by CJ Lyons
“Last images I have show a black SUV parked on the north side of the tunnel," Taylor reported. "I couldn’t see anyone on the ground.”
Jenna turned her lights off, put the Tahoe in gear, opened the windows on both sides, and angled the AR-15 so she could grab it fast. Her SIG Sauer she kept in one hand, steering with the other. “Okay, boys, let’s see who’s chicken.”
She barely let the brake out, the Tahoe gliding down the block almost silently. Gunfire sounded—maybe two, three blocks away. Better cover noise than the crickets.
Initially she’d planned to race past the Rippers’ vehicle. But she didn’t like the idea of having them at her back. When they made no sign that they had spotted her, she stopped the Tahoe at the tunnel’s entrance. Leaving it idling, she crept out, sidling through the shadows, her SIG at the ready.
The tunnel smelled of dust and diesel exhaust. She pressed her back to the stone wall on the north side. Her coat would be ruined, but she’d worry about that later.
At the far edge of the tunnel a stone wall sloped diagonally down from the train tracks above to the street level. Behind it a few trees provided a bit of cover. She knelt beside the wall, peered between the trees, and spotted the SUV. Music came through its open windows and the interior was filled with a faint glow from the instrument panel and their cigarettes. Two men in the front, each with a Mac-10 machine pistol resting on their windowsills. No one in the back.
They were talking, laughing about something, looking at each other and away from her. She took her cue and ran at a crouch below their eye line, making it to a tree a few feet away from the passenger side of the car.
She raised her SIG, took a few deep breaths. The men were so close she could smell their cigarettes. Not men. Targets. Just like at the 911 Center. Targets. That’s all.
Exhaling, she stood and fired two quick headshots into the man nearest her. His Mac-10 clattered to the ground as his grip relaxed, making Jenna jump. The man in the driver’s seat fumbled to turn his weapon around but was too slow. Two more shots and he was dead as well.
She grabbed both guns then raced back to where the Tahoe waited, leaving the dead men behind.
“I’m clear,” she radioed Taylor, marveling at how normal her voice sounded. She’d just executed two men. Christ, she could go to prison if anyone found out. After all, they’d been armed but no clear-cut threat. She didn’t even identify herself or give them a chance. Panic trembled along her nerves, making her hands shake and her vision dance as she drove.
“Did they give you any trouble?”
“Drove right past, they didn’t even notice,” she lied.
“Maybe they weren’t Rippers after all. About time we got lucky. Okay, let me give you the route to Lucy. You’re about six minutes out.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Jenna swallowed hard, her mouth dry. Yet her eyes kept tearing up, forcing her to blink fast to see the street before her. Not tears, just dust from the tunnel.
At least that’s what she told herself.
<><><>
“This is Channel 4’s Eye in the Sky with exclusive footage of the massive damage to the Allegheny County 911 Communication Center in Point Breeze. As you can see, most of the windows have been blown out and the front wall of the building has been virtually demolished by what witnesses are calling a huge fireball. Flames still rage inside the building as firefighters work to contain the blaze.
“Authorities aren’t commenting yet on the possible cause of the explosion but minutes beforehand a propane tanker was involved in a traffic accident at the intersection adjacent to the Communication Center and was engulfed in flames.
“Unverified reports of gunfire have also been received but so far authorities aren’t commenting as to their accuracy.”
Chapter 24
Andre climbed a rickety wooden ladder leading to the loft above the garage. He needed a good vantage point to launch his firebombs from. The stale air tickled his nose even though it’d probably been a century since any hay was stored here.
At the front of the loft a pair of windows faced the house. He opened one; it swung in and up to a hook waiting to hold it. Nice. He glanced down. He could drop down on the two guards at the door if he wanted to. Not his plan, but it was good to have options.
On the alley side was an identical window. It gave him more resistance than the first window, but with a few sharp tugs, it finally opened. He stood beside the opening in case any of the men below looked up. There were two SUVs, one on either side of the garage, parked to block the alley and facing away from the house. Positioned for a quick getaway. Three men stood guard in the middle—at least they thought they were standing guard, though they were holding their weapons like they were loaves of bread and sharing a smoke.
It was an insult to expect men like that to last more than a few seconds with a Dog Company Marine.
To his surprise, he found himself humming as he climbed back down the ladder, ignoring the newfound aches as his muscles and scar tissue stretched. He hadn’t done that since before the Marines. An old song his grams had enjoyed, "Summertime" from Porgy and Bess.
Fuses for delayed detonation were always a challenge, but he found what he needed scattered among the materials on the workbench, augmented by a few choice items lifted from the trash. Waste not, want not.
He divided the napalm into two glass soda bottles, set the fuses, found a long-handled BBQ lighter, and turned back to Fatima.
“I’m going to launch these from up in the hayloft and go out the alley.” He nodded to the ladder leading up to the floor above.
She hugged the baby closer. “You’re leaving me?”
“No. No. I’m going to create a diversion, then I’ll escape.” Her eyes widened in fear. “I’ll take care of the guards outside and open this door,” he pointed to the door to the alley, “for you. Then we leave. Together. Understand?”
She nodded. “We'll find my husband?”
He sucked in his breath, looking away. “Yes. Then we’ll find Raziq. Get ready. Okay?”
“Okay.” A tentative smile. Best he could hope for.
He carefully took the firebombs up the ladder to the hayloft. First, the house. He lit the fuse and heaved the bottle out the window, aiming for the trash near the porch.
The glass shattered and flames whooshed through the darkness with a gratifying energy. The men below shouted and ran toward the fire.
Andre didn’t waste time watching them. He ran to the alley-side window and aimed his second firebomb at the SUV farthest away. He could have simply thrown it at the group of men below him; it would have taken them all out, they were that close together, but he didn’t have the heart. The thought of watching them burn, smelling that smell, hearing those screams… it didn’t matter if it was life or death, he just couldn’t do it. Besides, he couldn’t risk starting a fire that close to the door Fatima and the baby would need to exit through.
Instead, as they looked toward the SUV now on fire, he dropped on top of the nearest man. A quick elbow to the throat and he had the man’s gun, a Mac-10. Before he could turn it on the other two, one of them dropped.
Andre whipped around as a second shot cracked through the air, taking care of the final guard. The shooter was above them—ah, the neighbor’s garage. A man jumped down from the roof and came running down the alley. It was David Haddad, the DEA agent Andre had worked with in Kandahar.
“Haddad,” he called as he unlatched the large sliding door. “The hell you doing here?”
The DEA agent whirled, raising his weapon at Andre. “Drop the gun!”
Andre placed the Mac-10 on the ground and kicked it behind him so that it skidded towards the side of the garage. “Whoa, friendly, friendly. It’s me, Andre Stone.”
Haddad hesitated. “Stone?”
Right, the mask. “In the flesh, so to speak. There’s a woman and baby inside. Help me get this open.”
Haddad hesitated then nodded. Together, they heaved against the door, slidi
ng it open. Andre rushed inside just as the front door to the garage opened and a dark-haired woman ran through it, shotgun raised. Fatima cowered against the wall, twisting to protect her baby.
“Put that down, you’re scaring her,” he shouted to the woman. “Fatima, it’s okay. Come with me.”
“This is Andre Stone,” Haddad told the woman.
She jerked her chin in a nod. “Lucy Guardino. Thanks for the fireworks,” she told Andre. “Let’s save the reunions for later.” She slammed the door shut. Gunfire immediately shook the small building, coming from the front. “Go. I’ll cover you.”
Fatima stood frozen. Andre reached for her arm but she jerked away, crying in fear.
“Come on, come on,” Haddad yelled, moving to cover their retreat from the alley.
“Fatima, we have to go. Now,” Andre said, trying to keep his voice calm. He reached for her again. Ignoring her fear and grabbing her arm, he jerked her out the door.
The dark-haired woman, Lucy, followed them. She’d just crossed the threshold into the alley when the front door burst open. Four men with guns swarmed into the garage followed by Darius and a short, slender Hispanic man in a suit.
Andre ignored them. Because there was another man with them. Rashid Raziq.
He dove to the ground, grabbed the Mac-10 he’d dropped earlier. Raised the weapon, ready to shoot, wanting to shoot. Just as his finger slipped from the trigger guard onto the trigger, Fatima and the baby crossed his line of fire.
<><><>
As Jenna headed towards Ruby Avenue, her phone rang. The call came in labeled Nick Callahan. A favorite number for Morgan to spoof once she’d learned about Jenna going to see Nick for counseling. Jenna almost ignored it, really was in no mood to coddle the adolescent psychopath, but knew better than to piss off Morgan.
“Hello, Morgan.”
“He made it so easy,” she said with a sigh that Jenna couldn’t tell was real or faked. Who was she kidding? Morgan didn’t have any real emotions.
“Morgan, what did you do?”
“Is this how you people live? Walking around so… exposed? He looked right at me, Jenna. Right at me.”
Jenna clenched her fist around the steering wheel and fought to control her breathing. Who was it? One of the guys she’d met during the last month? Had she been the one to lead them to a killer? Or was it someone off the street, an innocent bystander? “Tell me what happened.”
“Vulnerable. You’re all so vulnerable. And you don’t even see.”
“Morgan—”
“Relax. I couldn’t do it. It just wasn’t fun anymore. Not like with my father.”
Morgan’s father. There was a role model—a sadistic serial killer specializing in kidnap, rape, and torture. A man who schooled his children to follow in his footsteps, make Daddy proud.
“You didn’t do it. Why not?” Jenna tried to reel the girl in. She didn’t tell Morgan that tonight was probably the one night she could get away with murder. Like Jenna just had. No. She was nothing like Morgan. Those men had to die; they would have killed Jenna. It was self-defense. Killing them might have saved dozens of lives down the line.
Another sigh. A pause as if Morgan was uncertain—but Morgan was never uncertain. The girl was the most determined, confident person Jenna had ever met. And that included Saint Lucy. “I’m not sure why I didn’t kill him. I felt—empty. Like why bother? It wasn’t going to give me what I needed. Not like it did for my father.”
“Maybe you need something else to focus on.”
“Don’t try to shrink me, Jenna.” Morgan’s tone had an edge to it.
“I’m not. But,” Jenna hesitated. She hated this, these mind games, giving Morgan a glimpse inside her soul. “You sound like you’re at a crossroads.”
Another pause. Damn, she’d pushed too hard. Jenna was certain Morgan was going to hang up, change her mind and go kill again.
“I see politicians on the commercials, read about rich bankers and CEOs. They get it. They’re like me. But you people… you’re all so blind.” Morgan’s tone was filled with emotion that sounded genuine.
Granted it was disdain mixed with confusion, but it reminded Jenna of her own emotional turmoil when she was about Morgan’s age. Her grandfather—the only adult she’d ever trusted or respected—had died, leaving her with parents who couldn’t stop bickering or using her to hurt each other long enough to give a damn.
“I could be anything,” Morgan finished with a note of triumph. “There’s a whole world of you… sheep… out there and I could do anything I wanted and none of you could stop me.”
Now she sounded like a toddler out of control, searching for boundaries that weren’t there. No, not a toddler. A normal, out-of-control teenager. Just like Jenna had been at her age. Damn, where was Lucy when Jenna needed parenting advice?
The police radio crackled in the background, reminding Jenna of how many people might die tonight. Yet here she was, talking a psychopath through an existential crisis.
How much time and effort had she wasted on Morgan already? Was it worth it?
Not when facing what could well be the last night of her life.
“I have to go, Morgan.”
“No,” Morgan snapped. “You know the rules, Jenna.”
“Sorry, kid. You’re going to have to play your sick games with someone else. I’ve got work to do. You wouldn’t understand. People are dying. They need my help.”
Jenna hung up, feeling free to take a deep breath for the first time since last month. She pressed down on the accelerator, blowing through a red light, streetlights rushing past, blurring at the edge of her vision. Places to be, things to do, people who needed her.
Despite the smudge of fire appearing above the rooftops, the howl of sirens coming from every direction, the staccato bursts of gunfire heard in the distance, Jenna couldn’t help but smile. She had no idea why. It was as if her body and mind had been scoured clean. No, emptied, that’s what she felt. Empty. But in a good way. Kind of like the feeling Morgan had been trying to describe.
As if anything was possible.
Chapter 25
If Andre hadn’t been counting on him to get his grandmother to safety, Nick would have pulled over on the side of the road and puked his guts out.
As it was, all he could do was swallow bile and work to stop his hands from trembling. He tried to do a breathing exercise, like the ones he taught his patients, but all he could think of was the blood on Morgan’s knife. Bright red. As if it was fresh.
It could have been his.
One wrong word, one wrong look, that’s all it would have taken.
He’d felt fear before, of course. But it was always fear for others’ wellbeing. For his patients, like Andre, who’d been verging on full-blown agoraphobia and clinical depression when Nick first met him. For Megan, when she was sick a few months ago. Fear for Lucy every damn day she strapped on her gun and went to work.
Tonight was the first time he’d ever come so close to being killed.
He fumbled for his phone, trying to call the police again. Morgan was far too dangerous to be allowed to wander the streets. All he got was a busy signal.
She’d surprised him. More impulse control than he’d expected after hearing about her violent upbringing. She reminded him in some ways of Megan: trying so hard to act like an adult, yet no clue about who she really was or wanted to be.
At least he’d been able to help Morgan think twice about following in her father’s footsteps. Otherwise, he doubted he would have left alive.
He tried calling Lucy but the call was dropped before it connected. What was up with the damn cell towers? The weather was clear. As he approached Homewood he realized the streets were empty of cars. And a lot of helicopters flew overhead.
Lincoln Avenue was blocked near Route 8, an eighteen-wheeler lay on its side, sprawled across both lanes, but he was able to circle through the side streets to Ruby Avenue. He turned off his Garth Brooks CD and listened. Gunfire. An
dre had said something was going to happen tonight.
Nick tried Lucy one more time. Circuits busy. Damn. If she was home, she’d be pissed—they’d already missed the curtain on The Nutcracker. Usually it was Lucy who made them late for events. He frowned. She was not going to be happy when she heard why he'd missed their date night. Talk of Morgan Ames always brought out the mother-bitch side of Lucy.
She was kinda sexy when she bristled with over-protective energy, but he’d never tell her that. It was one of the few secrets he kept from her.
He toyed with the idea of adding one more to the list; maybe not telling her about his encounter with Morgan. After all, it’d ended just fine.
No. He’d do what he always did and tell her everything. She’d do what she always did—get upset, then grow quiet and do whatever needed to be done to protect him and Megan. Probably send them and her mom away on a vacation that she’d find an excuse to back out of at the last minute. Anything to clear the way so she could hunt Morgan on her own.
She’d wanted to do that last month, had even hired a private security firm. Both he and Megan had rebelled at the thought of living the rest of their lives patrolled and restrained and secured. Lucy had reluctantly given in. Now Nick was glad—it had probably saved some poor bodyguard’s life.
Still deep in thought but feeling calmer, he pulled up to Andre’s house, the middle one of five quaint brick row houses. A faint ripple of light could be seen through the curtains in the front window. He ran up the steps and rang the bell. “Esther, it’s Nick.”
A few moments later a woman using an elegantly carved wooden cane opened the door. She was slight of build with gray hair in tight curls and a wide smile. Esther was virtually blind, ravaged by diabetes, but fiercely independent. And despite her infirmities she still baked the best homemade apple cake Nick had had since he left Virginia.
“Nick! What a surprise. Come in, come in. Join the party.”
