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For Doug
Three messages.
The first to create shock and awe.
The second to deliver a terrifying blow—but only to the few who understood it.
The third was his favorite. It would be understood by everyone and bolder than they ever imagined.
chapter one
THE MESSENGER PULLED UP to the stoplight and scanned his surroundings. People streamed up and down the sidewalk, headed to jobs and meetings and classes under the colorless Philadelphia sky. The older ones wore dark overcoats and moved briskly down Market Street, with cell phones pressed to their ears. The younger ones were casual, dressed in jeans and bright-colored scarves and hats. They had backpacks slung over their shoulders and read texts from their friends as they walked.
He glanced at his watch. Eight minutes. He rolled his shoulders to ease the tension as he waited for the light. Three hours ago, he had woken up in a motel parking lot. He’d had a solid night’s sleep in the front of the van—which was probably odd, considering his cargo. But years ago, he’d learned how to sleep anywhere.
The car ahead of him rolled forward. A silver Accord, late-model, female driver. She hooked a right, and the man followed, keeping his moves cautious.
A utility crew occupied the left lane, squeezing traffic down to a single line as they tore up the asphalt. The construction was good and bad, he’d decided. Bad because it might throw off his timeline. Good because it added to the chaos and created another reason for him to go unnoticed.
The man surveyed the sidewalks, skimming his gaze over the now-familiar takeout restaurants and shops hawking Liberty Bell replicas to tourists. Another glance at his watch.
Six minutes.
He reached into his jacket to check his weapon, a sleek FN Five-seveN with a twenty-round magazine. The pistol was loaded with nineteen SS195 jacketed hollow-point bullets, one already in the chamber. He was good to go.
Five minutes.
The messenger circled the block again. His stomach growled as he passed a doughnut store for the third time. He scanned the faces along the street, forcing hunger and fear and all distractions out of his mind as he made what he hoped would be his final lap through campus.
The phone beeped from the cup holder. He glanced at the text.
Red coat. Coming from the trolley stop.
He spotted her. No hat today, and her blond hair hung loose around her shoulders. Tall black boots. Tight jeans. Short red jacket with a belt at the waist.
He checked his watch. Once again, she was right on time.
Easing the minivan to the curb beside a fire hydrant, he watched her. She hurried toward her destination, gripping the strap of her backpack with a gloved hand. The other hand held a cigarette, and she lifted it to her lips for one last drag as she neared the building.
The cigarette disappointed him. She’d probably taste like an ashtray, nothing at all like his fantasies. He looked her over for another moment before sliding from the vehicle.
The sound of jackhammers hit him, along with the familiar smell of busted-up concrete. He glanced up and down the block and noted the cop on foot patrol talking to one of the utility workers. Both guys were fat and complacent. Too many doughnuts. The cop would hoof it over here in a few minutes, but by then, it would be too late.
The messenger hit the sidewalk, keeping the brim of his cap low as he watched the woman.
Eye contact. Just an instant, but it sent a sweet jolt of adrenaline through him.
One minute.
He looked straight ahead as they passed each other. This was it. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two bits of orange foam, which he pressed into his ears. He hung a right and saw the Ford parked in the designated place.
Ten seconds.
He pulled out his second phone. Took a deep breath as he flipped it open.
Message One: You reap what you sow. He hit send and braced for the concussion. For a moment, nothing.
And then the earth moved.
♦
Andrea Finch had never been dumped at a barbecue joint, but there was a first time for everything.
Her date looked out of place at the scarred wooden booth in his charcoal-gray suit. He’d come straight from work, as she had. He’d ditched the tie but still seemed overly formal in a restaurant that had paper-towel rolls on every table and classic country drifting from the jukebox.
“So.” Nick Mays took a swig of beer. “How was your day?”
Andrea smiled. He sounded like a tired husband, and they’d only been dating a month.
“Fine,” she said. “Yours?”
“Fine.”
For the dozenth time since she’d sat down, his gaze darted over her shoulder. When his blue eyes met hers again, she felt a twinge of regret. He really was a nice-looking man. Good eyes, thick hair. A bit of a beer gut, but she didn’t mind, really. His main problem was his oversize ego. Andrea was used to men with big egos. She’d been surrounded by them since she’d entered the police academy, and they’d only multiplied once she earned her detective’s badge.
“Listen, Andrea.” He glanced over her shoulder again, and she braced for the speech. “These last few weeks, they’ve really been great.”
He was a terrible liar, which was too bad. As an assistant district attorney, he was going to need the skill if he planned to run for his boss’s job someday.
He opened his mouth to continue just as a waitress stepped up and beamed a smile at him.
“Y’all ready to order?”
Nick looked pained. But to his credit, he nodded in Andrea’s direction. “Andie?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
He glanced at the waitress. “Me, too.”
“So . . . y’all won’t be having dinner with us?” Her overly made-up eyes shifted to Andrea. She tucked a lock of blond hair behind her ear and looked impatient.
“Just the drinks for now.” Nick gave her one of his smiles, which seemed to lessen her annoyance as she hustled off. The smile faded as he turned back to Andrea. “So I was saying. These past few weeks. It’s been a good time, Andie. You’re an interesting girl.”
She gritted her teeth. If he insisted on using frat-boy speak, she was going to make this way harder for him. She folded her arms over her chest and cast her gaze around the restaurant, letting his comment dangle awkwardly.
The cowbell on the door rattled as a family of four filed outside. Tonight’s crowd was thin, even for a Monday. Maybe the weather was keeping people away. Austin was set to get sleet tonight, and her lieutenant had called in extra officers, expecting the roads to be a mess.
“Andrea?”
She looked at him.
“I said, wouldn’t you agree with that?”
The cowbell rattled again as a skinny young man stepped through the entrance. He wore a black trench coat and clunky boots. His too-big ears reminded Andrea of her brother.
She looked at Nick. “Agree with what?”
His mouth tightened. “I said it seems like neither of us is looking for something serious right now. So maybe we should cool things down a little.”
She glanced across the room as the kid walked toward the double doors leading to the kitchen. She studied the line of his coat, frowning.
“Andrea.”
“What?” Her attention snapped to Nick.
“Christ, you’re not even listening. Have you heard a word I said?”
She glanced at the kitchen, where the clatter of pots and pans had suddenly gone silent. The back of her neck tingled. She slid from the booth.
“Andie?”
“Just a sec.”
She strode across the restaurant, her stare fixed on the double doors. Her heart thudded inexplicably while her mind cataloged info: six-one, one-fifty, blond, blue. She pictured his flushed cheeks and his lanky body in that big coat.
A waiter whisked past her and pushed through the doors to the kitchen. Andrea followed, stumbling into him when he halted in his tracks.
Three people stood motionless against a counter. Their eyes were round with shock, and their mouths hung open.
The kid in the overcoat stood a few yards away, pointing a pistol at them.
His gaze jumped to Andrea and the waiter. “You! Over there!” He jerked his head at the petrified trio.
The waiter made a strangled sound and scuttled out the door they’d just come through.
Andrea didn’t move. Her chest tightened as she took in the scene: two waitresses and a cook, all cowering against a counter. Possibly more people in back. The kid was brandishing a Glock 17. It was pointed straight at the woman in the center, Andrea’s waitress. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen, and the gunman looked almost as young. Andrea noted his skinny neck, his freckles. His cheeks were pink—not from cold, as she’d first thought, but emotion.
The look he sent the waitress was like a plea.
“You did this, Haley!”
The woman’s eyes widened. Her lips moved, but no words came out.
“This is your fault.”
Andrea eased her hand beneath her blazer. The kid’s arm swung toward her. “You! Get with them!”
She went still.
“Dillon, what are you—”
“Shut up!” The gun swung back toward the waitress. Haley. The trio was just a few short yards away from the gun. Even with no skill whatsoever, anything he fired at that distance would likely be lethal. And who knew how many bullets he had in that thing?
Andrea’s heart drummed inside her chest. The smoky smell of barbecue filled the air. The kitchen was warm and steamy, and the walls seemed to be closing in on her as she focused on the gunman.
His back was to a wall lined with coat hooks. She counted four jackets and two ball caps, probably all belonging to the staff. Was anyone else hiding in the back? Had someone called for help?
“You did this!” the gunman shouted, and Haley flinched.
Andrea licked her lips. For only the second time in her career, she eased her gun from its holster and prepared to aim it at a person. The weight in her hand felt familiar, almost comforting. But her mouth went dry as her finger slid around the trigger.
Defuse.
She thought of everything she’d ever learned about hostage negotiations. She thought of the waiter who’d fled. She thought of Nick. Help had to be on the way by now. But the closest SWAT team was twenty minutes out, and she knew, with sickening certainty, that whatever happened here was going to be over in a matter of moments.
“I trusted you, Haley.” His voice broke on the last word, and Haley cringed back. “I trusted you, but you’re a lying bitch!”
“Dillon, please—”
“Shut up! Just shut up, okay?”
Ambivalence. She heard it in his voice. She could get control of this.
Andrea raised her weapon. “Dillon, look at me.”
To her relief, his gaze veered in her direction. He was crying now, tears streaming down his freckled cheeks, and again he reminded her of her brother. Andrea’s stomach clenched as she lined up her sights on his center body mass.
Establish a command presence.
“Put the gun down, Dillon. Let’s talk this through.”
He swung his arm ninety degrees, and Andrea was staring down the barrel of the Glock. All sound disappeared. Her entire world seemed to be sucked by gravity toward that little black hole.
She lifted her gaze to the gunman’s face. Dillon. His name was Dillon. And he was eighteen, tops.
Her heart beat crazily. Her mouth felt dry. Hundreds of times she’d trained to confront an armed assailant. It should have been a no-brainer, pure muscle memory. But she felt paralyzed. Every instinct was screaming for her to find another way.
Dillon’s attention slid to Haley, who seemed to be melting into the Formica counter. The others had inched away from her—a survival instinct that was going to be of little help if this kid let loose with a hail of bullets.
Loud, repetitive commands.
“Dillon, look at me.” She tried to make her voice firm, but even she could hear the desperation in it. “Put the gun down, Dillon. We’ll talk through this.”
His eyes met hers again. He rubbed his nose on the shoulder of his coat. Tears and snot glistened on his face.
“I’ll kill you, too,” he said softly. “Don’t think I won’t.”
“I believe you. But wouldn’t it be easier just to talk?” She paused. “Put the gun down, Dillon.”
She could see his arm shaking, and—to her dismay—hers began to shake, too. As if she didn’t know how to hold her own weapon. As if she didn’t work out three times a week to maintain upper-body strength.
As if she didn’t have it in her to shoot a frightened kid.
He was disintegrating before her eyes. She could see it. His Adam’s apple moved up and down as he swallowed hard.
“You can’t stop me.” His voice was a thread now, almost a whisper. He shifted his stance back toward Haley, and the stark look on her face told Andrea she’d read his body language.
“I’ll do it.”
Andrea’s pulse roared in her ears. The edges of her vision blurred. All she saw was that white hand clutching that big black gun. The muscles in his hand shifted as his index finger curled.
“I’ll do it. You can’t stop me.”
Andrea squinted her eye.
Lord, forgive me.
She pulled the trigger.
chapter two
ANDREA WOKE WITH A KNOT in her chest. She rolled onto the cool edge of the pillow and tried to hold on to the soft, dreamy feeling that she could slide out of bed and step into her routine. But even her sleep-drugged brain knew it was a lie.
She opened her eyes. The hum of traffic outside was inescapable. Beams of sunlight seeped through the gaps in the blinds, hinting at a bright, agonizingly blue morning that was already well under way.
As she sat up in bed, her gaze landed on the running shoes that had been taunting her for days now. She went into the bathroom and avoided her reflection in the mirror as she brushed her teeth. Then she padded into the kitchen and reached for the coffeepot.
Day three on leave. Just the prospect made her stomach fill with acid. She couldn’t stand another stint in her apartment, but the thought of going outside was worse. As the coffee hissed and gurgled, she glanced around her tiny living room and made a list of all the chores she needed to do—laundry, cleaning, grocery store, bills. It was the same list as yesterday, only longer, and she felt a surge of disgust with herself.
She stalked into the bedroom and wrestled into her sports bra, then jammed her feet into sneakers. Back in the kitchen, she poured a mug of coffee, not bothering with cream, which she probably didn’t have anyway. A few quick gulps. Pulling her tangle of dark hair into a ponytail, she grabbed a baseball cap and was almost out the door when her cell phone chimed.
Andrea eyed her purse. She dug the phone out and wasn’t surprised at the number on the screen.
“Hi.”
“Hi yourself,” Nathan Devereaux said. “Where have you been?”
“Oh, you know. Lounging by the pool. Working on my tan.”
Silence. He didn’t like the sarcasm. Then he said, “Have you seen the news today?”
“No. Why?” Against her better judgment, she grabbed the remote from the coffee table and switched on the television.
“Forget it. Anyway, where are you? I thou
ght you’d be in by now.”
Andrea flipped channels until she landed on a news broadcast. But they were done with local stories, and a photo of the senator’s daughter who had died in that university bombing filled the screen. Andrea studied the picture, which had been plastered all over the news for days now. Julia Kirby. She was beautiful.
And just eighteen years old.
The camera cut to a view of the smoldering building. First responders raced about, ferrying the wounded to ambulances and triage tents. Dust-covered civilians staggered down the sidewalk with wide, shocked eyes, some with shrapnel wounds and ears bleeding from the blast.
“Andrea? Are you coming in?”
“Why?”
“You’ve got an appointment with the shrink, I thought.”
“I rescheduled.”
More silence.
“Something came up.” She switched off the TV and grabbed her sunglasses from the counter. Lot of good they would do her if some reporter was camped out in her parking lot.
“Andie—”
“I’ll be in tomorrow. Eight o’clock sharp. Listen, I’ve got to go, okay? Call you later.”
She stuffed the phone back into her purse and knew it wouldn’t ring again. Nathan wasn’t like that. He wouldn’t call incessantly, but he would track her down some other way. He’d probably come pounding on her door late tonight when he knew she’d be home. And he’d probably refuse to leave until she let him in and at least went through the pretense of answering his questions. He was her assigned “sponsor”—whatever that meant—and it was his job to ask.
Nathan had been her mentor when she first joined Austin PD’s homicide unit. They’d been through ups and downs together and many hellacious cases but nothing that came close to this. This was out of her realm of experience, and she didn’t know how to talk to him about it.
Which was what shrinks were for.
Another chime emanated from her purse. She jerked the phone out but didn’t recognize the area code.
“Hello?”
“Hey, it’s me.”
Far Gone Page 1
