Justice

by Dustin Stevens

  Whether the person that was being shot at was Reed Mattox, or somebody else, or even just a signal to get her attention, she had no way of knowing.

  All she could be certain of was that it was either Koob or his men, wherever they were a possible trove of information that could inform her next move.

  Not to mention a chance to thin out the available firepower they had on hand.

  As close to a win-win as her line of work ever afforded.

  Drawing in three quick breaths, filling her lungs and slowly forcing it out, Rye lowered her pulse just slightly, collecting her senses.

  As she had learned more than once, there would soon be a time for letting out every bit of stored emotion she had, but for right now, she had to keep her wits.

  Both for her, and her partner.

  “Come,” she whispered, extending the barrel of one Sig Sauer and using it to motion for Blue. Without glancing back, she heard his enormous body shift into movement, his breathing growing louder beside her.

  Giving him just a second or two to catch up, she rolled out around the corner, feeling the light of the street lamp overhead flash upon her features, a jolt of tension passing through her at the thought of being exposed.

  At knowing that somewhere very close, somebody was staring through the scope of a rifle.

  Just as fast, that realization was buffeted by a second one, reminding her that right now that person’s attention was trained on the apartment complex across the way.

  With each passing second, her window for movement grew smaller.

  Raising her pace to a jog, Rye rolled up onto the balls of her feet, making sure her footfalls were silent on the sidewalk. To either side, buildings pockmarked with crumbling brick and occasional spots of graffiti passed by, interspersed with homes that looked like they’d been built decades before.

  With the weapons tucked along either thigh, Rye kept a steady pace, ignoring the salty sting of sweat as it flowed into her eyes.

  Instead, she focused on a familiar scent that floated over the breeze, growing slightly stronger as she raced forward.

  The unmistakable hint of cordite in the air.

  The shooter was nearby, of that she had no doubt, but as she moved forward, she raised her attention to see more than a handful of buildings fitting the role as a possible nest, the only thing to possibly tip her to which one was what she was looking for being a couple of half-open windows dotting their fronts.

  Otherwise, it would be almost impossible to go through each one, searching the rooms individually.

  Beside her, she could almost sense a similar level of frustration in Blue, his breathing growing louder as he abandoned breathing through his nose and began drawing gulps in an open-mouthed pant.

  Pushing them forward for another half a block, Rye moved until she was just past the Franklinton Luxury Suites. There she stopped, watching for any sign of movement from the surrounding neighborhood.

  Felt her chest tighten at seeing the very same sedan she had climbed out of hours earlier sitting on the far corner.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Lynda Cantwell’s apartment was larger than Hartong’s, decorated in a much more garish style, the sole thing the place had in common with the one above – besides the current state of their respective owners – was that it was positioned on the same corner of the building, affording essentially the same view, just a floor lower.

  Moving in darkness, Reed had slid inside without turning on a single light, Billie nothing more than a shadow beside him, more than sixty pounds of coiled fury ready to be unleashed.

  Pressed tight against the corner, Reed could see just a sliver of the street below, less than that of the buildings beyond it.

  “Come in dark,” Reed said, his voice low and even as he stared out.

  “Roger that,” Adam Gilchrist replied over the line, his voice trying to sound similar, but managing to add no small amount of nervousness to the tone.

  “The shooter is hidden in one of several possible locations,” Reed said. “I’m on the second floor, going to draw out another shot. Use that to lock him down.”

  This time there was a pause, presumably as Gilchrist and his partner discussed the plan, the older officer getting to add his thoughts on the matter.

  As it stood, it was thin at best, not much of a plan at all. Reed was fully aware of that, also knowing that there were simply too many available hides to try and search each one individually.

  For all he knew, the shooter could have slipped out the back of the building and been gone.

  The streets – and structures – throughout Franklinton and The Bottoms were just too accustomed to such violence, almost set up to allow for easy entry and egress.

  It would make trying to find anybody a veritable nightmare, especially given the time of night and a precinct staff that was already stretched thin.

  And that was before Reed tried to consider the people Sydney Rye had mentioned, the types of opponents he could be matched up against.

  “Are you sure about this, Reed?” Gilchrist asked, breaking slightly from practiced radio protocol. “We can call in more guys, get a full canvas up and going.”

  Reed was almost certain that would be happening soon anyway. The problem was, it wouldn’t happen fast enough, the late hour meaning most of the men involved would have to be rousted from bed.

  Glancing to Billie, little more than two shiny moist discs glowing in the darkness, Reed said, “Myself, nor my partner, will be in direct line of fire. Let me know when you’re in position.”

  Again, there was a short pause.

  “Roger that,” Gilchrist repeated. “ETA three minutes.”

  Not bothering to respond, Reed left the line open, sliding his phone back into the clip on his hip.

  “Down,” he said, sending Billie to her haunches beside him, ensuring she stayed hidden from view.

  Sliding past her, he made a wide arc around the perimeter of the room, keeping his back just a few inches away from the wall. Shuffling no more than a foot or two at a time, he moved from his post beside the bed in Cantwell’s room to the closet in the far corner, stepping over the pile of laundry still strewn in front of the door.

  Moving just past it, he slid behind the item that had first caught his attention, putting the plan in motion.

  A free-standing dressing mirror.

  Almost as tall as he was, the antique item was formed by a large piece of glass framed in oak. On either side was a hinge connecting it to support posts, allowing it to rotate forward and back.

  Moving until he was completely behind the mirror, Reed grasped it on either side, ignoring the overwhelming scent of Chanel No. 5 in the air. Sweat dripped along the outside of his forehead and down over his temples as he picked the mirror up and began to move slowly in the opposite direction, careful to stay well beyond view.

  Praying that no stray light entered the room, refracting off the glass currently positioned across his torso.

  “ETA, one minute,” Gilchrist said, the unexpected presence of his voice sending a short burst of adrenaline through Reed’s system.

  Gritting his teeth, he didn’t bother responding, keeping the mirror a foot above his shoes as he moved back to Billie’s side. There, he sat the item down and lowered himself to the floor, using a toe to push the mirror out into the center of the floor.

  Once it was positioned just as he wanted it, he rose to his feet and eased back toward the doorway.

  “Come.”

  On her feet in an instant, Billie jogged from the room, taking a position against Reed’s calves as he waited, a finger balanced on the light switch.

  “Alright, Reed,” Gilchrist said, a bit of a sigh in his voice. “We’re in position. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  Unable not to think the same thing, Reed drew in a short breath before flipping on the light switch, the bulbs overhead illuminating him fully, his reflection popping up on the mirror in the center of the room.

  For a
moment, there was nothing, just Reed standing and staring back at himself.

  After that, pandemonium erupted, the window pane and the mirror both shattering in unison.

  On contact, the sound of shattering glass filled the room, oversized shards falling to the floor, breaking into a thousand shimmering crystals.

  An instant after, a second round slammed into the remaining fragments, toppling the frame of the mirror to the floor, the thin wood splintering, adding to the twisted carnage strewn across the bedroom, at odds with the pastel colors and soft tones of the apartment around it.

  Behind him, Billie pressed in tighter, a steady growl rolling out of her, sounding like a small engine as it hummed in the silence of the building.

  Clearly, the effects of being shot at a second time were having the same result on her as they were having on him.

  “Please tell me you guys got a bead on where that shot came from.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The second shot wasn’t a single round but a quick pairing, the duo flaring out like a beacon, a momentary flash that told Sydney Rye everything she needed to know. Even positioned well inside a window, the barrel far back from the ledge, there was no way to mask the bursts of light along the darkened street, pinpointing the position Rye was so desperate to acquire.

  The instant they went up, she didn’t bother looking across the street. She knew who was inside the building, that a second shot must have meant Mattox at the least survived the first attempt.

  Whether he would be lucky enough to endure a second try from a seasoned professional, she didn’t have time to concern herself with.

  The man was a detective, could take care of himself.

  If not, she had no use for him anyway.

  Instead, her sole focus was on the building ahead, on the spot where the light had burst forth, the spot seared into her vision, like the lingering remnants of staring directly into the sun. Flashing in bright Technicolor, it was behind her eyelids each time she blinked, propelling her forward.

  Abandoning the stance she had assumed, she raised her arms to ninety degrees, pumping her arms as she moved into a sprint. By her third step she had elongated her stride, eating up the distance between her and the shooter.

  Trying in vain to keep up with Blue doing the same.

  Already there were ten feet separating them, the gap widening as he bounded forward, her two legs no match for his gallop. As if propelled by the low growl rolling from him, he shot forward, his focus as singular as hers, the two tearing ahead.

  There was no chance the shooter was Koob. Just like the man on the street before, Koob was too smart to ever fire in a public place, to open himself up to vulnerability in any way.

  Just as certain, there was no possibility it wasn’t one of his affiliates, meaning whatever lay ahead brought Rye one step closer to Nora’s killer.

  To allowing her to finish the job that she and Blue had started years before.

  Sweat began to burn Rye’s eyes as she pounded out the last few yards, Blue already at the front door to the building, turning circles on the sidewalk.

  Just as he’d been trained to do, he remained as quiet as possible, his breathing the only sound, knowing not to call out with a bark, drawing unnecessary attention to them.

  Pulling up beside him, Rye could hear her own panting, the cool air clawing at her lungs as she pressed her back against the rough brick façade of the building. Raising either gun to shoulder height, her thumbs resting against her shoulders, she looked at Blue.

  Squaring his muzzle to the door, he glanced her way, letting her know that he was all set, before staring straight ahead. Coiling onto his back legs, he prepared to launch forward, weight balanced on his rear haunches.

  “Three,” Rye said, not bothering to count off the first two, knowing that the final word was all the signal Blue needed.

  Lowering her right hand to her side, she twisted the front knob and pushed the door inward, the gate swinging open without a sound.

  The moment a gap was wide enough to pass through, Blue was inside, his feet thumping against the black and white tiled floor. A split second later Rye was on his heels, moving in after him, both guns drawn, poised at shoulder height.

  At first glance, the interior of the building looked a lot like the one Rye had lived in in New York a lifetime before. With the tile design and the bank of mailboxes along the wall, a flash of déjà vu crossed her mind, pushed away just as fast by the adrenaline coursing through her.

  To her left was a pair of entryways, both with room numbers affixed with brass numbers. On the right, a staircase rose at an angle, pushing toward the second floor.

  Giving neither of the doors another thought, Rye fell in behind Blue, taking the stairs two and three at a time. Her lungs continued to fight for air as she moved on, her heart racing, sweat streaming down either side of her face.

  Four seconds later they were deposited on the second floor, this with the same basic design as the first, the only difference being another door in place of the mailboxes.

  These too they passed without a glance, focus aimed upward.

  “Slow,” Rye hissed as they made the turn to the final staircase, Blue easing his pace, taking the steps one at a time.

  Behind him, Rye lifted her guns upward at an angle, sweeping every visible inch before rising one stair and repeating the process again.

  Despite the aching in her lungs for precious oxygen, she forced herself to breathe only through her nose, the space silent as she moved forward.

  As she reached the midway point, the second door above came into view, Rye spreading her arms wide, keeping a gun trained on each one. One step at a time, she continued to ascend, her head swiveling between the two, her knee tight against Blue, his weight an anchor as she moved forward.

  Neither of the doors was marked in any way beyond the basic numbering, each as nondescript as the ones on the previous floors. No light could be seen spilling through the crack at the bottom of either one, ditto for any signs of deliveries or packages that might tip her off as to which one the shooter was tucked away inside.

  All she knew for certain was that the shot had come from this side of the building, allowing her to discount the door on the opposite side of the hall.

  Beyond that, it was a fifty-fifty split, the smell of gunpowder residue in the air removing any doubt that she was in the right place.

  Raising her attention to the ceiling, she cast her gaze along the crown molding outlining the wall, the wood dark and varnished, cobwebs gathering in the corners. Anywhere along there could be a hidden camera, a fiber optic lens aimed straight at her, someone on the other side of the door just waiting for her to approach.

  “Shit,” Rye muttered, switching her gaze between the two, hoping for some indicator as to where her target was hiding.

  Luckily for her, they did one better.

  Any question of outside surveillance was answered a moment later as the door before her burst open, a man dressed entirely in black coming into view. Slung over his left shoulder was the shooting strap of a 30-caliber rifle, the thick gray band obvious against his dark clothes.

  For an instant their eyes met, surprise and confusion both passing quickly, replaced just as fast by realization.

  Short, with dark features that looked to be permanently screwed up into a scowl, there was no doubt who the man worked for or what his intentions were. On sight, his eyebrows rose once before coming back together, his gaze fierce as it locked onto Rye.

  In short order, the same sequence of thoughts passed through her mind, culminating in flashing lights erupting behind her eyes, her brain alerting her to danger, telling her to spring into action.

  With one fluid burst, she swung her left arm over alongside her right, both guns spurting yellow bursts in unison.

  The left – which was always her weaker hand – tore a chunk out of the door, wood splinters erupting into the air.

  The right took a similar piece from his upper
arm, a red mist spurting out, spattering the floor by his feet.

  As if not feeling it in the slightest, the man made no effort to go for his weapon, instead extending his right hand out for the door. Clasping it around the far edge, he moved to jerk it forward, already retreating into the room.

  “Go!” Rye screamed, her voice much louder than anticipated, bouncing off the narrow confines of the hallway.

  With the echo of it still in the air, Blue shot forward, skipping the final four stairs as he rocketed upward, hitting the top landing before launching himself at the door.

  Keeping her body square, Rye squeezed off a second quick volley, the spastic movements of the man showing that both drew contact, the growing collection of blood droplets on the floor confirming as much.

  An instant later, Blue arrived, letting out a mighty snarl, a deep and carnal sound from deep in the diaphragm as he slammed into the door swinging shut, the thin wood particulate no match for his size and force.

  Holding any further fire to ensure she didn’t hit him, Rye twisted her body to the side and sprinted upward. Cresting at the top, she spun hard around the top banister post and extended her guns again, going straight for the door, trusting that Blue had the man pinned down enough to keep her from catching fire.

  Stepping straight through the remnants of the door, the combined scents of gunpowder, blood, and sawdust found her nostrils.

  The interior of the place was as she would have imagined, the same sort of lair she had used on more than one occasion. Completely barren, it had the open design of a spacious studio, essentially a large room with a kitchenette in the corner, a small chunk parsed off against the side for a bathroom.

  Along the far wall was a pair of windows, a trio of folding chairs lined out before them, a handful of cooler sacks and some papers spread on the floor throughout.

  All of that Rye left to her subconscious to process, her focus instead on the man retreating steadily for the far corner, his hands wet with blood, clawing at the rifle strap across his chest.