by Blake Pierce
“You, Murphy,” Dolan finally said, “are what the experts call a bummer. And for that reason, I will not have a drink in honor. No sir!”
“I’ll have to find a way to muddle through,” Murph muttered.
“However,” Dolan continued, either not hearing him or not caring, “I will down one on your behalf, Jessie Hunt. You’re good people.”
“I’m humbled,” she said, not entirely sure he hadn’t started already.
“As well you should be,” he said.
A second later the line went dead.
“I think you hurt his feelings,” Jessie said to Murphy, only half-joking.
“I think you may be right,” Murph agreed.
Jessie’s phone pinged.
“Maybe he’s trying again,” she said as she opened the text.
The words on the screen sent a wave of adrenaline coursing through her body.
“Is it him?” Murph asked.
“No. It’s the CSU supervisor. They verified the DNA in the blood samples from the hospital courtyard. It’s my father’s.”
*
Jessie couldn’t control the thoughts swimming in her head.
Sitting in the backseat of the Marshal Service car, with Toomey and Murph, she barely saw the buildings passing by. The sprinkles from the hospital courtyard had turned into full on rain. But she barely acknowledged it as it battered the sedan roof.
Her father was actually dead. Somehow she’d been certain that if he ever died, it would be at her hands. She’d counted on it, in fact. As a result, mixed in with the relief she now finally allowed herself to feel at his death was the strange sense that she still had unfinished business.
It was as if he’d somehow robbed her of the catharsis she’d been hoping for by dying in such an ignominious fashion. The irony didn’t escape her: it wasn’t until she learned she’d never get vengeance that Jessie realized how much she’d been after it all along.
“Okay,” Murph said, breaking into her trance, “you can text Dolan. Tell him we’ll meet for one toast and then we’re out of there.”
It took Jessie a moment to process what he’d said.
“Why are you changing your mind?” she asked.
“Thurman’s death makes it an easier call. I think we can protect you short term at the bar if we’re only watching out for one threat. And honestly, you really look like you need a drink.”
Jessie thought about it for a second and then decided she was sick of thinking for a while.
“I am going to defer to your judgment on this one,” she said, getting out her phone and texting Dolan to meet them at Bob’s Frolic Four forthwith.
As she waited for a reply, she listened to Murph give the revised plan to the trail unit over the comm. He was also requesting LAPD backup to the scene.
“All this so little ol’ me can get a drink?” she asked when he was done.
“All this so I don’t lose my job for getting little ol’ you a drink,” he corrected.
The bar was close but with the traffic and rain-soaked streets, it took a good ten minutes to get there. When they arrived, there were already multiple cars double parked in front. The place was a madhouse.
“Maybe we should park in the residential section,” Jessie suggested. “It might be less crowded and it’s only a few blocks of walking.”
“Can’t do it,” he replied. “Walking any distance while exposed is too risky. We need to be able to access the car quickly if necessary. Also, I don’t want to get wet.”
Jessie couldn’t argue the last point. Murph spoke into his comm.
“Trail team, we’re going to circle while you get things squared away. Once you’ve parked, Collica—take the front of the bar. Emerson, take the back. You can let us in through the alley entrance. Toomey will circle the location while we’re inside.”
While they circled, waiting for the trail team to get set up, Jessie texted Dolan again to let him know they were about to go in. His reply was succinct.
There in ten. Order me a bourbon—double.
“Okay, team, we are on the move,” Murph said, getting her attention. “Toomey, drop us close to the alley door and resume circling. Emerson, prepare to open the back door. Collica, take up position at the entrance to the back room. Get ID on anyone who wants to enter. Pull rank if someone gives you static. You ready, Hunt?”
“I’ve never had so much effort put into getting me a drink, not even on dates.”
“Are you ready?” he repeated not playing along.
“Ready,” she said, matching his straight face. Murph nodded back.
“We are a go,” he said, getting out and opening the back door for her. “Toomey—resume circling the block. Emerson, open that door now.”
Toomey waited until he saw the bar’s back door open before driving off down the alley toward the main street again. Emerson held the door open as Jessie and Murph jogged toward it, trying not to get soaked while also avoiding slipping on the slick asphalt.
Emerson gave them a goofy half smile that suggested he was glad to be dry. He was a big dude, easily six foot two, with a military-style buzz cut that made it hard to even be sure his hair was blond. But in that moment, with the silly grin on his face, he looked less like a hardened law enforcement professional and more like a pre-teen boy who was giddy at his good fortune.
A loud bang suddenly echoed through the alley. Emerson’s face froze. A fraction of a second later, blood began pouring from a small hole in his forehead. The smile was still on his lips as he fell backward into the bar. The door he was holding open slammed shut.
Jessie stared at the spot where he used to be in stunned silence. A sudden rush of panicked nausea rose up in her throat and she felt sure she would vomit. She wanted to bend over but her knees seemed frozen in place.
“Get down!” Murph shouted, shoving her toward the ground.
On her knees now, Jessie embraced the cold puddle quickly soaking her pants. Using the rush of bracingly cold water to snap herself back into the moment, she spun around, looking for the source of the shot. Before she could discern anything, Murph was in front of her, using his body to block any future shots. His gun was pointed back down the alley. Jessie turned back to the bar door and tried to open it, without success.
“It’s locked,” she said.
Murph spoke into his comm, his voice surprisingly calm.
“Shot fired. Man down. Repeat—Emerson is down. We are in the alley. The back door to the club is locked. Requesting assistance.” Then, still looking back in the direction of the shot, he addressed her. “Let’s go around front. Stay ahead of me. All units, we are using the side alley to return to the front of the bar. Meet us there.”
“I’m around the east side of the club in the other alley,” Toomey said urgently. “It’s going to take a minute to get there.”
“Approaching the back door now,” Collica added.
“Do not exit through the back, Collica,” Murph ordered. “The shooter has eyes on that door. Return to the front.”
As the two of them ran, there was a screeching sound behind them. Jessie looked back over her shoulder. A compact car with its headlights off was tearing down the alley toward them. With the rain and darkness, she couldn’t identify the driver.
Whoever it was barreled straight for them. It was clear that they wouldn’t get out of the alley to the sidewalk before they were mowed down. Jessie’s eyes darted left and right, looking for any doorway or nook to take shelter in. She saw Murph doing the same thing.
Steps ahead of her, he came to a door with a padlock on it and fired once, shattering the thing. Then he yanked the door open, grabbed her, and literally tossed her through the entryway. As she fell to the ground, she looked back to the alley just in time to see him take one step toward her.
Then he disappeared from her sight, hit by the hood of the car. She heard the thud of the vehicle against his body and then another one seconds later when he landed. It was quieter than she expected, as if
he’d traveled a great distance.
The car tires squealed as it braked hard. She saw the taillights illuminate as it backed up until she could see the front passenger seat. The automatic window rolled down and the driver looked over at her with a wolfish grin on his face.
“Hi, Junebug,” her father said.
CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT
For the briefest of moments, Jessie thought she was dreaming.
She’d had so many nightmares in which her father appeared out of nowhere to harm people helping her that she wasn’t entirely sure it was real this time.
It was only when he got out of the car and slammed the door shut that her brain snapped back into reality. The alley was real. The rain was real. The car that had just hit Murph was real. And her father, the serial killer she’d been assured was dead only minutes earlier, was real too.
He looked much as he had the last time she’d seen him, when he ambushed her in her apartment only weeks ago. He still had the lean, lanky body, though he appeared more hunched over than before. His dark hair, dotted with visible gray even in the half light of the alley, was longer than before. But his green eyes, the same shade as hers, had lost none of their maniacal gleam.
Ignoring the pain in her hip where she’d landed on the floor, she scrambled to her feet, reaching for the small pistol in her ankle holster. Her adrenaline was pumping so hard her fingers shook slightly.
Even as they settled down, she had trouble freeing the gun and looked down to see what the issue was. The holster was snagged on the cuff of her pants. She ripped the cuff and yanked out the gun, pointing it back at the alley. Her father was gone.
She backed away, her weapon pointed at the car. She could feel herself hyperventilating and mentally shouted an order to slow her breathing. It would help her get a more accurate shot and, equally important, not pass out. As she exhaled, a voice called out.
“Your marshal buddy doesn’t look too good, Junebug. One of his legs is bent the wrong way. It’s kind of gross. I think I’m going to put him out of his misery. I’ll be right back.”
She heard footsteps move in Murph’s direction and shouted out to the emptiness.
“If you go for him, I’ll get away. By the time you come back for me, I’ll be long gone. So you can try to take out some random guy who doesn’t matter to you. Or you can come for me. But you can’t do both.”
She heard the footsteps stop. While he decided, she looked behind her to see if she really could get away. What she found filled her with disquiet. For a moment she thought she was being stared at by dozens of motionless figures.
After a second she realized that she was in some kind of warehouse, filled with what appeared to be hundreds of department store mannequins. Some were completed while others lay on the ground half-finished or abandoned. She scurried back into the depths so that she wouldn’t be an easy target if he appeared at that moment.
“I guess this is goodbye,” she yelled behind her, hoping to force her father’s hand.
“You drive a hard bargain,” she heard him say, obviously getting closer. “Considering that your marshal buddy’s friends will likely be here any minute, you’ve won me over. I’m coming for you, little girl.”
She was tempted to hide behind a mannequin and take a shot when he came into view. But then she pushed the idea out of her head. He had a gun too. A fair fight wasn’t to her advantage. The smart move was to find a way out of here, get back to the bar, and call in the cavalry.
She looked around, desperately searching for an “exit” sign. She saw one illuminated in green at the far end of the warehouse and moved in that direction. Glancing back, she saw that her father still wasn’t visible in the doorway.
“Last chance,” she shouted so as to be heard over the rain. “Better come now or all that hard work will be for nothing, Xander.”
She had barely finished speaking when the shots began. He fired three times as he moved into the warehouse. She hurried further back toward the exit, darting among the mannequins so that he wouldn’t have an easy shot if he located her.
“You know, Junebug,” he called out, “it’s disrespectful to refer to your parent by his first name. I’ll accept Daddy, Father, or my personal preference, Pa. But Xander? That’s just rude. I thought I raised you better than that.”
Jessie tried to move as quietly as possible as she navigated her way to the exit. The sound of his voice and footsteps was actually reassuring. At least she knew he wasn’t focused on Murph any longer. Besides, she’d rather have him taunt her if it meant she knew where he was.
She was only steps from the exit when her phone rang. For a second her whole body went stiff. Then, as quickly as she could, she slid behind a large mannequin, pulled it out of her pocket, and silenced it. The caller ID showed that it was Dolan, who was probably still unaware of everything going on.
“You were so close to getting out,” Xander called out, his footsteps moving rapidly in her direction. “But now I know where you are. The light from that exit sign should frame you nicely when I shoot you as you try to leave.”
Jessie glanced around, looking for another way out. But none was visible. He was right. If she tried to make a run for it, he’d have a clear shot at her. Based on what he’d just done to Emerson, she didn’t want to give him the chance.
She guessed she had about twenty seconds until he was to her. The one thing working for her was that when he got there, she’d be surrounded by thirty to forty mannequins who could easily be mistaken for her. She decided to make it more challenging.
Placing the pistol delicately on a cardboard box, she pulled off her jacket to reveal the cream-colored top she was wearing. It wasn’t as white as the mannequins. But it would help her blend in a bit.
She picked up the pistol and took up a position between two mannequins—one male and one female. The sliver of space between them was just wide enough for her to aim through.
The footsteps stopped and she knew he was close, though she couldn’t see him. As she waited, trying to breathe silently, she heard his breaths, loud and wheezy. A thought belatedly registered in her mind.
Xander’s footsteps when he was running moments earlier were uneven, almost as if he was half-shuffling one of his legs. That and his labored breathing reminded her of something she’d forgotten in the terror of the situation. He was injured.
It had been only weeks since he’d been shot in the abdomen and shoulder, smashed in the skull with a nightstick, and jumped out of an apartment window. Detective Ryan Hernandez, thirty years old and in great shape, was expected to take two months to recover from two stab wounds. How weak and tired must a fifty-something man feel with vastly worse injuries? The realization filled her with hope and another, far less expected feeling: confidence.
If I can get that gun out of his hand, I’ll have the physical advantage. But how?
She looked around and her eyes fell on two unattached mannequin pieces. One was a head and the other was an arm from shoulder to fingertips. She had the kernel of an idea. Under normal circumstances, she’d take a moment to try to anticipate how it might play out. But these weren’t normal circumstances and she didn’t have time formulate all the details. This would either work or it wouldn’t. She was about to find out.
Shoving the gun in her front pocket, she grabbed both mannequin body parts. She tiptoed forward a bit until she could catch of glimpse of Xander. He was spinning back and forth between her direction and the other side of the warehouse, unsure which side she was hiding on.
She was about to toss the mannequin parts when a sudden explosion rocked the warehouse, making the walls shudder and sending some of the mannequins toppling over. After the racket subsided, he shouted to her.
“You’re probably wondering what that noise is all about. Don’t worry, Junebug. It’s just my car exploding. I set a timer on it. That ought to distract your law enforcement buddies for a while. That way we can get some uninterrupted quality time. Sound good?”
He
was still swiveling back and forth, trying to catch sight of her. Despite her anxiousness, Jessie tried to remain patient, waiting until the echo from the exploding car had faded and until his attention was elsewhere.
Then she got her chance. When he briefly turned the other way, she tossed the mannequin head in the air, high overhead so that it he couldn’t see it. It hit something about twenty feet in front of him before landing on the ground, reverberating loudly in the now otherwise quiet warehouse.
He spun in that direction, pointing but not firing. Jessie skulked forward several steps, then launched the unattached arm at a mannequin closer to her father. It landed with a thud, making the full-sized body careen backward, colliding into multiple other mannequins like human-shaped bowling pins going down all at once.
Using the cacophony of noise as cover, she pulled out the pistol and sprinted toward him. Initially startled, Xander regrouped quickly. He must have sensed the move was a diversion because he quickly spun around, pointing his gun in her general direction.
She fired at him as she ran, aware that with the multiple mannequins between them, she was unlikely to hit him. That wasn’t even her primary goal. She was hoping that he would try to duck or dive or even just flinch long enough for her to get within fighting distance of him.
It partly worked. He did flinch, but only briefly. Recovering, it took only a couple of seconds for him to turn his gun on her. No longer concerned with stealth and now less than ten feet away, she slammed toward him, knocking over as many mannequins as possible so as to disorient him. She was only steps away when he locked in on her.
As he pointed his weapon, she shoved the last remaining mannequin torso between them at him with her left hand as she fired wildly with her right. At that moment, the mannequin’s chest exploded in front of her, spraying a cloud of dust everywhere.
And then she was on him, colliding hard into his body with every ounce of force she could muster. Her pistol flew out of her hand as she landed on top of him, hearing the air get sucked from his chest. As she rolled over, she saw that his hands were empty and heard his gun slide off somewhere out of view.
