty. What looked like steam rolled out of a vent down there, the streets themselves exhaling something toxic.

  Then she scanned the next roof. Also empty. Shit.

  She chewed her lip. Her right brain measuring, checking angles, doing rooftop geometry about another leap.

  The next roof was lower still. Another ten feet down. It was a longer jump, though. Fifteen feet or so. Maybe twenty. But the height advantage made it doable, she thought.

  “Son of a bitch,” Fitch said.

  Darger saw his arm flick up out of the corner of her eye. She looked where he was pointing.

  Huxley was on the fire escape of the lower building, racing down the metal staircase. His neck snapped up as though he sensed them, his lizard brain craning his skull to point his eyes straight at them.