Anthony stood in one of the aisles between washing machines, and framed the picture. “Can you see this? What a great place for a scene, maybe a shootout.”
Laura was standing next to an old washing machine. All the machines’ lids were open, and this one, a Maytag, was decorated with a spider’s web. A black widow was suspended inside.
She was aware of the hot May sun beating down on her head. Her hair felt like a damp, warm washcloth.
The Owen kid, still with his phone to his ear, waved to them before ducking in to the metal shed. Called out: “Just a sec, okay?”
“Jesus, it’s hot,” Anthony said. “But damn, wouldn’t this make for a great location for a shoot-ou—”
He spun around, gasped, shock on his face. Blood blossomed on his chest. The sound of a rifle shot sounded a split second after. By then he was already heading for the ground. Laura shoved him down behind the washing machine.
“Are you okay?” She wished they were in the row with the refrigerators—they were heavier, denser, and taller.
“Are you okay?”
He nodded. Joked, “Just a flesh wound.”
It looked as if the bullet had gone through and through his upper shoulder—lucky. Laura pulled off her shirt and held it against his wound. “Just sit here and hold that hard, okay?”
For once, he didn’t argue. He looked like he was going into shock.
Laura hit 911 and gave the dispatcher their location, then glanced around to see if there was something she could cover Anthony with. But she knew the shot was through-and-through, was pretty sure he would not die from it, and she needed to get away from him—as far as possible, lead Owen away. Then she could shoot back at the shed.
“You stay here. Don’t move. Just hold that,” Laura said. “Hard. Don’t let up.”
She knew that Owen would expect her to crawl down along the line of washing machines. In fact, he was shooting now. He shot on one side of the washing machine where Anthony was and then on the other.
Stay close to the ground and crawl. And crawl fast.
She did exactly that. Only she looked both ways—at both ends of the aisle, before crossing to the row behind her. The row farther away from the metal shed.
She felt something zip by her ear.
Then heard the shot.
Large caliber.
Her mind was a mass of questions and underlying it all was the fear, like a sulfur-water taste in her mouth. Tingling in her stomach, tingling in her face, as if she’d been slapped.
He knew she was retreating.
He could come around any time and shoot her. She was out in the open.
And so was Anthony.
The row she was currently crawling to had refrigerators. Some of them taller than others. She wasn’t hearing any sirens yet.
A bullet ricocheted off one of the washers and hit the ground near her knee.
Time to go!
She sprinted the six or seven yards back to Anthony, and grabbed him. “Can you crawl?”
He nodded.
She pointed her chin toward the larger refrigerator across the aisle. “We’re going to that tall white one, okay? We have to sprint and stay low. Okay?”
He nodded again. Took two deep breaths.
“Go!”
They duckwalked as fast as they could—the guy shooting blind. A bullet whined past them, banged in to metal. Time was off, sound was slower than the speed of the bullets.
She shoved her partner between refrigerators, into the next row. Most of them, she saw with dismay, weren’t spacious enough to hide inside. Anthony was wilting—there was no way they could make it out of here if she couldn’t go after Jeff Owen on her own.
But one looked like it would fit the bill. She grabbed the handle and pulled the door open, feeling the hard suction of the rubber. There were two racks inside. She pulled them out as quietly as she could, and hid them inside the next refrigerator in line. The heat was unbearable, probably ninety degrees. She looked at Anthony. “Do you think you could hide in there?”
He was in terrific pain. She could see the shine in his eyes. He nodded. He was game.
As with all refrigerators, this one had a tight-fitting gasket. But it was also a later model—seventies, she thought—so it was bigger and had an inside safety latch. Her partner wasn't likely to suffocate. She checked the latch. It worked.
She grabbed her keys, the pocket knife, and worked hard to tear up the rubber seal, getting as much off as possible.
Shoved the torn rubber in a pocket, made sure it wasn’t on the ground. Then she held the door open as he folded himself inside, his SIG in hand.
“If he opens this door,” Anthony said, “I’ll be ready.”
Laura nodded. She used her knife to scratch a long line down the front, then pelted across the aisle
She ran into another row, took two shots in rapid succession at the outbuilding as it came into view.
Now she could see the metal building. And she could see him. He had a sniper rifle propped up on an old freezer. When he spotted her she could see him prepare to shoot, and she hit the ground flat—behind a refrigerator.
He had her pinned down.
Heard the shot ricochet off metal.
It was all about survival, now. Just stay alive until help could come.
Just wait for them. She counted in seconds, and then in minutes. He had a sniper rifle and she had her duty weapon.
Cars zipped by along four lanes of traffic right past them.
But here, it was another world.
She hit “redial” an instant before she heard the sirens.
Moments before three TPD squad cars gunned into the parking lot, sirens ending in a squawk, Laura heard a big engine turn over.
Owen’s GMC slewed out onto the blacktop apron of the store, and rammed into the side of one of the cars.
Owen jumped out of his truck and ran back in the direction he’d come, shooting back at the police, who returned his fire. A bullet grazed the refrigerator on Laura’s right. Several rounds banged into and off metal—refrigerators and washing machines—and she hoped one wouldn’t punch through into Anthony’s hiding place. She duckwalked in the direction of Anthony’s refrigerator, and nearly fell over the body of Jeff Owen. His face was a mask of blood. She felt for a pulse—he was dead.
Laura yelled, “DPS Laura Cardinal! Suspect is down! Suspect is dead—do not shoot. My partner and I are in the third row from the left! My partner is wounded!” She remained crouched but held her badge aloft. They approached, weapons trained. She recited her name and agency again. “There are no other shooters. My partner is wounded.”
“Where?”
“The next row. Can I show you?”
One of the cops yelled, “Suspect is dead.”
Laura holstered her weapon. On shaking legs, she made her way back to Anthony’s refrigerator. “Anthony, it’s me! I’m with TPD, I’m opening the door. Don’t shoot!”
She pulled open the door and he tried to step out, but sank back inside.
“The cavalry always comes at the end,” he said—
And fainted.
But Laura knew he would live to write another screenplay.
This he assured her the next day when she visited him in the hospital, only hours after Laura had turned in her service weapon, her SIG Sauer P226, to investigators. Again. By that time she had been debriefed. She’d told her story, leaving nothing out. The whole sordid, crazy story. How Payton Hatcher had set Steve Lawson up for a murder charge. How she’d planned it with her best friend’s brother, years after Jenny Carmichael had died.
All for revenge.
“That’s pretty hard to swallow,” said Dell Walther, the detective who was investigating the detective.
“It is,” Laura said. “But it happens to be true.”
He’d left the room and was gone for a long time. When he returned, he told her that several people had corroborated her story, including a nurse who told her that there were no
more remissions for Payton. She had turned down chemo the second time, and was in the final stretch of her life.
Headed for a painful death.
Far more painful, far more debilitating, Laura thought, than a well-placed shot to the head.
“Now what?” Laura asked.
“The investigation is far from over, but I wouldn’t worry,” he said. “You’ll be back on duty before you know it.” He put his hand on the door knob before turning back to look at her again.
“Oh, that reminds me. If I were you, I’d put in a request for a replacement weapon.”
John F. Kennedy International Airport
11:28 p.m. EDT, May 11, 2014
“Skyway Airlines Flight 12 to Fiumincino Airport in Rome is now available for boarding, rows twenty-six to forty-three.”
Steve Lawson barely heard the PA announcement.
He was looking at his hands.
They were shaking a little. Under the prying whiteness of the fluorescents he could see every pore, every hair, every knuckle.
So much violence. He’d never been a violent man, and yet here he was, washed in blood.
He stood, shouldering his carryon, holding his ticket.
Concentrate on the future.
He’d always wanted to see the Tsingy de Bemaraha rock formations on the western coast of Madagascar. He’d longed to see the beautiful Manambolo River, and the gray blade-up knives of limestone. The formations looked like grim monks in gray, wrinkled habits.
From Madagascar he would go to Turkey to see the Goreme Fairy Chimneys. Then he would start his new job in Dubai.
He tried to put Jazmin out of his mind, but it was impossible. He had never loved anyone so deeply. They were soul mates. He had pictured her coming with him to see one of the true world wonders—that glorious canyon that he knew would take her breath away.
He loved her, but she despised him, feared him. Why? Why did it always turn out this way?
“Skyway Airlines boarding rows . . .”
Concentrate on Tsingy de Bemaraha. The rock formations.
He had memorized the literature. On the rugged western coast of Madagascar, the Tsingy de Bemaraha reserve is one of incredible beauty. Sharp pinnacles of limestone, called tsingy, rise above the Manambolo river. Undisturbed forests, mangrove swamps, lakes . . . a national park . . . habitat for lemurs . . . lemurs . . . lemurs
The scratching in his head resumed.
Jaz was gone. There was no way he could get her back. He remembered the last time they saw each other. The loathing on her face. It had twisted her features, her beautiful, perfect features. The woman he loved, the woman he could not live without.
But it wasn’t just that.
They were after him again. Again! That homicide cop and her skinny bald sidekick. He knew now that she had never let up, never stopped her plotting to throw him in prison. All he wanted was to spend the rest of his life with Jazmin.
There was no hope for redemption. There was no do-over. He’d thought he had escaped the censure, the hatred, had thought he could carve out a life of peace and work with the love of his life. But he was a marked man. No matter how far he flew, no matter where he went, he had lost everything he had ever loved.
The scratching in his head got louder. He knew that he'd drunk so much he’d blacked out.
What did I do?
It was an itch he could barely stand. And yet there was no way he could reach it. Pry open his cranium and scratch? Ha!
What did I do?
But there was no answer. There was no relief.
His flight was called again.
He shouldered his carryon and stepped into line.
THE END
___________________
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FLIGHT 12 COLLECTION
Flight 12: A Kristin Cunningham Thriller
by Allan Leverone
Flight 12: A Laura Cardinal Thriller
by J. Carson Black
Flight 12: A Jess Kimball Thriller
by Diane Capri
Flight 12: A Sloane Monroe Thriller
by Cheryl Bradshaw
Flight 12: A Kirk Weston Thriller
by Aaron Patterson
Flight 12: A Dick Moonlight Thriller
by Vincent Zandri
Flight 12: An Evie Preston Thriller
by Michele Scott
Flight 12: A Kylie Cain Thriller
by A.K. Alexander & J.R. Rain
Flight 12: A Xandra Carrick Thriller
by Joshua Graham
Flight 12: A Jonathan Quinn Thriller
by Brett Battles
Flight 12: A Jessie Night Thriller
by Carol Davis Luce
Flight 12: A Nick Jennings Thriller
by Robert Gregory Browne
Flight 12: Epilogue by The Twelve
Place your pre-order now for Hard Return, the new Cyril Landry thriller from J. Carson Black. From Thomas & Mercer, September 2014.
About the Author
Hailed by bestselling author T. Jefferson Parker as “a strong new voice in American crime fiction,” J. Carson Black has written sixteen novels. Her thriller, THE SHOP, reached #1 on the Kindle Best Seller list, and her crime thriller series featuring homicide detective Laura Cardinal became a New York Times and USA Today bestseller. Although Black earned a Master of Music degree in operatic voice, she was inspired to write a horror novel after reading The Shining. She lives in Tucson, Arizona.
Facebook: J Carson Black Author Page
Twitter: @jcarsonblack
ABOUT THE TWELVE
The Twelve are award winning and bestselling authors writing across the boundaries of thriller, mystery, horror, romance and crime. We are connected by our desire to bring readers our love of intriguing characters, fast-paced stories and edge-of-your-seat tension.
The Twelve’s first New York Times and USA Today Bestseller is the runaway reader favorite of the year Deadly Dozen
Connect with The Twelve online:
http://thetwelvexii.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/thetwelvexii
Twitter: https://twitter.com/TheTwelveXII
Allan Leverone is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of eight novels including the dark thriller, Mr. Midnight, named one of Suspense Magazine's Best Books of 2013, as well as a 2012 Derringer Award winner for excellence in short mystery fiction. Learn more and connect at www.allanleverone.com.
J. Carson Black is hailed by bestselling author T. Jefferson Parker as "a strong new voice in American crime fiction.” Her thriller, The Shop, reached #1 on the Kindle Bestseller list, and her crime thriller series featuring homicide detective Laura Cardinal became a New York Times and USA Today bestseller. Find her at: www.jcarsonblack.com.
Diane Capri is the New York Times, USA Today, and world-wide bestselling author of twelve mystery/thriller/suspense books, including the reader favorites featuring Jess Kimball in The Hunt For Justice Series and The Hunt for Jack Reacher Series. Connect with her through her website: http://dianecapri.com
Cheryl Bradshaw is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author and Shamus Award finalist for her Sloane Monroe series. www.cherylbradshaw.com
Aaron Patterson is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of over a dozen novels. He writes hard-boiled thrillers and young adult fantasy. Connect with Aaron at his blog: http://theworstbookever.blogspot.com
Vincent Zandri is the New York Times, USA Today, and No.1 International Bestselling Amazon Author of The Shroud Key, The Remains, and the forthcomin
g Moonlight Weeps, the latest in the Dick Moonlight PI series. A photojournalist and foreign correspondent, you can reach him via his website: WWW.VINCENTZANDRI.COM
Michele Scott is a New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author who lives in California with her family. With her days spent in the barn or at the keyboard, she has forged a flourishing career as mystery writer who is also deeply involved in the world of horses and equestrian riding. She can be found at: www.michelescott.com.
A.K. Alexander dreamed of being a writer since the age of nine, earning a degree in journalism from the University of Southern California before tackling fiction. Today she is the bestselling author of over two dozen books—women’s fiction, paranormal novels, mysteries, and thrillers. A lifelong equestrian, she helps to run her family business manufacturing sports-medicine products for horses. She is a native of San Diego, California, and still lives there today with her family, which includes three kids, nine horses, four dogs, and a cat. A.K. Alexander is the pen name to mystery and young adult author, Michele Scott. She can be found at: www.michelescott.com.
J.R. Rain is an ex-private investigator who now writes full-time in the Pacific Northwest. He lives in a small house on a small island with his small dog, Sadie, who has more energy than Robin Williams. Please visit him at www.jrrain.com. Add him on Facebook. Add him on Twitter.
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