“I’m guessing that’s it,” Glenn said, extending a finger in front of her and pressing the tip of it to the windshield. She held the pose a moment before pulling it back, a smudge visible on the windshield.
Ahead of them, Reed could see a loose tangle of cars arranged in a semi-circle in the road, all of them positioned to hem in a house on the right side. A handful of dark silhouettes could be seen moving about behind the pale blue cruisers, all of the men in uniform, their attention trained on the house.
Cutting the lights and siren, Reed pushed hard until just 20 yards away before slamming the brakes, sending Billie against the backs of the front seats, Glenn reaching out and bracing herself against the dash. The smell of charred rubber instantly found its way to their nostrils as Reed killed the engine, leaving the car parked at an angle on the street, and climbed out.
Emerging from the car, Reed could see at least 10 men positioned around the blockade, their focus now on him. He paused by the door just long enough to let Billie climb out before popping the trunk and jogging to the back. Moving fast, he peeled off his sweatshirt and tossed it into the well, taking up his Kevlar and looping the vest over his head.
“Here,” he said, reaching back inside and emerging with a second vest, one that regulations required him to carry even though his partner was K-9. He held it out at arm’s length for Glenn, waiting as she peeled off her suit jacket and threw it in atop his sweatshirt.
Greene and Gilchrist approached behind them, each already wearing their gear, their faces drawn tight.
“Detective Mattox?” a voice called, Reed slamming the trunk shut and stepping out from behind the car, his team assembled around him.
“Yes,” Reed said, walking forward and meeting the outstretched hand of a man dressed all in black, his thick hair just starting to transition to silver.
“Sergeant Andrew Baines, Marysville PD. We got a message from your captain alerting us to a possible hostage situation and stating we were to establish a perimeter and await your arrival.”
Reed nodded, looking past Baines to the house in question.
The home was two stories, painted light blue, with a solid white porch. Shrubs were evenly spaced in mulch beds along the front and a mailbox cover in the shape of a bass stood along the road.
“Either a hostage situation or a murder scene,” Reed replied, “depending on if we arrived in time. Has the perimeter been set?”
A grimace passed over Baines’s face as he registered what Reed had said, pausing a moment before nodding. “Yes. We have men positioned a block out in every direction.”
“Good,” Reed said, shifting himself to the side so he could see Baines and his team beside him.
He had had more than 20 minutes on the drive over to prepare how he wanted to handle things. Without having ever seen the location, or even having been to Marysville, it was impossible to form an exact plan, though he had spent enough time in the suburbs to know it would look something like the spread he was now staring at.
“What’s on the backside of the house?” Reed asked.
“A small concrete patio, some trees. That’s all,” Baines said.
“Any signs of movement so far?”
“Not since we arrived,” Baines replied.
Reed nodded, glancing over to the garage, a two car affair, both doors pulled down. A single light blazed in the living room window, though no shadows of any kind were visible.
“My guys and I will breach,” Reed said. “We can’t run the risk of alerting him and giving him time to dispatch Dawkins, so we’re going straight in. Investigator Glenn, Detective Billie, and I in the back, Officers Greene and Gilchrist in the front.
“The second we go, you guys move and secure everything. Good?”
“Good that,” Baines said, nodding. He turned and headed back to relay the plan to his team, disappearing without another word.
“Good?” Reed asked, sliding his gun from his hip and checking the slide before glancing up to Glenn, Greene, and Gilchrist grouped around him.
“Good that,” Glenn responded.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
There were two distinctive blasts separated by less than a second. The Kid heard them in quick succession, the sounds finding his ears, passing through the closed door of the basement, overcoming the panting gasps of his prey.
His heart rate spiked, drawing his attention toward the top of the stairs, his body going rigid as he turned and stared.
Somehow they had found him.
In his desire, his need, to keep pressing forward these last few days, he had failed to give proper due to his back trail. There had been little need to think he should though, his actions meticulously planned, not a single fiber or clue left in his wake.
“Help...help...” Dawkins gasped, his voice no more than a dying sputter. Each time he spoke he lifted his face a few inches and tried to yell, the effort taking every bit of remaining energy he had, the sound just barely passing his lips.
“Shut it, now,” The Kid hissed, pushing the words out between gritted teeth. He extended the blade toward Dawkins for effect, walking in a quick revolution of his victim, assessing his situation.
The very thing that had just minutes before been such a benefit to him was now an enormous hindrance. The requirement of complete silence, the need for privacy, now had him hemmed in. The only exits were through the door, where he knew at least two teams were waiting, or try and make it out through the tiny windows and up through the landscaping wells along the back of the house.
Located more than seven feet up off the ground, The Kid doubted he could even get up to them, let alone get his body through the narrow openings. In the slim chance he could, there were no doubt other officers surrounding the place, ready to pounce should he make a run for it.
He was foolish not to have brought his guns. In his desire to make Dawkins pay he had gone only with the knife, an energy that bordered on giddiness roiling through him as he had prepared and considered the pain he would soon inflict on the incompetent detective.
A moment passed as The Kid looked between the door and the windows, fear rising through his thorax, tasting like bile as it crawled up the back of his throat and gripped it tight. There it stayed, threatening to squeeze the air from him, before a new thought occurred, one he had not considered before, one that brought with it a feeling of deep rooted peace.
This entire thing was about Big.
The man had saved The Kid’s life. Every day he had lived since their first calamitous meeting was one more than he deserved, one he owed to Big anyway.
If sacrificing any future days he might have was what it took to make sure they both were finally at peace, so be it.
In the center of the room, Dawkins continued to moan, trying to call out, his voice sounding like the feeble squawks of an infant bird.
“Just stop,” The Kid said, no small amount of derision in his tone. “You’re embarrassing yourself. They’ll be down here soon enough.”
Moving forward, he jabbed the tip of his blade out at Dawkins, drawing the meaty part of his thigh, a triangle-shaped gouge opening in the skin. Pulling it back, The Kid prodded him once, twice, more, fresh blood running out over pale skin, following the path of his leg hairs and dripping from his knee cap.
As badly as every part of him wanted to end Dawkins right then, jam his knife into his stomach and twist, to stand in front of him and watch the light fade from his eyes, he had to refrain a little longer. He had but one card yet to play, and he needed to make sure everything was in place before doing so.
This was his final chance to bring everything full circle, to finally put an exclamation point on his actions the last few days.
To make Big proud.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
“Anthony Wittek! We know you’re down there!”
Reed had no real way of knowing that Wittek was there beyond the first few rungs of the shower curtain having been pulled free in the bathroom and the small smear of b
lood on the white porcelain tub. It was entirely possible that Dawkins had merely slipped and forgot to clean it up before stepping out, or even that he had injured himself and gone to seek treatment.
Possible, but not probable.
The more likely scenario was that Wittek had Dawkins in the basement, some hellish scene playing out behind the closed door on the side wall of the kitchen, a tiny crack of light peeking out at the bottom.
Behind him Glenn and both officers were grouped up tight, their weapons at the ready. Billie stood six inches from his knee, her fangs bared, the hairs on her back standing erect, giving her an extra two inches in height. A low growl started deep in her diaphragm and rolled out over her tongue, her face extended out in front of Reed, just a few inches from the door.
“Gilchrist, you jerk the door,” Reed said. “There’s no lock on it and it opens into the kitchen. Pull it wide, Billie will be the first one down. I’ll follow right behind her.
“Baines and his men have the outside secure, so no need for anybody to wait as chasers. You see me go down, the more the merrier.”
Greene and Glenn both grunted in response as Gilchrist moved to the side. If he had any qualms with being the one to pull the door and the last one down he didn’t show it, his entire face flushed with heat, sweat apparent on his brow.
For what was likely the craziest day of his young career, Reed couldn’t fault him at all for the way he’d handled himself.
“On three,” Reed said. He glanced down to Billie, at her poised stance, and said, “One...two...three! Clear!”
Gilchrist turned the handle and jerked the door back, the flimsy particle board implement swinging open fast and smashing into the counter behind it, the wood splintering.
The moment the door opened into a gaping maw, light pouring into the kitchen, Billie bounded straight down, Reed watching her clear the first four steps in a single stride before sprinting down after her.
The stairs, plain blonde wood left unpainted or untreated, creaked under his weight as he turned sideways and moved straight down, hearing Billie snarling at the bottom, a young man cursing at her. Somehow his pulse managed to grow even faster as he reached the halfway point of the staircase, the entirety of the room coming into view.
A simple concrete block space, it looked to be used as little more than storage, a deep freeze and a couple of metal shelving units the only structures to speak of. A few piles of boxes and assorted outdoor decorations sat at random intervals.
All of that Reed saw and dismissed in a millisecond, his focus on Dawkins painted red in his own blood, the floor beneath him awash in bodily fluids.
Behind him stood who he presumed to be Anthony Wittek, one hand wrapped around Dawkins’s torso, the other holding an oversized hunting knife. Every few seconds he swung it at Billie, her snarls continuing, her teeth gnashing as she danced backward and forward, always just beyond the reach of his weapon.
Red paw prints appeared beneath her feet as she went, moving closer and further away from Dawkins, dotting the bare concrete floor.
“Anthony Wittek! Put the knife down!” Reed said, feeling his stomach seize every time Billie moved in closer. “And step away from Detective Dawkins!”
Reed reached the bottom of the stairs and moved off to the right, creating space for the others behind him, the stairs continuing to moan as they reached the floor and fanned out. As a group they stood in a semi-circle around the bloody centerpiece, Billie trotting in front of them, her displeasure reverberating through the room.
“You call that damned dog off,” Wittek said, his eyes wide as he pointed the knife at Billie before drawing it up under Dawkins’s chin, “or I’ll kill him right now. You know damn well I will.”
“I know you will,” Reed said, “just like I know you killed Dennis Weston and Dan Gilmore, tried to kill Pete Iaconelli and Martin Bishop.”
“You kill him, and there’s no way you walk out of here alive,” Glenn said from the opposite end of the spread, Wittek rotating a quarter turn behind Dawkins, jerking his attention toward her.
“There are four guns aimed at you and a detective that is dying to tear your arms off the second we give her the go-ahead,” Glenn said.
“You put the knife down,” Reed said, “we put our guns away, and everybody walks out of here.”
“If not this gets real ugly, real fast,” Glenn said.
On the last statement Wittek attempted to rotate before stopping. He clamped his eyes shut tight and gritted his teeth, saliva streaking down out of the corner of his mouth. “Shut up! Just the hell up! If any of you people had cared this much when Big was killed, none of this would have happened!”
Inching a little further out to the right, working to get a better angle on Wittek, to at the very least force him to continue rotating between he and Glenn, Reed said, “Big, as in Marco Sanz.”
“Big as in my Big Brother!” Wittek screamed, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. “And don’t you dare say his name! Don’t you dare! He was nothing but an ex-con to you people, someone that wasn’t even worth investigating, so don’t act like you care now.”
“So that’s what this is all about?” Glenn asked. “Bringing to justice everybody that wronged your friend?”
“He was more than a friend!” Wittek yelled, his face a mix of sorrow and wrath. “And you people turned him. You used him, and when he got killed you turned your back on him!”
“If he was a big brother, I promise this is the last thing in the world he would want for you,” Reed said. “Think about where you are, what you’re doing. You really think Big would want you throwing your life away? Wasting it over something that was done to him a year ago?”
The look on Wittek’s face revealed pure malice, the corners of his nose rising into a snarl. “Wasting it? Wasting it?”
Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Reed allowed himself another two inches to the side. The bulk of Wittek’s body was still tucked behind Dawkins, careful to keep himself wrapped tight, ignoring the blood and water that soaked the front of his clothes.
The previous emotion, the tears, the inner conflict, all melted away as Wittek turned to look at each person in the group.
“I think he’d be proud. The only wastes I see here are you people.”
As a group, each person moved closer an inch, the shift in mood in the room palpable. They were down to their last few moments, the final shot they would have to stop Wittek before he took down Dawkins.
It was clear that the man had no intention of living. Even if he hadn’t originally planned on becoming a martyr, the only reason he had let Dawkins live as long as he had was so he could have their attention, using the stage to air his grievances.
A flicker of movement on Dawkins caught Reed’s eye, pulling his focus from Wittek to the man in front of him. For the first time since their arrival his face was open and clear, his attention on Reed. He held it a long moment before flicking his gaze straight up at the rope above him, his hands gripping it tightly, before shifting back down.
It took a moment for Reed to grasp what he was being told, to understand what Dawkins was trying to signal. Once it clicked into place, he nodded his head almost imperceptibly, no more than a fraction of an inch up and down.
Sound bled away as Wittek continued to talk, his face twisted up in hatred, spittle hanging from the end of his lip. In its place was the steady hammering of Reed’s heart, pulsating through his ear drums, bathing his entire body in sweat.
He would get one chance.
He had to make it count.
His head held straight ahead, Dawkins kept his eyes aimed on a diagonal, his focus on Reed. He blinked once, holding it for a pause at the bottom. A second time he did the same.
Reed shifted his weight just slightly, rocking forward onto the balls of his feet, as Dawkins lowered his eyelids one last time. As he did so he squeezed the rope tight, using it to swing his body out to the side, for just a moment leaving the entirety of Wittek e
xposed, the knife held in front of him, a look of bewilderment on his face.
It was all the time Reed needed.
The first round struck Wittek in the chest, pushing him back a full step, creating precious separation. The second hit him three inches to the side, the pair encasing his heart, bright red blood sluicing down the front of his shirt.
The knife fell from his hand as he stumbled back another step, Dawkins momentum swinging the opposite direction, blocking Wittek from view.
“Go, go, go!” Reed yelled, rushing forward on Wittek. From the opposite side Glenn met up with him, both converging on their target as Greene and Gilchrist went straight for Dawkins.
In front of them Wittek wobbled in place a moment, his face slack-jawed as he stared down at the wounds on his chest. Twice he worked his mouth up and down, trying to find the words, no sound escaping him as he fell backwards, his body propped against the concrete block wall behind him.
Using the toe of his shoe, Reed kicked the knife across the floor, watching as red bubbles formed on Wittek’s lips, his mouth still moving slightly, trying to say one last thing.
A handful of different retorts ran through Reed’s mind as he watched the life seep from Wittek, some involving Big, some involving the detectives at Mercy West, a few more including the people that had lost their lives in the preceding days.
In the end, he chose to remain silent, letting Billie’s barking be the final sound Wittek heard.
Chapter Fifty-Nine
The scene was much the same as it had been on Saturday.
By the time Reed finished up at the house and handed the scene over to the Marysville PD, Dawkins had already been transferred to Mercy West, taken via emergency squad, lights and sirens rolling the entire time it took them to load him up and disappear into the night. As the only trauma center on the west side of Columbus, it served as the hub for all major injuries in the area, running the full gamut from the gunshot wounds Iaconelli and Bishop sustained to the assorted injuries that Dawkins was suffering from.
The Kid: A Suspense Thriller (Reed & Billie Book 3) Page 25
