by Dan Alatorre
He stood up, gritting his teeth and shaking his head as the Ferrari disappeared around a corner.
Below him, Detective Martin sprinted across the street toward a row of parked cars a block away—and the orange Camaro parked among them.
The sergeant’s jaw dropped. “No, no, no, Sergio. What are you doing? You’re still on medical leave!”
Chapter 2
Sergio yanked open the car door and flung himself inside, jamming the key into the ignition and stomping the gas pedal. The Camaro’s big engine had barely started when he put the gear shift into drive. Tires squealing, he swerved onto Cypress Street and sped after the Ferrari.
You are not escaping, Parmenter. You are done killing innocent people.
Sergio gripped the steering wheel as the muscle car hurled him down the street. Ahead of him, the taillights of the Ferrari bounced over the bumpy old brick roads, careening across the next intersection. Parked cars dotted each side of the quiet street, but traffic signs were another matter—and Sergio had no lights or sirens today.
Pulse pounding, he leaned forward, glancing left and right before barreling toward the intersection. “You’re going to prison today, cop killer!”
The red car didn’t bother to tap the brakes at the next stop sign, either, soaring straight over the crossroad. It bounced hard again, throwing sparks as the muffler banged onto the asphalt.
He thinks he can make me lose control by driving too fast. He thinks he can make me crash—and let him get away again.
A few blocks ahead, there was another stop sign. The Ferrari could easily outrun Sergio on open road, but there were a lot of obstacles on Cypress.
Keep it together. Don’t let him get away.
* * * * *
The team leader’s voice came over Deshawn’s radio.
“All units, this is team leader. Report your locations. Target is on the move. We need to re-deploy.”
Heading across the roof and toward the ladder, Deshawn mumbled to himself. “If we can block the other lanes with a cruiser or two, that’d be our best bet. Force him to the port of Tampa and the docks. He’ll be trapped.”
He reached for his cell phone.
* * * * *
Sergio’s phone buzzed in his pocket. It didn’t matter who was calling; he couldn’t answer.
Up ahead, the Ferrari slowed down. Sergio grabbed for his seat belt as he closed the distance between the two cars. The belt slipped from his fingers. Two heads were visible in the Italian sports car—one was Lucas Parmenter, a cop killer; the other one was his driver. But no doubt Parmenter was calling the shots.
Sergio raced toward them. The Ferrari was nearly at a stop. They almost seemed to be waiting for him.
Ambush?
He flinched at the thought. It took only an instant to cover the one-block distance between Sergio and the Ferrari, but in that time he decided if they opened fire, he’d hit the floor and let the Camaro ram them.
He sped toward the Ferrari, the tiny silver stallion above the rear bumper growing larger and larger.
You don’t get to kill people and walk away. Not today.
They waited at a stop sign, but the prior stop sign hadn’t even slowed them down.
Sergio glanced to the right. A city bus approached, its wide side plastered with a huge re-election poster of the mayor. The bus had the right of way, and a small line of cars followed closely on its tail. As the bus entered the intersection, the Ferrari shot forward, speeding in front of the massive vehicle and nearly getting clipped—but forcing the rolling billboard between Sergio and his target.
Sergio pounded the steering wheel, cursing.
The bus brakes squealed with the high screech of metal on metal, and the cars behind it swerved left and right to avoid a collision.
It was all the break Sergio needed. He punched the accelerator and swung around the front of the bus, back in pursuit.
Slow down again, cop killer. I’ll ram that red racer—then, it’s all over for you.
* * * * *
Deshawn steered his car with one hand, hitting the speaker button with the other and pressing redial. The phone rang. “Answer, Sergio! Answer! Pull off!”
* * * * *
A sea of red taillights greeted Sergio as he headed north after the Ferrari. Beyond that, flashing lights of the squad cars. He grabbed for the seat belt again.
In his pocket, his phone rang a second time.
“You’re not getting away, Parmenter.” The seat belt slipped from his grasp as the car bounced over the road. Sergio narrowed his eyes. “It’s over. You’re done.”
The taillights glowed again, and smoke came off the red car’s tires. The Ferrari was nimble, swerving left and right around the other cars in the mid-morning traffic.
I might be able to bump him—if he doesn’t smash into something else first.
* * * * *
“This way, friends.” Ms. Dolce placed a paper map under her arm and took the tiny hand of the first grader. “Everyone, hold hands as we cross the street, please.”
Ava raced toward her teacher. “Ms. Dolce, how much further?”
“Back!” The woman screamed. “Everybody, go back! Hurry!”
The Ferrari slammed on its brakes and swerved sideways. Ms. Dolce screamed, squeezing her eyes shut and throwing herself backwards. Her arms spreading wide, she knocked the school children out of the way of the speeding car. The wind from the red vehicle pulled her collar up and sucked her paper map into the road. The Ferrari plowed into the front of a parked blue sedan, a booming crunch going out from the metal-on-metal impact.
* * * * *
Sergio careened forward in the Camaro. Faces of small children appeared to his right, and the rear end of the Ferrari loomed large in his windshield. Parked cars lined his left side.
He’d have to hit the Ferrari.
He slammed on the brakes with both feet, bracing himself against the steering wheel and pushing himself backwards into the driver’s seat. The screech of his tires filled the car. The young lady lurched backwards into the children again, knocking several more to the ground. As the Camaro skidded forward, the scream of its tires blotted out all other sounds. Sergio prepared for impact.
The Ferrari leaped forward with a shudder. It swerved toward the Port of Tampa and the docks, a piece of its left fender dangling over its wheel and swaying as the car sped away. A thin line of black smoke streamed from under its hood.
Laying on the horn, Sergio swerved to the left and scraped the wrecked blue sedan. The Camaro jolted as it pushed through. The young lady lay on the far side of the street, safe but terrified. Pulse throbbing, Sergio wiped another round of sweat from his forehead.
This isn’t gonna work. One or both of us is going to get killed.
In a spray of sparks from its undercarriage, the red car stayed in the left-hand lanes and forced the oncoming traffic to scatter out of its way. That cleared a path for Sergio, too. Gasping, he raced ahead, closing the gap on the Ferrari.
The tollway loomed ahead, but Kennedy was an off-ramp.
“Parmenter,” Sergio hissed. “Unless you intend to drive twenty miles to Brandon going the wrong way, you’ll have to make a turn!”
And to turn, he’d have to slow down.
Then I ram him at full speed, which disables the car and sends the killer to prison.
The on-ramp came closer. Sergio held his breath, his eyes glued to the Ferrari’s taillights, desperate to see if Parmenter would swerve into more oncoming traffic or turn toward the docks.
The rear of the Ferrari dipped as the car accelerated again, zipping past the on-ramp and down the smaller streets toward the cruise line terminals.
Sergio stomped the gas and followed, grinning. “You blew it! You’re trapped now, Parmenter!”
The Ferrari had blocked itself in; the driver just didn’t know it. The streets near the port were wider and filled with warehouses, but traveling a few blocks in any direction, the roads stopped and the bay began.
>
Unless that Ferrari floats, you’re going to jail, sucker.
The Ferrari bounced past the cruise terminals, its fender hanging from its side, flapping in the wind like a wounded bird. A river of sparks flowed from under the car. Beyond the Ferrari, the sparkling blue waters of the bay shimmered in the midday light. A pale blue curtain of sky sat above the water, dotted with a few white puffs of clouds, and nothing else.
Sergio nodded, pressing the gas pedal harder. The Ferrari slowed as a hard left turn approached, allowing Sergio to close in on their rear bumper. He gritted his teeth and made a grab for the seat belt, snatching the buckle and sliding it past his hip. He jammed it into place as he prepared to ram the Ferrari. “Get ready to eat my bumper, you—”
Thump! Thump! Thump!
Bits of glass hit Sergio’s chin as three bullet holes appeared in his windshield. He flung himself across the center console and buried his face in the passenger seat. Two more shots shattered the windows of the speeding Camaro and sent a shower of glass onto his back.
The car jolted violently, a loud bang filling his ears as he was thrown upwards. His head slammed into the ceiling; shards of glass jumped into the air. His stomach rolled like he was dropping down the big hill of a rollercoaster, and the Camaro’s engine revved higher and higher—but his foot was nowhere near the gas.
As he turned his head to the windshield, the blue-green waters of the bay loomed large in front of him, rushing forward before slamming into the car and turning white in a giant splash.
Chapter 3
The city bus eased away from the curb and a slender woman carried her oversized canvas bag to the nearby bench.
The killer’s crosshairs followed.
A few birds darted past. The gray smoke from the bus’s old diesel engine had barely cleared away when the woman sat down and pulled out a book, followed by a pair of dark-framed sunglasses with big, round lenses. The blue bag at her feet sagged, allowing a few items to slide out, but the book was apparently more interesting than whatever she was carrying. She crossed her legs, pulling her phone from her pocket and glancing at it before setting it by her side on the bench.
The killer kept the weapon trained on the target.
She’s waiting for another bus.
The International Mall parking lot behind her had gathered a little traffic already—eager Christmas shoppers, doing their thing—but that was up near the stores, not out by the bus stop.
The sniper chuckled.
Where are you headed, my pretty?
The high-powered rifle scope revealed enough of the woman’s dark complexion to indicate she was probably of Hispanic heritage. Her jacket sported a Burberry logo; her slim, faded jeans could have come from Old Navy. The shoes . . . too nice to walk very far in, but practical enough to look like they could. Probably counterfeit Guccis, purchased at the flea market.
Who dresses like that and still takes a bus?
Babysitters for Hyde Park elites. Nannies—au pairs, in that world. Bayshore Boulevard housekeepers on a day off.
The woman adjusted her sunglasses. She wore enough lipstick and blush for a night on the town. Her employer apparently hired her for more than her housekeeping abilities.
And so early to be using public transportation. Did you spend the night, sweetie? Or are you on your way in to work?
The killer slipped a single round into the weapon’s magazine and snapped it into place, lowering an eye back to the scope.
It’s not going to matter.
The weapon discharged with a slight recoil.
Through the scope, the woman dropped her book and slumped backwards. Her jaw hung open; bits of jacket floated down from the hole in her chest. It took a full seven seconds for the red stain to appear at the bottom of her jacket hem, and then it was visible spreading slowly across her shapely chest, too.
“Oooh, hoo, hoo.” The assassin sucked in hard. “Wow, oh, wow.”
A pounding pulse, just like before.
“Calm.” The killer nodded. “Calm down. Breathe. Take it easy.”
A tingling sensation washed out from the killer’s core and dissipated through the fingertips. The shudder of relief was like a massage.
“Whew. Yeah.” Eyes closed, the sniper exhaled sharply. “Oh, yeah.”
Slipping out of the ear protection, a smile stretched across the killer’s face. “That’s number one.”
* * * * *
The production assistant sat on the couch across from Carly, scribbling illegible notes on a legal pad. “Let’s start with a few basics, Detective. You’ve been on the police force for how long?”
Carly shifted in her seat. “Uh, almost seven years, Jeannie.”
“Mm-hmm. And what were your thoughts when you knew you’d finally stopped the Seminole Heights serial killer?”
“Well, my first thought was about my partner, Sergio Martin.” Carly pressed her hands to her skirt, sliding them from her thighs to her knees. “He nearly got killed when he confronted the killer in the stairwell. He got stabbed and—”
“And you had to step in and disable the killer after your partner was injured.” Jeannie tapped the pen on her lower lip. “Is that correct?”
Carly opened her mouth, searching for the words. “Well, yes, but he—Sergio—he went in first because I had sprained my ankle earlier. They fought, and the killer threw him down the stairs.”
“Wow.” Jeannie leaned forward. “You went after a homicidal maniac when you had a sprained ankle? Could you walk?”
“Barely. The killer, Officer Davenrod, had previously chased me and tried to attack me when I was jogging in my neighborhood, and I—”
“Oh, you jog? That explains the legs. I’d kill to be that well-toned.” Jeannie scribbled on her pad. “So, you already knew the killer was a fellow officer?”
“Well, no.” Carly shook her head. “I mean, at the time, we’d compiled a lot of information but still had no identifiable suspects, so . . . actually, before we knew Officer Davenrod was the Seminole Heights killer, I ran into him at the station, and . . . I just had a bad feeling about him.”
“Kind of women’s intuition? Or a police officer’s sixth sense?”
“Maybe both. Sergio said I was overreacting but—”
“Oh, so you made your male partner aware of your suspicions, but he talked you out of them. Interesting.”
“No, no, no. It wasn’t like that. Officer Davenrod . . . I had the feeling about him once before. At a bar. And actually, before that, too. At a presentation I was giving. He just creeped me out, and—”
“But Detective Martin convinced you to ignore all that.” Jeannie nodded, writing. “Do you think if that hadn’t happened, you’d have confronted the killer sooner?”
“What? Wait, we didn’t know at that time.” Carly glanced around the small room, running her hands over her thighs again. “I just . . . I had a strange feeling about Officer Davenrod. That’s all.”
“Which your partner convinced you to ignore.”
“Technically, yes, but—I mean, he was right. I was overreacting.” Carly sighed. “You can’t arrest someone based on . . . sometimes you get that feeling and it turns out to be nothing. We had no definitive proof at the time, so . . .”
“And after your partner’s mistake, you essentially—”
“Hold on. It wasn’t a mistake.”
Jeannie looked up from her notepad. “Excuse me?”
“Sergio and I talked, but he and I are good friends. He would never intentionally put me in danger. He was simply explaining other possible reasons I had that feeling about Officer Davenrod. As a police detective, you always have to consider every option. He was doing that.”
“Oh, I understand.” Jeannie brandished a wide grin. Almost too wide. “And you ended up saving your partner’s life by taking down the serial killer after Detective Martin was overpowered in the stairwell.” The P. A. sat back, putting her hands in her lap. “That was very brave. You’re quite a hero.”
“And the lieutenant was disabled by the killer as well? So, before you took action and ended the conflict, two men tried first and failed? I hope they were happy you were there.”
Carly craned her neck, glimpsing at the legal pad. “Wait, I didn’t—we, all of us . . . there was a lot of confusion. But it was a—”
“Oh, please excuse me.” Jeannie stood, pressing her earpiece to her head. “I’m needed on set.” She turned and headed for the exit. “You’ll do fine, Detective. You’re so pretty, the camera’s going to love you. One of the pages will bring you in for your segment. Thank you!”
“. . . it was a team effort. We’re a team.” Carly frowned and folded her hands in her lap, her shoulders slumping.
* * * * *
Traffic was busy on Hillsborough Boulevard. The old man rearranging the back of his minivan at Village Inn was only visible intermittently between cars as they sped down the street between him and the killer. Located just south and to the east, at Golden Corral, the rifle scope remained trained on its next victim.
The killer took a deep breath of stale, humid air. Better ventilation might be a good idea, but that would have to wait. Right now, there was work to be done. Creature comforts were not a priority in a sniper’s nest. Not yet, anyway.
The muzzle of the rifle grazed its hidden portal, lining up the old man between the passing cars. Left and right, vehicles sped past, one after another in an almost unending stream. The shot would have to be quick and precise to reach its target and not end up in the side of a passing car—but the killer’s shots were always quick and precise.
One round had been chambered.
One would be enough.
The killer checked the wind velocity on his phone app. Minimal, so far. It wouldn’t push the bullet too much off its intended course.
An inch, possibly an inch and a half.
Through the traffic, the gray-haired target lifted a shallow rectangular box, holding it by the long, narrow handle. He pulled out a small claw hammer, then a larger one. Leaning over into the back of the minivan, he retrieved two more hammers and a woodworking square.
