by CJ Lyons
“And if it’s not Dean? If he’s getting close to finding the money, then the real killer might target him next.”
Luka shrugged. Too many unknowns and too little in the way of hard facts. He turned into the lane leading to Holy Redeemer and cut his lights, slowing so that the car would make the least amount of sound possible. The church was dark except for a single dim bulb over the rear door, but the house next to it blazed with lights. Harper’s car sat out front along with a minivan and two matching white SUVs with the Holy Redeemer logo. No signs of Dean’s Tahoe.
Luka stopped and backed into the church’s parking lot, placing the building between him and the house. He called in to dispatch. “What’s the ETA on my back-up?”
“They’re twelve minutes out.”
Damn. “We need to wait,” he told Leah as he texted Harper to ask for an update. He wanted Harper out of there but without knowing the extent of the reverend’s involvement, he didn’t want to give too much away in his message.
As he waited for her reply, a loud crack sounded. Luka grabbed the car’s radio. “Shots fired, I’m going in. Repeat: shots fired.”
He jumped out of the car, ignoring the pain in his leg. This was no time for crutches. “Keep low,” he ordered Leah. “Stay here, help is on the way.”
He left without waiting for her reply. One of his team was in that house. If Harper had fired the shot, she’d be calling in. Or answering his damn text.
Nothing. Only silence. Which made him run faster.
Forty-Two
Harper cursed herself for being out of position to deal with the threat Dean posed. With no chance to reach her weapon, she instead eased a step back until she was positioned against the corner, the closest thing the room had to a blind spot for someone entering from the hall. She’d been focused on John, and years of parishioners ringing the Reverend’s doorbell at all hours of the day and night had dulled her senses. Any other house and she’d have been immediately alert to danger.
At least those were the excuses that ran through her brain—another childhood-conditioned response, one that she thought she’d left far behind, this immediate search for quick and easy explanations for her failures. Because they were always hers to own, always the result of her inability to make the right choice. She’d been struggling so hard to make her father proud of the path she’d chosen that now, at the crucial moment, she’d let everyone down.
Harper edged sideways, her gaze meeting the Reverend’s. To her surprise he widened both eyes, as if relegating any decision-making to her. She’d been angry that Luka hadn’t given her more duties on the Standish case, but she now realized that it worked in her favor because Dean had never seen her, had no idea she was a police officer. Harper brushed at her waistband where her gun and badge usually were, and the Reverend gave her the tiniest nod of acknowledgment.
He stood tall, stepping toward the threat, bringing Dean’s focus to him. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, ignoring the gun to his wife’s head. It was all show, Harper knew, detecting the faintest quaver in his voice. He was trying to distract Dean, give her an opening. “How did you get here? I didn’t hear a car.”
“Left mine on a logging road, came on foot,” Dean said in a jovial voice. “I’ll be borrowing one of yours when we leave. But we’ll figure all that out in good time. First, how about some introductions?” He pressed the muzzle of his semi-automatic hard against Rachel’s temple and she gave a small yelp of pain. “This must be the missus, and you are—” He jerked his chin at John, who’d taken an aggressive step forward.
“My son,” the Reverend answered. “John.”
Finally, Dean glanced at Harper, who didn’t meet his eyes, instead trying her best to appear meek and timid. “And who’s this? Your deacon or some such thing?”
“My assistant, Naomi.” The Reverend straightened, shoulders back. “Let them go and I’ll give you what you want.”
“Bit too late for that, Rev. Afraid my timeline has shortened drastically.” He nodded to the Reverend’s recliner, then eyed John, who clearly posed the greatest threat. Or so Dean thought. “You, Junior, have a seat.”
John backed into the chair and sat down heavily.
“Push it all the way back, that’s it, feet up high. Keep your hands on the arms where I can see them. Everyone else, stay still, don’t make a move.”
It was a good tactical move on Dean’s part—short of shooting John—to eliminate the potential threat. And it also placed John out of Harper’s line of fire. The Reverend was clear too, standing over near the fireplace. Now all she needed was to find a way to separate Rachel from Dean.
“Tassi told me about the mistress,” Dean continued. “I mean, she was a bit reluctant at first, but aren’t they all? In the end, she told me everything, even took me to the girl’s cabin. Imagine my surprise when I see a picture—and it’s the same girl who’s been plastered all over the TV, the one with the sick baby.”
“Please—” the Reverend tried, but Dean waved him to silence with his gun, returning it to Rachel’s temple before Harper could do more than slide her hand behind her back, slowly inching her weapon from its holster. Still, the Reverend’s interruption covered her movement and from the way he caught her gaze, she knew he’d planned it that way.
“Spencer trusted you, Rev. Tassi said he told you everything. She thought it was part of the con, to set you up to protect her after Spencer faked his death. As if the Zapata family would fall for the same trick twice. But I guess Spencer was conning Tassi as well, planning to run off with his sidepiece, dump his wife. He knew I was getting close, but I don’t believe he killed himself, not for a second. So I gotta ask, was it you who killed him, Rev?”
The Reverend managed to look insulted by Dean’s accusation. “No.”
Dean shrugged. “Just a theory. But you have my money, right?”
“Your money?” the Reverend asked with an arched eyebrow. Harper needed Dean to drop his guard, even for a second. “I thought it belonged to the Zapata family.”
“Seeing as how returning that money to the cartel is the only thing keeping me alive right now, feels like it’s rightfully mine. Where is it?”
The Reverend pinched his lips tight. He was making himself a target—and yet, he was also the one person Dean wouldn’t kill, since he had what Dean wanted.
Harper knew it, but so did Dean. He pivoted and, with barely a glance, shot at the recliner, the bullet impacting inches away from John’s head, foam and upholstery spraying as John jolted upright.
“Freeze,” Dean commanded, now aiming at John’s torso. “Just a warning shot, to let your father know I’m serious.” He kept one arm around Rachel and his weapon pointed at John, but his focus returned to the Reverend. Clearly, Dean had dismissed Harper as not posing any threat. “Now, then. Where’s my money? I’m going to count to—”
Harper didn’t give him a chance to finish as she drew and fired.
Forty-Three
Leah hated waiting, helpless, as Luka raced into danger, but she understood the necessity of it. The last thing Luka needed to worry about right now was having to protect a civilian. Still, it rankled. After six months of working together, it felt as if he and his team were finally treating her as an equal, not an outsider.
She sat in the dark, not sure what she could do except be ready to help if needed. Her backpack held a field trauma kit, including a vial of ceftriaxone, an injectable antibiotic. If they found Beth’s baby, she could begin treatment immediately. She opened the kit, fingering her supplies, taking mental inventory, ready to access them without needing to search. Then she zipped it closed again and went back to waiting.
Damn, this was worse than waiting for a trauma to arrive at the ER—at least then she’d be in communication with the medics, have some idea of what to expect and when to expect it. But this, not knowing… sheer hell.
Movement at the back of the church caught her eye. A woman was waving to her from the rear entrance.
Leah squin
ted.
It wasn’t just any woman.
It was Beth.
Leah searched the shadows of the trees surrounding the church and parking lot. No one else was near; Beth seemed to be alone. Still, she remained wary as Beth crossed the parking lot heading toward the car. Leah kept her hand on her phone the whole time, ready to call 911 or alert Luka if she saw anyone else. But it was only Beth, still dressed in scrubs, otherwise empty-handed.
Leah opened the car door and stepped out. “Beth?” she called softly. “Where’s your baby? Is anyone with you?”
Beth reached her, her face contorted with anguish. “Reverend Harper, he told me not to go outside, but the baby—something’s wrong. When I saw the policeman leave and you here alone—” She grasped both of Leah’s wrists. “Can you help him? Please, you have to help my baby.”
Leah gazed at the distraught mother. Beth definitely wasn’t acting. Leah raised her phone to call for an ambulance.
“No!” Beth grabbed Leah’s arm with both hands. Leah shook her off and stepped back away from her. “No, please,” Beth begged. “I can’t risk them finding us. Can we take your car?”
Reluctantly, Leah pocketed her phone and grabbed her bag. Assessing and treating the baby came first. Then she would either convince Beth to see reason or call Luka to deal with her while she got the baby to the hospital. “Where is he?”
“Hidden. In the church.” Beth led the way back across the pavement to the church door. They entered a small vestibule that opened up onto a corridor leading behind the worship area. There were several doors—offices and storage, and a changing room for the ministers, Leah guessed as Beth rushed her past them in the near-dark. Then Beth turned sharply and there was a deep step down onto rough stone, two more steps and they reached a thick wooden door. Beth opened the door, held Leah’s hand, guided her inside an unlit room, far enough to close the door behind them, and finally, Beth flicked a light switch.
The room was much older than the rest of the building—possibly even original, given the white-washed curve of thick logs along the outer corner and the thick-planked, rough-hewn flooring. There were no windows, only a single, bare overhead lightbulb whose illumination was almost obscured by the dust motes that filled the air with a musty essence. Shadowy figures wearing bright-colored robes gathered along the outside wall, a life-sized nativity.
Leah glanced at Beth, who crossed to a set of shelves that held clear plastic boxes of Christmas and other holiday decorations. At the far side of the shelving unit was a tabletop hinged to the ancient plaster wall.
“Reverend Harper said this was the original church and they built a safe place to hide if they were attacked,” Beth explained as she unlatched the table and raised it, exposing a horizontal support beam that was notched along the top, matching where the hinges protruded. Except for one notch that was empty, as if the corresponding hinge had broken. Beth slid her fingers inside the empty notch, releasing a mechanical click, and then she swung open a hidden door in the lower part of the wall.
“He’s in here,” she told Leah. “The reverend said no one would find us here, but I had to come out, get help when he got sick. He was fine, I don’t know what happened, he was fine. Until I woke him a little while ago and he wouldn’t nurse, felt warm.” She ducked inside the hidden room and emerged with the baby cradled in her arms.
“Bring him into the light,” Leah said as she dragged a plastic bin to the center of the room to use as a makeshift examination table.
Beth had swaddled the baby in several blankets. She set him down and carefully unwrapped him. “I thought he was just tired—I know I was. So I let him go back to sleep, but now he’s so listless, I can barely keep him awake and he’s still refusing the breast. The reverend was going to bring me some formula to try, but he hasn’t come back…” Her voice drifted off, one hand caressing the baby’s dark hair as Leah opened her bag and grabbed a stethoscope.
She listened—no heart murmur, good lung sounds—then checked the baby’s fontanelle and reflexes. Responsive but drowsy, no signs of meningitis. “One of the blood tests they took after he was born showed signs of an infection,” she told Beth, drawing up a dose of the ceftriaxone. “I’m going to give him a shot of antibiotic to fight the infection, but then we need to get him back to the hospital.”
“No—you don’t understand. I can’t let them find us.”
“I’m sorry, we really need to monitor the baby.” Leah swabbed the baby’s thigh and injected the medicine. He made a small squeal of pain, but went silent again.
“Can’t you show me how to give him the medicine?” Beth pleaded. “If they find us, they’ll kill us.”
“He could get worse—sometimes this infection spreads into the lungs or even the brain. It’s very serious, Beth.”
Beth considered, her face tightening as tears seeped from her eyes. She leaned down and kissed the baby. “Take him. If I’m not around, they won’t find him. Take him.”
“We can keep you safe, Beth. Please let me—”
She shook her head. “No, no. I can’t risk anything happening to him. I’ve already made so many mistakes.” She clutched Leah’s wrist. “Please, you have to promise me. You won’t let anything happen to him. Please.”
“We’ll take good care of him.” Leah glanced at the door. She hadn’t heard from Luka and wasn’t sure if it was safe to take the baby outside. She began to wrap the baby back up, debating whether she should call an ambulance—no, it would take them too long to get here. She could take Luka’s car—he’d left the keys for her. It would be the fastest way to get the baby to safety.
The baby and Beth. They both needed protection. “The man you’re afraid of, he works for the Zapata family, right?”
Beth tensed, her gaze going to the door as if getting ready to run. “How did you know?”
“He killed Spencer’s wife and another man. We think he’s coming to find Reverend Harper, that’s why Sergeant Jericho and I came here.”
“He’s here? Now? Then there’s no time.” Footsteps pounding down the hall outside punctuated her words. “We need to hide.”
“Quick, take the baby.” Leah bundled the baby into Beth’s arms and helped her back through to the hidden room. She didn’t have time to lower the desk before the door to the hallway slammed open.
Leah whirled, her back to the wall.
Forty-Four
As Luka ran up the front porch steps, he heard two more shots fired in quick succession. He wrenched the front door open. His leg brace caught and he tripped over the threshold, slamming into the foyer wall and almost falling. Pain lanced up his leg but he ignored it, keeping his back to the wall as he cleared the front rooms, the dining room and living room, then followed the hall to the rear of the house.
Harper was crouched over Foster Dean’s body, securing Dean’s weapon.
Luka paused, assessing the situation. No other weapons or threats. Harper’s mother was standing with her brother, John, pale and visibly shaken, while Matthew hovered near Dean. It was the first time Luka had seen the man of God appear uncertain or hesitant.
“Call an ambulance,” he ordered John. “Then wait for me outside.”
John nodded and escorted his mother through the kitchen. Luka turned his attention to Dean. The former DEA agent had a gunshot wound to his chest and a second to his gut. Harper was placing pressure on them with a lace doily she’d pulled off the back of the sofa.
“Dr. Wright’s outside in my car,” he told Matthew as he took over for Harper, who ran into the kitchen and returned with an armful of towels. “Go get her, tell her we need her trauma kit.”
The sound of sirens echoed through the night. His back-up, about time.
“Wait,” Harper said as her father turned to leave. “Luka, he knows where Beth and her baby are.”
Luka nodded. “Harper, go with him. Leah needs to see the baby right away. The ERT medic can stabilize Dean until she’s treated the baby.”
Dean made a gru
nting noise of protest at this. Luka pushed harder, wadding the dishtowel deep into the wound. “Hold still, Dean. You’re not getting out of this that easily.”
Harper and her father left. Luka leaned closer to the former DEA agent. “Just us. For a minute at most. Want to tell me anything? Could go a long way to help you out.”
Dean shook his head. “I talk, I’m dead,” he gasped.
“You don’t, you’re dead. You know the Zapatas have the reach, they can get to you anywhere. Your only hope is the feds, witness protection.” Luka hated himself for even making the offer. But he had little to no evidence to nail Dean for the murders and a wit-sec deal would include at least some jail time in addition to testifying against the cartel. Which might mean that instead of locking up one killer, they would end up getting several off the streets, not to mention putting a serious dent into the Zapata family’s flow of money and drugs.
Dean considered it. Luka heard the banging of doors both front and back as the ERT made their entry. “Scene’s clear,” he shouted. “Get your medic back here.”
“They’ll know,” Dean whispered.
“No. I’ll make sure of it. I have a friend at the FBI, let me give her a call.”
“How?” Dean’s breathing had turned shallow and rapid, his color ashen. Shock, Luka realized. It was now or never.
“If I can, are you in? You’ll give up everything you know?”
“Yes.” Dean managed a nod. “But how?”
“Easy. We’ll take you out in a body bag.”
Dean’s eyes went wide, either with pain or surprise, Luka wasn’t sure. But then the wounded man managed a throaty chuckle. “Fake my death. Just like Spence.”
The ERT’s medic arrived, quickly assessing the situation and opening his trauma kit. “Just like Spence,” Luka told Dean as he moved out of the medic’s way. “Leave it to me.”
Forty-Five
