The Scarlett Bell FBI Series

by Dan Padavona

  Gardy released his breath.

  Hot wires ran through Bell’s nerves as she gazed across the back seat and checked the floor. Everything appeared in order except for the wadded fast food bag behind the driver seat. She moved around the garage and scrutinized the backyards, picturing how it looked after sunset last night. Trees provided plenty of cover, and the only obstacle between the garage and the thoroughfare was a small chain-link fence in the distance. The shooter had slipped around the roadblocks, and nobody noticed.

  “Okay, we've got a match.”

  Ames pocketed her phone and read the name on her notepad.

  “The MKS belongs to one William Meeks, white male, age thirty-two, of Milanville, California.”

  Gardy was already on the phone with Quantico.

  Afterward, he joined Bell behind the garage.

  “Quantico is running the background check. In the meantime, we've got an APB out on Meeks, and the department sent his picture to the television stations. We'll find this guy before nightfall.”

  Bell hoped Gardy was right. Because Meeks intended to strike tonight.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Dana Steinman, Dean of Vida College, stood on the sideline and looked at the sea of blue and green in the stands. The wind pushed at her back and blew Steinman’s skirt around as her heart crawled into her throat. She was used to speaking in front of crowds, well-schooled in the art of persuading donors to open their checkbooks. But ten thousand people screaming at the tops of their lungs was a new level of pressure, and she felt lightheaded as the public address announcer ran through the starting lineups.

  He was almost finished, and that meant she would soon walk to the center of the pitch and deliver a speech she never imagined giving. Many of the students held signs in support of Eugene Buettner, and a long banner deriding gun violence stretched along the front rail. She prayed Kyle Hostetler and the White Wall weren’t in attendance.

  When she heard her name over the loudspeaker, Steinman focused on the center circle where the team captains and the senior class president, Charla Prescott, awaited the dean’s arrival. Steinman’s feet moved through quicksand, the long walk agonizingly slow. A smattering of cheers and boos followed at her heels. It shook her that many students blamed her for the violence, no matter how unfair the judgment.

  Her hand trembled when Prescott, who sang the Star-Spangled Banner before the player announcements, gave her the microphone. Steinman cleared her throat after a squelch of feedback.

  “We are here this afternoon to remember a student who believed in the power of peace and lived by that credo every day…”

  The phone buzzed in her pocket, providing a momentary distraction. She paused until the memorized speech returned to her.

  “I was one of many fortunate enough to know Eugene Buettner. Over the last four years, I worked closely with this young man, who believed our university could do better.”

  The phone buzzed again, and this time a murmur of disquiet rumbled through the stands. The clamor grew louder as she fought to get back on point.

  “Please, if you will allow me to continue.”

  Charla Prescott leaned close and whispered into her ear.

  “Check your phone, Dean Steinman. There’s an alert about the shooter.”

  Her blood froze. Was the killer on campus?

  She turned off the microphone and fished the phone from her pocket as the crowd grew deafening. Some students headed for the exits as the announcer urged the fans to stay calm and quiet their voices. The Vida College alert application displayed a photograph of a haggard-looking male with stringy hair and an emaciated face. His skull showed through a thin layer of flesh. William Meeks. This was the man who murdered Eugene Buettner?

  The wind built, shoving her out of the circle as the team captains walked back to their respective benches. A lone cloud drifted over the sun and drew shadows along the field.

  “What are you going to do?”

  Steinman whirled on Prescott, the girl’s eyes nervous and overwhelmed.

  “I have to get everybody under control.”

  That was when the kill Meeks chants began.

  ***

  Gardy and Bell went door-to-door on Linsdale after Ames returned to the station to coordinate the search for Meeks. Betsy Abernethy, a dark-haired, heavyset woman claimed the shooter crossed her backyard, though the husband argued otherwise. Abernethy mentioned someone stole a hockey bag from a neighboring yard, and Bell considered the possibility Meeks used the bag to hide the M82.

  They descended Abernethy’s front stoop when Gardy’s phone rang. He plugged his opposite ear with his hand and nodded, then snapped his finger and motioned for Bell to give him her notepad. He jotted the information down and thanked the caller.

  “That was Ames,” Gardy said, picking up his pace as he hurried down the street toward the Outback. “A Vida College student ID’d Meeks. Says he picked Meeks up and dropped him off at a hotel called the Blue Sea Shell.”

  “Why do I know that name?”

  “You must have seen it the first day. The hotel is right across the street from the university. The department is on the phone with campus security now. But there’s something else. Our good buddy, Kyle Hostetler, called the police after recognizing Meeks’ picture. Says Meeks approached the White Wall last year about an M82. But Hostetler swears the White Wall doesn’t deal guns.”

  Gardy looked at Bell from the tops of his eyes, accentuating his doubt.

  When they reached the car, Bell circled to the driver side.

  “Toss me the keys.”

  “You sure you don’t want me to drive?”

  “With you, we get there safely. With me, we get there fast.”

  Gardy threw her the keys.

  “Fast it is.”

  ***

  The coaches conferred with the referees on the opposite side of the field as Dean Steinman chewed her nails in the press box. Confusion ruled the stadium. Fans talked animatedly as the players from both teams milled along the sidelines and broke off into disparate groups.

  Steinman’s phone rang at the same time as the press booth’s. She jumped, startled by the sudden noise.

  “Yes?”

  “Dana, this is Grant Foltz.”

  Foltz was the senior officer for Vida College’s campus security. If he was calling her now, the news couldn’t be good.

  “We’re evacuating the stadium, but we don’t want to cause a panic.”

  “Evacuating? Is the shooter here?”

  Foltz’s answer cut off when the gunshot exploded out of the forest. Mayhem ruled the stadium, people screaming and shoving each other as they fought toward the aisles. In front of the press box, a circle of students struggled to flee from a woman slumped over a bleacher. Blood drizzled out of her chest and pooled on the next row.

  Steinman shouted to Foltz as another shot boomed across the pitch. The press box window shattered. She fumbled the phone and dropped to the floor. She cried out when someone stepped on her leg, the press box thrown into a frenzy. People pounded on the glass and begged for entry. More crowded into the doorway, an old man in a baseball cap red-faced as the throng squeezed him against the frame.

  She was certain she’d die here, crushed under the panic if the shooter didn’t get her first.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  Bell and Gardy exited the Outback in front of the athletics complex and ran toward the screams. Rifle fire reverberated off the buildings and came from all directions.

  Gardy had been on the phone with campus security when an officer named Spacey reported gunshots at the soccer stadium. Now the agents sprinted toward the stadium as a horde of terrified people, some covered with blood, ran in the opposite direction. Bell battled against the flow, squeezing through the panicked masses as she pushed toward the entry gates.

  Another explosion brought more screams.

  A wide-eyed male with a gash down his forehead grabbed Bell when she ran past.

  “He
’s killing everyone!”

  The student spun away, and the flow of runners dragged him down the walkway.

  They reached the stadium when Bell stopped at the fence. In the stands, a woman pointed at the forest butting up against the far side of the soccer field.

  A gunshot blasted out of the trees and pierced the metal bleachers.

  “There,” Bell said and pointed at the forest.

  Gardy squinted and brought binoculars to his eyes. He scanned for a moment, then nodded.

  “I see him.”

  The bipod was lodged between a large rock and a tree, the M82 poised like a black snake. Meeks’ arms moved along the rifle. He was well entrenched, shielded by trees and a slight rise in the terrain.

  Gardy radioed the shooter’s position to law enforcement. Sirens grew in number as the police closed in on the campus.

  Yet Bell didn’t know how the officers would reach Meeks before he killed more people. No roads existed in the shooter’s direction, and the forest dropped toward a creek and opened to a long stretch of wilderness, an escape route Meeks could follow all the way to the mountains.

  A thumping sound brought Bell’s head up as a helicopter passed over the complex and circled toward the forest.

  The soccer players attempted to escape the shooter through the stands. They climbed over civilians and added to the riot. A shot boomed, and one of the Vida College players screamed and clutched the back of his leg. Blood spilled between his fingers.

  Bell leaped the fence with Gardy on her heels. They crossed the pitch, weaving between a confusion of coaches, players, and fans who’d tumbled out of the stands. With any luck, the killer’s eye was in the scope and too focused on the crowd to notice them coming. Gardy yelled into the radio as he ran. Two police cruisers and a campus security truck screeched to a halt in front of the stadium.

  Bell’s heart caught in her throat. She couldn’t see the shooter anymore. The space between the tree and rock was empty, the dark of the forest thickening as the sun dropped behind the mountains.

  She caught Gardy’s eye before the agent broke through the tree line.

  The chaos happened fast.

  The gunshot spun Gardy around. Blood splashed off his shoulder as the agent hit the ground.

  Bell had the radio in her hands. She yelled, “Man down!” and dropped to Gardy’s side. He gritted his teeth and clutched the shoulder as red welled on the forest floor. She searched the hill for the shooter, who was at a disadvantage as he descended the terrain. But he was nowhere. A ghost.

  Bell covered Gardy and lay flat. His eyes were closed to slits, forehead beaded with sweat.

  “You’re all right. Help is on the way.”

  “He’s above the bend in the creek.”

  Bell raised her head and searched the creek. She saw him. Along the water, headed for the next stand of trees.

  As if he sensed her glare, Meeks spun and lifted the M82. He fired up the hill and blew a chunk of bark off a nearby tree.

  A warning shot meant to drive her back? No, she didn’t think so. Meeks fired an accurate shot when the M82 rested on a bipod. She doubted he could shoot on the run, not from that distance.

  “Drop the weapon!”

  Meeks backtracked and fired. The bullet buzzed past her ear and raised the hairs on her head.

  Gardy tried to roll over.

  “Lay still.”

  He struggled again and she cursed him.

  “Dammit, Gardy. Don’t move.”

  Footsteps approached from behind. She whistled through her fingers and motioned Chief Harrington and several officers along the tree line. Unless Meeks made a run for it, the officers would hem the shooter in and force him into the clearing.

  Another thunderous gun blast deafened Bell. She ducked and covered her head. Gardy’s chest swelled and contracted beneath her. She worried where the bullet had clipped him and if it was lodged in his shoulder.

  Swiveling onto her side, Bell removed her jacket and pressed the cloth lining onto the wound. He winced again and hurled an expletive into her ear.

  Bell cautiously raised her head and immediately ducked down when Meeks fired the rifle. The bullet whistled into the hillside and erupted a chunk of earth a few feet away.

  Too close.

  A hundred yards to her right, the officers fanned out and entered the forest. The helicopter whirled above the creek and veered when Meeks’ next shot blurred past the window. She remembered what Gardy said about the weapon, capable of taking down small aircraft.

  The helicopter swooped down, and Meeks blew a hole in the tail boom. The aircraft wavered for a moment and then turned erratically toward the hilltop. Toward Bell and Gardy.

  Christ, it was going to crash on top of them.

  Grabbing Gardy by his uninjured arm, she pulled him up. Meeks noticed and fired past their heads.

  “Up the hill!” she yelled over the helicopter.

  It descended faster as the blades whipped leaves and blew dirt into her eyes.

  Gardy fought up to his knees, his face pallid, eyes sunken. She had him under his arm now, dragging him along as the helicopter roared at the backs of their necks.

  He found his footing and broke out of the forest a second before the landing skids clipped the treetops above their heads. The helicopter bucked and twirled in a circle. The few players still on the soccer pitch fled while the aircraft spun earthward.

  It landed with a crunch of metal. Bell saw the pilot lurch forward and spring back when the skids struck the turf. Black smoke poured from the engine as the pilot and another officer climbed out of the helicopter and ran for cover.

  Out of breath, Bell lowered Gardy to the ground as Detective Ames raced over to them.

  “He’s been shot. In the shoulder.”

  Ames nodded and spoke into her radio, impossible to hear over the clamor.

  Gunfire erupted from the forest. Bell held on to a glimmer of hope—the police might flush Meeks away from the creek and force him up the hillside. Toward her.

  She raised her gun and pushed through the first line of trees, the hillside cloaked in darkness as her eyes struggled to adjust.

  She saw him. A hundred feet away and closing fast. The M82 pointed at her skull.

  The rifle fired, but Meeks’ aim was poor on the run. The bullet buried into a tree.

  Bell ripped off three shots. The first missed wide. The second blew through the killer’s chest and stopped him in his tracks. The third punctured his forehead and dropped Meeks.

  The leaf-strewn hillside was treacherously steep. Bell’s feet slipped out from under her, and then she flew down the hill and slammed her back against the ground. The hill pulled her down and down, the darkening sky flickering behind the trees.

  Then the hill ended, and her head struck the bottom.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Bell could hear Gardy arguing with the nurse before she reached his hospital room. She opted not to go inside yet and waited on a plastic chair outside his door. It was more fun this way, listening to Gardy bleat over the size of the needle before the nurse jabbed it home.

  “You might feel a small prick,” the nurse said.

  This was followed by a sharp yelp that would have been appropriate had the nurse skewered Gardy with a sword. A minute later, the nurse, a rotund woman wearing a scowl which suggested she’d administered one too many shots to prima donna cops over the years, exited with a huff and shook her head. She noticed Bell on the chair.

  “Is he really an FBI agent?”

  “He is. One of the best.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  When Bell knocked on the door, Gardy was rubbing the hurt off his uninjured shoulder. The bullet had grazed the other shoulder and excavated a chunk of flesh, but stitches and rest would have him back to full strength soon.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  Bell plopped down in the bedside chair and tried to erase her grin.

  “I’m happy to see your energy is bac
k,” she said. “You’re rather feisty today.”

  Except for the strong chest accentuated by the open gown, Gardy looked like a six-year-old boy who didn’t want to go to the dentist. Gardy caught her looking and pulled the gown shut. He groaned.

  “I was fine until Nurse Ratched lanced me with a scimitar.”

  She started to laugh, then grimaced and reached for the back of her neck.

  “You okay, Bell? Maybe it would be a good idea if you had your own room.”

  “I’m all right. It’s a deep bruise, not whiplash.”

  Gardy strained to sit up.

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “He gave me the usual advice. Plenty of fluids and lots of rest. Don’t head-butt any bad guys for a few weeks.”

  “Smart doctor.”

  They fell silent for a spell. Outside the door, the Milanville hospital slumbered with inactivity. A phone rang, a monitor beeped, and two orderlies gossiped in the hall.

  The quiet became uncomfortable, and Bell saw Gardy’s mind wander down the same dark halls as hers. He’d nearly died. A foot to the right and Meeks’ shot would have torn through Gardy’s heart.

  He cleared his throat, and she glanced up.

  “You missed Harrington,” said Gardy. “He was here an hour ago.”

  “Oh?”

  “Looks like Ames was onto something about the White Wall after all.”

  “Hostetler sold Meeks the weapon?”

  “Maybe not Hostetler himself, but somebody in the White Wall. Ames hasn’t traced the weapon back to them yet, but she will.” He frowned. “This William Meeks thing bothers me. Your profile nailed him, but I don’t know what good we’re doing.”

  “We stopped him.”

  “Yeah, after he murdered three people and killed another two at the stadium.”

  Two dead was two too many, yet Bell couldn’t believe Meeks hadn’t killed more. They were fortunate only two murders and a few dozen injuries occurred at the soccer match.

  “Here’s the part that bothers me, and Harrington stressed this too.” Gardy stared at the wall. He seemed to look toward an uncertain, frightening future. “There was no warning Meeks would snap. Sure, his business fell apart when the loan officer turned him down, but that’s life for a lot of us. Are we to accept that was his trigger? These data points keep the academics employed and reinforce theories. What about practical application? Do we track everyone who grew up in a dysfunctional household and put them under constant surveillance as soon as they experience disappointment?”