Victoria Cross: United Federation Attorney (Nick Walker, U.F. Marshal Book 9)

by John Bowers

  She began to inch across the floor to her right, in the direction of the doorway. She moved slowly, sliding her hands along the floor ahead of her to avoid slamming noisily into any workout equipment. She came to a press bench and crawled around it. Heart pounding, she continued to crawl, stopping every few seconds to listen. The hairs tingled on the back of her neck.

  She crawled past another press bench, then bumped into a set of barbells sitting on the floor. She crawled around that as well.

  The door was now maybe thirty feet away, and the floor leading to it was faintly lit. She saw nothing and no one between herself and the door.

  She stopped.

  Waiting.

  Listening.

  Her blood raced. Her breathing had quieted, but she was sucking oxygen like a fish on a riverbank.

  Twenty more feet. The door was just in front of her now.

  She licked her lips and calculated. If she ran out the door and it turned out the gym was empty, she was going to feel really, really stupid.

  But…

  Better stupid than dead.

  She made her decision. Her muscles tensed. She leapt to her feet and raced for the door, arms and legs pumping. She was six feet short of her goal when, suddenly, a bright light flared directly in her face, blinding her.

  She tried to stop her headlong rush, to turn, to backtrack—something.

  UNGH!!!

  What felt like a sledgehammer slammed into her left cheek and lifted her off her feet. The blow flung her backward, where she landed hard on her back and skidded a couple of feet. Gasping against the pain, she managed to roll facedown and placed her hands on the floor in an attempt to regain her feet.

  But pain thundered through her head, leaving her dizzy and barely able to breathe. She shook her head and managed to rise to her knees, but that was as far as she got. The bright light was approaching, slowly, in no hurry. The bastard had been hiding in the darkness beside the doorway…she had run right into him.

  The light approached to within four feet and stopped. The beam was aimed straight at her eyes, making it impossible to see who was there. Victoria squinted and held up one hand to block the glare, but still could see nothing.

  “Did you think I forgot about you?”

  She recognized the voice. Smelled the stale tobacco.

  It was him.

  Jerry Whistler.

  Fighting to keep her fear from morphing into terror, she tried to keep it out of her voice.

  “What the hell do you want?” she demanded. “Didn’t you learn anything the last time?”

  “Yeah, I learned that you need to be taught a lesson.”

  “What about your lesson? You had your chance, but you didn’t learn shit.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You aren’t cut out to be a criminal. You don’t have what it takes.”

  She still couldn’t see him, but heard his low chuckle.

  “You don’t think so? Well, I’m here to change your mind.”

  “Okay, it’s your funeral. I hear you’ve advanced from mugging to attempted murder.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “You must be one of those sick fucks that think women are weak. So instead of acting like a real man, you prey on them. Is that about right?”

  “No, not all women. Just women like you.”

  “Women like me? What kind of woman is that?”

  “You think you’re better than me. Don’t you?”

  “Of course I do. I work for a living, I don’t rob people.”

  “You’ve got a big mouth, lady. I think it’s time I closed it for you. Permanently.”

  Here it was. She had hoped to piss him off enough to make a mistake she could exploit, but he wasn’t going to stand still that long. The light didn’t waver, but she sensed movement.

  Snick!

  She couldn’t see the knife either, but knew it was there. She braced herself as the light moved a couple of feet closer. Now his right hand appeared in the glow and she saw the blade, poised to strike. Her mouth popped open and her eyes widened, but she still didn’t panic. Instead, she rolled backward off her knees so that her butt was on the floor and her legs were free. At the very moment he lunged, she drew both legs back and kicked upward with both feet. She caught him in the chest and flung him backward, where he skidded across the floor. Before he recovered his balance, her head still ringing, she hopped to her feet. Her equilibrium was shot, but she managed to keep her balance long enough to charge her assailant.

  He had dropped to one knee, but still held the knife. She could see him now in silhouette—he had lost the light, which rolled a few feet away and was pointing in another direction. He was about to push himself to his feet, but Victoria never gave him the chance. Fighting her vertigo, she leaped and kicked him in the head with both feet. He slammed backward onto the floor, and her body recoiled away from him. She landed on her butt and instantly leaped to her feet. He was down, but still moving.

  Now she had a decision to make—fight or flight—and only a split second to make it. The prudent thing would be to run, secure her escape, and call the police.

  But Star Marines didn’t run as long as they were still able to fight. She’d never been in combat, but the training was imbedded in her bones.

  She charged him again.

  The knife was still in his hand, but he was groggy and discomfited. She kicked him again, then stomped on his knife hand, which drew a cry of pain. He released the knife and she kicked it away. She leaped on him and drove her left knee into his stomach, which drove all the air out of him and left him gagging. With her left hand, she grabbed him by the hair and jerked his head off the floor, then drove her right fist into his face as hard as she could…four times. Blood spurted from his nose and he grunted with each blow.

  She leaned over and grabbed the light, an electric torch, then pointed it directly into his eyes, blinding him.

  “You stupid fuck!” she shouted. “Did I fail to mention that I’m a U.F. Attorney? A prosecutor? You just bought yourself a life sentence, and you’re lucky I don’t kill you!”

  Squinting against the light, he tried to sit up. His left hand reached for her face, but never got there. Victoria slammed the torch into the side of his head and he went limp.

  She sat there a moment, breathing hard, still gripping his hair and trying to control her fear. She didn’t move for thirty seconds, until she was sure he was going to be out for a few more minutes. Gradually she relaxed and sat back, still astraddle him, and breathed deeply until her pulse returned almost to normal.

  She stood up. Her pocket phone was tucked into the waistband of her gym shorts, and she pulled it free. She punched in a number.

  “Five-five-five, what is your emergency?”

  “This is Assistant U.F. Attorney Victoria Cross. I need the Lucaston PD.”

  “What is the nature of your emergency?”

  “I was just attacked by a wanted fugitive in the basement of my building. I need someone to come and get him.”

  “Are you all right, Ma’am?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I disabled the bastard, but he won’t stay out forever, and if he comes after me again, I’ll be forced to kill him.”

  She gave the operator her address.

  “All right, Miss Cross. Two units are on the way, should be there in under five minutes. Why don’t you stay on the line with me until they get there.”

  Victoria got to her feet and swung the torch around until she spotted the knife. She walked over and picked it up.

  “That sounds like a great idea. Thank you.”

  ***

  After her shower, Victoria Cross stood in front of the bathroom mirror and gazed at the rapidly darkening bruise that swelled on her left cheek. Whatever work she hoped to accomplish tonight wasn’t going to get done—she couldn’t concentrate on much of anything except the attack in the basement gym.

  She pressed a cold compress against the bruise and held it for
fifteen minutes, eyes closed, reflecting on what had just happened. She knew she was lucky to be alive, but if she was honest—all modesty aside—it was more than luck. What had saved her tonight had happened ten years ago at Camp Pendleton, SoCal, when she was a Star Marine boot. If it had been the toughest period of her life, it had been worth every aching muscle and every drop of sweat. Along with the men in her training platoon, she had mastered not only weapons, but also personal combat. She had learned how to exercise and keep in shape, and over the ten years since, had never wavered in her dedication to personal fitness.

  The Star Marines had not only taught her how to fight, but how to overcome her fear. Most people would probably have panicked in one way or another, resulting in great bodily injury or even death, but Star Marines were taught to turn that fear into outgoing violence. Every solarball fan understood that the best defense was a powerful offense, and that was a universal truth. She wished every woman could have her training, her understanding. Violent women were less likely to be assaulted, battered, beaten, raped, or murdered than helpless, terrified women. Men like Jerry Whistler actually got off on a woman’s fear, making them even more determined to prey. What they didn’t expect—and were unprepared to combat—were women who were willing and able to fight back and use lethal force if necessary.

  Her cheek was freezing. She removed the compress and washed her face in cool water, then dried it and went to make a pot of tea. She didn’t have much of an appetite, but forced down some cheese and crackers while the tea brewed. She poured herself a cup and retired to her living room to decompress. She sipped her tea and closed her eyes, feeling the aches in her body.

  She would never get to prosecute him, because Whistler would stand trial in Colonial Court, but she had effectively taken him off the street, probably for several decades. Whistler was already charged with robbing her the first time, and would now face additional charges that included two counts of attempted murder, one count of robbery, and probably a fourth-degree sexual assault charge for kissing one of his victims. She hoped the other victims were willing, as she was, to testify against him. If found guilty on all those charges, Whistler would be incarcerated for several decades. If he ever got out, he would probably be too old to be much of a threat to anyone else.

  She took another sip and heaved a sigh. She wondered if Nick would hear about this. So far she had avoided running into him, but eventually he would find out that she was in Lucaston…if he hadn’t already. Sooner or later they were bound to meet, and she could only guess which way that would go.

  She wished she were curled up at his side right now, his arm around her, comforting her. She would love to tell him all about it, and ask if she might have done something different, something better. He would hold her, kiss her, and eventually take her to bed. That would be the perfect ending to a night like tonight.

  But that was never going to happen. Instead, she could only wonder—if he knew…

  Would he be proud of her?

  Chapter 31

  Wednesday, February 17, 0444 (CC)

  75th Floor, Federation Building – Lucaston, Alpha Centauri 2

  Still shaken by the previous evening’s events, Victoria Cross sat at her desk Wednesday morning and stared at her computer. The whole left side of her face was one big bruise and it throbbed like hell, but she tried to ignore it. She had finished her case, had presented her evidence, and might or might not need to call rebuttal witnesses after the defense rested.

  After that, both sides would present closing arguments and it would be out of their hands. It would probably be over today. The jury might take a day or two to deliberate, but the evidence looked solid and she would be very surprised if they came back with an acquittal.

  Of course, the question still remained, the one that had upset Gabel yesterday—why had Frie kept the murder weapon? He seemed like an intelligent man, much too smart to leave such damning evidence lying around, in plain sight, under his bed.

  Her pocket phone rang.

  “Victoria Cross.”

  “Hi. It’s Doug Hitlin.”

  Victoria sat up straight.

  “What do you have?”

  “Sorry I didn’t get back to you yesterday, but hopefully you still have time to use this. I just sent it to your phone.”

  “Okay. Thanks, Doug. Can you stand by for the rest of the day? I may not need you, but if I do, I’ll probably need you in a hurry.”

  “Still need me to testify?”

  “Probably not, but if I do, it’ll be as a rebuttal witness.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  “Thank you.”

  She signed off and uploaded the transmitted data from her phone to her computer. Nearly breathless with anticipation, she scrolled through the information and felt her heart beat faster. Her hunch had been right. There was a problem here.

  But…it didn’t prove anything. Suspicious, yes. Exculpatory…not necessarily.

  She sat back and stared at her display for fully five minutes. She opened a different file and pulled up digitals of the physical evidence.

  The gun.

  The spent slugs.

  The shell casings.

  The fingerprint.

  That was really all she had. But it was powerful stuff, the stuff that sends men to their death. Men like Wallace Frie.

  She stared at each digital for long minutes, rotating the images for fresh insight. She looked at the fingerprints on the shells, darkly amplified by fingerprint powder. She rotated each shell casing for a better view, and then she saw it…

  Her breath caught in her throat. Why hadn’t she seen it before?

  Why had no one seen it?

  Maybe…

  Sometimes you looked at an image and expected to see something, so you saw it. That’s what had happened here. Not only had she seen what she expected to see, but what she expected to see had blinded her to what else was there.

  How could she have been so obtuse?

  This was big.

  Bigger than anything she had expected to find.

  She sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. She didn’t move until it was time to report to the courtroom.

  71st Floor, Federation Building – Lucaston, Alpha Centauri 2

  The courtroom was packed when court resumed, so packed that even the holo V reporters had trouble finding seats. Victoria sat next to Nancy Swift with Anderson Gabel to Nancy’s right. Brian Godney had other business this morning and was not in the courtroom. Gary Fraites had taken his customary seat in the gallery against the back wall.

  Judge van Wert looked trim and professional in spite of her bulky black robe, her auburn hair almost glowing in the overhead lights. She scanned the parties involved and determined that everyone was present.

  She glared at Victoria with suspicious eyes.

  “What happened to you, counselor?”

  Victoria fingered the bruise that covered the left side of her face.

  “I’m fine, your Honor. Just a little run-in with a wanted felon. Thank you for your concern.”

  Van Wert sniffed.

  “Bring in the jury.”

  The jury streamed in and took their seats, most of them looking interested, as if they anticipated the remaining testimony. Once they were seated, van Wert kicked off the session.

  “The defense will call its next witness.”

  Hayes Crawford called an independent ballistics expert to the stand. It took him ten minutes to establish the man’s credentials—the witness had been an armorer in the Federation Infantry and had worked for various law enforcement agencies—then he got to the testimony.

  Though his job was to aid the defense, Jay Chambers could not exclude the Sharps 9mm as the murder weapon. He did, however, attempt to create reasonable doubt. Crawford showed him the gun, shell casings, and spent bullets that Victoria had placed in evidence.

  “Mr. Chambers, did you examine this weapon and these bullets?”

  “Yes.”

 
“And you examined the shell casings?”

  “I did.”

  “And what did you conclude?”

  “I concluded that the bullets were probably fired by this gun.”

  “Probably?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Can you be more specific than that?”

  “No. They appear to match the rifling on the weapon, but it’s not a certainty.”

  “Mr. Chambers, the prosecution’s ballistics expert testified that the likelihood that these bullets and shell casings were fired by this weapon was ninety percent. Do you concur with that?”

  “No, not at all. I would say more like forty percent.”

  “And why do you think that?”

  “It’s an old weapon. Over time, the lands and grooves have worn down. The impressions on these bullets are inconclusive.”

  “You’re absolutely certain about that?”

  “One hundred percent certain.”

  “Thank you. No further questions.”

  Crawford sat down. Victoria took over.

  “Mr. Chambers, just so I’m clear, is it your testimony that the markings on the spent bullets are too faint to make a positive comparison?”

  “Yes, that’s what I’m saying.”

  “Does that tell you the weapon has been used a great deal?”

  “It seems likely, yes. It’s my understanding that the gun is nearly half a century old. Over time, with plenty of use, wearing takes place.”

  “I see. Tell me, Mr. Chambers, if these bullets had been fired by a new weapon, one purchased yesterday, for example, the markings would have been clearer?”

  “Yes, most certainly.”

  “And if the impressions were better defined, you could make a match with a higher degree of certainty?”

  “Yes.”

  Victoria’s eyes narrowed.

  “Have you conducted other ballistics tests where the markings on the bullet were as faint as they are in this one?”

  “Yes, but not very often.”

  “So it’s relatively rare?”

  “Yes. Most of the weapons involved are much newer, or perhaps haven’t been fired as much.”