by James Hunt
14
The moment Dennis saw Grant, everything unraveled so quickly. The gunshots pushed the crowds back, sending them away from Dennis, who was now trapped beneath the stage, evading the holy hell of gunfire raining down on him from the rooftops at the festival’s perimeter.
Enraged by Grant’s interference, Dennis raised the rifle’s stock to his shoulder, the wood planted firmly against his chest, then aimed toward the retreating crowd and squeezed the trigger.
One burst of gunfire sent the cattle screaming and hollering. Three people collapsed, while the rest of the herd left their wounded behind.
He fired a few more rounds but was unable to tell if he brought anyone down as he fumbled beneath the stage, evading sniper fire.
But he knew that if he could make it out to the north end of the stage, he could sprint toward the marina where he had a boat already picked out to flee.
“Freeze!” A pair of officers broke through the crowd, guns up and aimed at Dennis, who stepped out from beneath the stage.
While the police hesitated, Dennis did not. He aimed at the cops and dropped both of them with a quick spray of gunfire.
More screams erupted from the scrambling crowd, and Dennis sprinted past the food trucks and port-o-potties. It was a short stretch of open space between the stage and the fenced perimeter before the marina, but it was a good opportunity for snipers to get lucky.
Above the gunfire and screams were the wailing sirens of the police cars and SWAT teams, every authority chomping at the bit for the honor of catching him.
In mid-stride, Dennis threw the rifle over the fence, then heaved himself up and climbed over, his arms and legs uncoordinated in his frantic escape. He flung himself over the top and landed hard on his heels before rolling forward in a ball.
Dennis grabbed the rifle off the ground and then sprinted toward the docks. He stole only one glance behind him and saw the cruisers heading toward the very area where he was going. He hopped into the boat, untied the line, and revved the engine to life.
Dennis pressed the throttle all the way down and jettisoned the boat forward, causing a wake that rocked the rest of the boats in the harbor.
Speeding through the space in the docks, wind whipping in his hair, Dennis smiled as he saw the police stop short of the marina, but a bullhorn pulled Dennis’s attention ahead as two marine units sped toward the small inlet to blockade the exit.
“No.” Dennis gritted his teeth and squeezed the metal steering wheel hard. It wasn’t supposed to end like this. He was supposed to have died back there, back at the festival, in the center of the dead bodies that he’d killed only moments before.
Dennis picked up the rifle from the floor and fired at the boats, shells cascading onto the deck, the copper casings rolling toward the outboard engine. He kept the throttle all the way down, and the marine units returned fire.
As he drew nearer, Dennis ducked below the dash, keeping one hand on the wheel to stay on course, daring the authorities in a game of chicken, knowing that he didn’t have anything to lose.
Dennis’s boat passed between a pair of marine units in pursuit, and Dennis fired at the boats chasing him down, but this time the marine units returned fire.
But Dennis just had to keep moving north to a stretch of coast that had wilderness. From there, he could escape. As bullets ripped into the boat’s hull, Dennis worried he’d pushed himself too far. But he had to survive, because he still needed to kill Chase Grant.
15
Pain and chaos were the only things that Grant remembered after he hit the ground. Because the moment he tried to lift his head, he had knees in his back and a dozen different hands patting him down. He was cuffed and whisked away to the back of a SWAT van.
Grant didn’t bother asking questions, or for an attorney, because he knew he was way beyond the rules for normal criminals. He was a cop killer. A fugitive. He’d been black bagged, and he would most likely be tortured.
Blindfolded, Grant was escorted from the SWAT van and into what he assumed was a building, weaving through hallways, placed into a room, and then cuffed to a chair.
The blindfold remained after he was chained to the chair. He sat in the quiet darkness for a long time. But the pain from the bruising of the bullet that shot him in the back, and the constant throbbing of his left calf, kept him from slipping into exhaustion.
While Grant’s body was aching, he wasn’t on the threshold of passing out, and he didn’t want to, because he wanted to make sure he was alert for what came next.
The door finally opened, and two pairs of feet stepped inside, the door swinging shut and locking behind them. Chair legs scratched across the floor, and there were some grunts and rumblings as someone sat down, and then it was quiet for a little bit, and then the world transformed from darkness to blinding light.
Slowly, the world filled in around Grant. Walls, the chair and table where he sat, and eventually the man who sat in a chair across the small steel table.
“The Kevlar was smart,” Hickem said, pointing at Grant’s chest. “Mocks give you that?”
Grant glanced to the man at the door, who was dressed in a black tailored suit with an earpiece, and a stone set gaze that made you think he wasn’t aware of everything that was happening in the room. But that was only a trick.
“You’ve been busy since we last spoke.” Hickem opened the folder on the table, choosing not to waste any time. “Probably in need of a good delousing and a medical check-up. How’s that leg treating you? I saw you limping when my guys brought you in.”
“Did you get him?” It was the only question that mattered to Grant. And it was the only one that even Hickem should have concerned himself with. “Hickem, did you catch Dennis?” He leaned forward as far as the chains would allow, and a sour sickness spread through the pit of Grant’s stomach. “Did you get him?” Spit flew from Grant’s mouth, a burst of color transforming his pale skin to a crimson red that matched his violent reaction.
Hickem leaned back in his chair. “You’re worried about the wrong man.”
Grant hung his head low, shoulder slumped. He would have collapsed out of the chair if the chains and cuffs hadn’t kept him in place. He swung his head from side to side in an overexaggerated gesture. “You didn’t fucking get him.”
“Grant, you have a lot of things to worry about right now, and the least of them is Dennis Pullman.” Hickem pulled himself and the chair closer to the table. “You killed a cop. And the DA is also going to pin Mary Sullivan’s death on you. Do you hear me? You don’t get to walk out of this one. You don’t—”
“Just give me the fucking needle and be done with it.” Grant shut his eyes and hoped that there was an express line on death row, because the only thing worse than waiting for death was dragging it out.
Hickem glanced back at the agent. “Give me the room.”
“Sir, I don’t think—”
“Get the fuck out, Terry,” Hickem said.
Grant lifted his gaze, watching the stone-faced agent leave. When the heavy metal door swung shut, Grant turned back to Hickem, confused.
Hickem brushed something off his pants and grimaced. “You’re a dead man, Grant. And since I know you don’t want to drag it out, I took some liberties.” He pushed the folder that he’d been reading across the table. “It’s your death certificate. All it needs is to be signed with a date and time.”
Grant read the certificate. He’d seen enough of them during his time as a detective visiting the morgue to know that it was legit.
“You and Dennis have been my sole focus for the past three months, and I would very much like for that to stop.”
Grant looked at Hickem. “What is this about?”
“I’m thinking that you want the same thing that I do. I’m thinking that Dennis is still out there, and I want him in a wooden box six feet beneath the ground. The working story for the public right now is that he died out at sea, but we tracked the boat he stole to a section of woods northw
est of the city.”
Grant nodded. “And that’s where I come in.”
“Out of everyone in the world who had a role in putting him behind bars, he singled you out, and he made it his mission to completely upend your life and tear it to pieces.” Hickem shook his head. “But if I send you after him, you will go in on your own. And if this doesn’t work, I will disavow anything about you and make up whatever story I see fit to cover my ass.” Hickem smiled and leaned forward, folding his hands over the table. “So you want another shot at stopping him?”
“Yes.” Grant gestured to his leg. “But I’ll need a doctor to look at my calf, and I’ll need something for the pain. They can pump me full of whatever drugs is necessary to keep me awake and mobile.” He cleared his throat. “That phone your people found on me, Dennis gave it to me. He’ll be calling soon. Like you said, this has all been about me and him. And if he’s still as angry as I am, then he’ll call. And it’ll be important for me to answer.”
Hickem stood, grabbing the folder off the desk and heading for the door. “I’ll make sure that happens.” When he touched the door handle, he paused, then turned back to Grant. “You know that I tried to get the brass to give you a pass, but after all of the media attention—”
“The best way for you to help me is to get me out of these cuffs and put a gun in my hand,” Grant said. “And the sooner the better.”
16
Outside of Grant’s holding room, Hickem immediately called the unit he had placed on standby should things take a fortunate turn. Which they had. When the other line picked up, he repeated the go-phrase. “Echo-Niner-Utah-Charlie. Approved.”
“Confirmed. Unit en route.”
Hickem ended the call and then handed the folder he brought with him back to the agent who fell into the same quick stride as Hickem on their way through the halls. “I need a doctor to get him checked out, and he’ll need one of our black site weapons. If it gets lost, I don’t want it to be traced back to us.”
“Yes, sir,” the agent said, then looked up at him. “He didn’t ask for it?”
“No,” Hickem answered, and then chuckled. “The bastard really is a saint.”
Before Hickem walked into that room to speak with Grant, he was forced to have a prior conversation with the United States Attorney General, who had advised Hickem to get as much information out of Grant as he possibly could. And to get him to sign off on a statement that amounted to a confession and placed all of the blame on his shoulders.
But Hickem made a bet with himself. He had decided that if Grant had asked for some kind of plea bargain, some kind of deal that would get him out of the mess that he shouldn’t have even been a part of in the first place, then he’d slap that paper down and tell the bastard to go to hell, and that was the only deal he was going to get.
But Grant didn’t even bring it up. He had never been the kind of man who was afraid of consequences or the fallout from doing the right thing. He welcomed it. He lived for it.
So now, instead of following the AG’s orders of beating a confession out of Grant, Hickem chose to take the next steps and enact his own plan.
Hickem’s phone buzzed, and he received a text confirmation that the mission was successful and they were already en route to the second holding facility, where they’d await news from Hickem, and only Hickem. He was putting his ass on the line for this one, and he just hoped that he’d be able to handle the consequences.
17
Grant never left the room, all of the equipment and personnel were brought to him. And he was also always kept restrained. Grant didn’t complain, but he didn’t think the ceremony was necessary behind closed doors. He supposed that you had to keep up with appearances somehow.
A few shots were administered to Grant, and he was given an IV that nearly brought him back to one hundred percent. A shot of cortisone was pumped into the wounded calf, and when Grant placed all of his weight on it, he couldn’t feel an ounce of pain.
“That’ll work,” Grant said.
After the medical team finished, they left, and Hickem returned with the phone and hardware.
“Long-range sniper rifle, Glock nine-millimeter, and a hunting blade should you run out of bullets,” Hickem said.
The weapons were displayed over a black cloth that covered a steel table. Grant picked up the rifle, running his hands up and down the weapon, familiarizing himself with it. He had gone with Sam a few times to the range and she’d shown him a few things.
Grant set the rifle down and then picked up the Glock and saw that the magazine was empty. He gave Hickem a look.
“You’ll receive the ammunition when we drop you off,” Hickem said.
Grant set the pistol down and then pressed his palms into the edge of the table, hunching forward with a slow exhale. “So what happens when all of this is done?”
“Depends on how successful you are,” Hickem answered.
“Successful meaning…”
Hickem walked around to the other side of the table, arms crossed, staring at Grant like he might stare at his own son. “There are two narratives here, Grant. The first one is what happens if you bring Dennis back alive.” He reached for the knife and removed the blade from the sheath, the metal gleaming beneath the false light. “It’ll give you more bargaining power with the attorneys, and it might keep you off death row.” He sheathed the blade. “But I think we both know that’s not going to happen.”
“He is a threat,” Grant said. “So long as he’s alive, he can kill.”
Hickem nodded, then replaced the knife back into the sheath. He drew in a deep breath, his big shoulders rising. “Grant… Killing Dennis doesn’t just end any hope of you staying alive, it just proves Dennis right.” He leaned over the table. “You kill him, and all you prove is that you’re just like him.”
Grant stared down at the weapons. “I died three months ago, Hickem. And there isn’t anything that can bring me back from what I’ve done.”
Hickem stepped around the table, rejoining Grant’s side. “You’re not him. No matter what he’s made you think. You’re not a killer.”
Grant knew that Hickem’s words were meant to help, and there was a time when he would have let himself believe them, but Grant was too far gone now, and he wasn’t coming back, no matter how many people tried to pull him out.
“Has he called yet?” Grant asked.
Hickem paused, studying Grant a little while longer before he finally stepped back. “No. But I have my people watching the phone like a hawk. If he does call, then we might be able to track him.”
“The only place we’ll track him is in the woods,” Grant said. “He’ll be in his element. He’ll be home.” Grant stared back at the weapons, wondering how he would finish Dennis off if he managed to get him in the woods. It would be difficult hunting him.
The door opened and one of Hickem’s agents entered. “Sir. It’s him.”
The phone was brought in, still ringing, and Grant was forced to wait until Hickem’s agents had the machinery set up to track the call. Only then did he answer.
Heavy breaths were the only greeting that Dennis offered. “I suppose they haven’t killed you yet.”
“No,” Grant answered. “But they’re willing to let you have the honors if you still want it.”
Another long pause.
“The festival was smart,” Grant said. “Opportunity for maximum casualties. Was that supposed to be your magnum opus?”
“You’ve always been so full of yourself, Grant,” Dennis said, his tone spiteful and petulant. Because as high and mighty as Dennis touted himself, deep down the man was nothing more than a child. “I suppose they’re recording me now, those FBI agents who decided to use you as bait. They’re probably tracking me too, trying to narrow down my signal.”
Hickem and the agents exchanged a glance, both parties motioning for Grant to deny the allegations.
“Yes,” Grant said.
Dennis laughed. “Always the rebel, D
etective. Do you mind if I call you that again? Because I’d like to.” He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was soft. “Do you feel it? At night, when you’re alone with your thoughts? That emptiness that hollows you out and leaves you weak and hungry and tired. But the fatigue is so overwhelming that you can’t even sleep. You only lay still, waiting for the sun to rise again.” He paused again, drawing in a breath. “But that’s coming to an end now too, isn’t it, Detective?”
“Yes,” Grant answered. “And I’ll be the one to end it.”
“I have no doubts about that,” Dennis said. “Do you remember the forest where you killed Detective Lane?”
Grant shuddered, glad that Dennis wasn’t there to see him shake. It was bad enough having the FBI agents in there to watch him tremble. “Yes.”
“I’ll be there,” Dennis said. “Waiting for you in the wild.” He sighed. “It’s a relief, knowing that it will finally be over. But we’ve done our part, haven’t we, Detective? We’ve shown the cracks in the system, the scaly underside that slithers over the ground. Do you think that we’ve changed anything, Detective?”
Grant tightened his grip on the phone as Hickem gave a thumb’s up, signaling that they managed to trace Dennis’s location. “You haven’t changed anything, Dennis. All of that purpose and bullshit you’ve convinced yourself of is fantasy, plain and simple. And I’m going to prove it to you. That’s the only reason I have left.”
“I look forward to it,” Dennis said.
The call ended, and Hickem’s agents immediately shot out of their chairs, heading for the door as they radioed Dennis’s position.
The agent handed Hickem a piece of paper. “Our nearest unit is five miles away.”
“How long is the trip by chopper?” Hickem asked, still studying the note that he was given.
“Five to get ready, another fifteen in the air,” the agent answered.
