by Lauren Carr
No way will I let them see me suffer or hear me beg. The longer they take with me, the more chances there’ll be for Dallas to escape. Please let Mac find her somehow—someway.
“Your turn, Joe,” the first officer said to the largest of the three.
Cringing through the pain, David saw Joe grinning down at him. He had his gun, fit with a silencer, pointed at one of his knees.
David glared up at him.
A wicked laugh escaped from Joe’s lips.
David braced for the shot. He was so focused on the impending brutal pain in his knee that he didn’t notice the abrupt rush of movement behind Joe. It was as if he’d lost time between the dirty cop cackling and him suddenly screaming out in gut-wrenching pain.
A split second later, David felt hot blood spray over him. Blood was gushing out of Joe’s throat, where Dallas had plunged the blade of a box cutter.
In their thirst to avenge the death of their friends, the trained officers had completely forgotten to keep an eye on the hysterical and seemingly helpless woman they had bound with a zip cord in the corner. Because they had dismissed her, none of them noticed when she managed to pick up a discarded box cutter blade and cut through the rip cord binding her hands—at least not until she landed on Joe’s back. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she forced his head back with her hand under his nose and plunged the point of the razor blade into his jugular. His blood shot out of the wound like water from a hose that had suddenly been turned on. Without stopping, she dragged the razor straight across the assailant’s throat.
David regained his composure quickly enough to drop down and roll across the cement floor in the hope of avoiding any stray bullets that Joe might fire off in the losing fight for his life.
Like a mountain lion taking down its prey, Dallas clung to his back while slicing away with the blade, even while Joe clawed, kicked, and thrashed in a vain attempt to buck her off. With blood spewing from his severed jugular vein, he finally collapsed. Joe’s agonizing screams were almost drowned out by the sound of semiautomatic gunfire.
“Dallas! No!” Hearing the gunshots, David tried to sit up. He expected to find that Dallas had died—that she’d been finished off by the two remaining officers.
Instead, David discovered all three assassins sprawled out before him. The armor-piercing bullets from the semiautomatic weapon had cut through the ballistics vests they were wearing like they were made of paper. The shortest one was twitching and uttering noises that David recognized as death rattles.
“David!”
He almost jumped up to his knees when he saw Dallas push Joe aside and crawl out from under him. She was covered in blood but seemingly all right.
Behind him, he heard the clatter of a single pair of boots making its way toward them.
“Are you okay?” She ran over to him with a bloody razor blade in her hand. “Thank God the police finally got here.”
As their savior drew near, David said, “I don’t think she’s with the police.”
Dallas looked up from where she had cut David loose and saw the tall, stunning woman she had met in the elevator making her way toward them. In contrast to the elegant red dress she had been wearing the evening before, she was clad in black from her boots to her leather gloves, her form-fitting pants, and her leather jacket. She was carrying an AP-9 semiautomatic machine gun in her arms.
Seeing the weapon, Dallas wrapped her arms around David. “Don’t hurt him!”
“I have no intention of hurting your friend.”
A gravely wounded officer moaned.
Hearing him, the woman in black went over to where he was jerking in pain. Aiming her gun down at him, she pulled the trigger to finish him off. Once she was satisfied that the three assassins were dead, she went back to where David was holding Dallas in his arms.
“The police are now on their way.” She held out the machine gun to David. “I’d appreciate it if you take credit for this, Chief.”
“But—”
“You’re special forces in the marines,” she said with a grin. “I’m sure you can think of some way to make it believable. The police will be anxious to believe anything you say if it puts this whole scandal of dirty cops working as paid assassins behind them.”
Hearing sirens far in the distance, she hurried in the direction from which she had come.
“Who are you?” Dallas blurted out to stop her.
“I told you, my dear,” she replied. “A friend of your mother’s. She and I are now even.” Turning back to David, she tossed what looked like a stone into his lap. “Now you owe me one, Chief O’Callaghan,” she said with a wink before running across the floor, jumping over a low wall, and using the scaffolding to scale down the building without the incoming police seeing her.
“What’s that?” Dallas grabbed the stone from his lap to see what she had thrown at him.
Seeing the shiny black jewel, David frowned. “It’s a black diamond. One of the world’s most infamous paid assassins just saved our lives … and now I owe her.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Lieutenant Wayne Hopkins checked the time on the bank clock while he waited for the traffic light to change and to allow him through the intersection. It was ten minutes before nine o’clock.
In almost half a block, he would pull into the parking garage. He’d take three floors up to the homicide squad. He’d pour himself a mug of coffee and walk into the briefing room to regretfully tell the chief that there was still no news from any of the officers on patrol about the whereabouts of David O’Callaghan or Ali Hudson. Somehow, they must have escaped the city.
Yes, it was turning into a perfect day. With these last two potential witnesses gone, all the loose ends in the Audra Walker murder case were tied up. In a matter of months, the detective would cash in on favors owed to him. In approximately a year, Lieutenant Wayne Hopkins would accept a generous offer from ZNC for his own program and retire from the police department to become a celebrity.
After climbing out of his black SUV, Hopkins paused to admire his reflection in the rearview mirror. He was displeased to see that his hairline was receding higher than he would’ve liked. Maybe I’ll need some hair plugs.
Usually when it was approaching nine o’clock, the parking garage would be filled with plain-clothes detectives reporting for duty. To his surprise, the garage was strangely quiet. Even so, Hopkins had a feeling that he was not alone. As he approached the elevators, a noise from the shadows caught his attention.
He stopped and listened.
Grrrrrr.
He turned to look over at four parking spaces. In one there was a luxury sedan, in another, a sports car, and in the remaining two, SUVs.
Everything was still.
He listened again.
He heard only the sounds of the city outside.
You need more sleep, Hopkins.
With a shake of his head, he went over to the elevator and pressed the “call” button.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move in the shadows. Turning his head, he searched for the source of the movement. Could a burglar be looking to steal my SUV … from the police parking garage? Maybe a felon seeking revenge for an arrest?
Listening and watching, Hopkins waited with his hand on his service weapon.
When the elevator doors swung open, the sudden movement made him grab for his weapon, causing the woman on the elevator to utter a shriek. Apologizing, Hopkins hurried on while she trotted off.
By the time he reached the homicide squad, Lieutenant Wayne Hopkins had shaken off his paranoia. He sauntered into the squad room with his lies in order.
“Where’ve you been, Hopkins?” His young partner, Detective Winslow, stood up from the desk across from Hopkins’ cubicle.
“There was a car broken down on the way in, and traffic was backed up, so I decided to
stop for breakfast.” Hopkins checked the time on his cell phone. “Still got time to pour my coffee before the morning briefing, though.”
“Briefing was cancelled,” Detective Winslow said. “Chief has been tied up all morning with the captain, commissioner, and feds. Scuttlebutt says it’s about Gibbons’ murder.”
Lieutenant Wayne Hopkins’ eyes grew wide. His mouth dropped open. “Seriously? Lieutenant Gibbons was murdered?”
“Where’ve you been?” Winslow asked. “It happened last night. FBI swooped in before any of the locals could get there, and they’re taking the lead.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Everyone says she got too close to that gang of dirty cops she’s been investigating, and they whacked her.”
“Why didn’t anyone call me?” Lieutenant Hopkins shook his head. “I can’t believe the commissioner allowed the feds—”
Detective Winslow was suddenly out of his seat and scurrying away. When Lieutenant Wayne Hopkins turned around, he was face to face with his chief, Lieutenant Andrew Van Patton.
“Hopkins! My office!”
The chief spun on his heels and marched off to his office in the corner of the squad room. A blanket of silence fell over the squad. Hopkins could feel the eyes of his colleagues on him while he made his way to their chief’s office.
As soon as he crossed the threshold, Hopkins saw Mac Faraday leaning against the wall across from him. With one ankle crossed over the other and his arms folded across his chest, Mac was casual—yet the glare in his eyes was something completely different. As he looked the detective up and down, Mac seemed capable of penetrating through Hopkins’ lies and uncovering his secrets.
You have nothing on me, Faraday.
Van Patton slammed his office door. “Where’ve you been, Hopkins?” he asked in a firm tone.
“Checking around the different precincts to see if anyone’s gotten any leads on O’Callaghan,” Hopkins said. “Every confidential informant has been put on notice.” He smirked over Van Patton’s shoulder at Mac. “He killed Sauer and Logan twenty-two hours ago. I’m thinking he’s fled the country—possibly with the help of a friend with resources.”
Instead of answering him, Mac unfolded his arms and stood up to his full height.
“It has come to our attention that both Sauer and Logan were being investigated by Lieutenant Gibbons of internal affairs for belonging to a gang of dirty cops who were not only taking bribes but also moonlighting as muscle for hire and even performing paid hits,” Van Patton said.
“Both Sauer and Logan were on break when they were killed,” Mac said, closing in on the detective. “My information tells me that they used that break to attempt a hit on O’Callaghan and Hudson—which forced O’Callaghan to kill them in self-defense.”
“Your information?” Hopkins repeated. “Would your informant be David O’Callaghan, by any chance?” He turned to his chief. “You do realize that if Faraday has been in communication with O’Callaghan and hasn’t told the police, he can be charged for obstruction of justice and harboring a fugitive.” He turned to Mac. “We could arrest you.”
“Actually, it’s you who should be arrested.” Seeing that a bloody corner of Hopkins’ handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket, Mac snatched it and held it up for Van Patton to see. “That is, if the blood I see on this handkerchief turns out to belong to O’Callaghan.”
Lieutenant Wayne Hopkins’ mouth dropped open. With a loud laugh, he snatched the handkerchief from Mac’s hand and shoved it back into his pocket. “If you have an accusation to make, just say it, Faraday. There’s a warrant out for David O’Callaghan’s arrest for killing two New York City police officers.”
“Actually, he isn’t a suspect anymore,” Lieutenant Van Patton said. “He and Hudson are material witnesses. The feds uncovered evidence in Gibbons’ apartment supporting Faraday’s claim that O’Callaghan killed them in self-defense.”
Mac smirked while Hopkins’s confident demeanor fell.
“Which leads to our next question, Hopkins. Did you have a personal relationship with Abigail Gibbons?” Lieutenant Van Patton asked.
“Yes,” Hopkins replied without hesitation. “We were having a sexual relationship. We were both the same rank and adults. We cared about each other.”
“Would she share her status on her investigation into the Dirty Six with you?” Mac asked.
“No,” Hopkins said. “We never discussed our cases with each other. We would just get together for a roll in the hay, nothing more.”
“Did you see her last night?” Van Patton asked.
“No,” Hopkins sputtered. “I hadn’t seen Gibbons in a couple of weeks. Our relationship was completely casual—nothing heavy. We had a no-strings-attached, friends-with-benefits situation—nothing else. I certainly had no reason to toss her out a window. Now am I under arrest? Suspended? Do I need a lawyer?”
Van Patton turned to Mac, who shrugged his shoulders in a sign of resignation.
“The federal agents taking the lead in the Gibbons investigation are going to want to talk to you,” Van Patton said. “They’ll be here at ten o’clock. Plan to meet with them in interrogation.”
“Am I free to go get a Starbucks?” Hopkins asked.
“You can even get a scone if you want.” Mac stepped aside, allowing him to pass him in his hurry to escape the office.
Mac waited for Hopkins to trot out of the squad room before turning to Van Patton, who had left his office to gesture for a team of detectives to follow their colleague. “Did you notice that Hopkins acted surprised to learn that Abigail Gibbons was dead—and yet, without our saying anything, he knew she’d been thrown out a window?”
With a shake of his head, Van Patton grumbled. “You do know he’s going to run?”
“Of course he’s going to run,” Mac said. “Especially after he gets a load of the little present I left in his SUV. But, believe me, he’s not going anywhere.”
His cell phone to his ear, Wayne Hopkins practically bolted off the elevator in his haste to get to his SUV and away from the precinct as quickly as possible. The feds were going to be there at ten o’clock. That meant he had less than an hour to get as far from New York as possible—or to get the biggest, baddest defense lawyer in the city. Even if he managed to escape arrest for murder, the suspicion alone would cast a cloud over his image. His fledgling television career could be irreparably damaged before it even started.
He had to shift his priorities to self-preservation.
Reaching voice mail, he said, “It’s all shot to hell. Faraday’s brought in the feds, and they’re after me. If you don’t want to go down with me, we need to make some adjustment for payment. Call me back ASAP.”
Approaching the SUV, Hopkins hit the button on his key chain to unlock the door. After shoving the cell phone into his pocket, he yanked on the door handle and found the door was locked. With a growl, he hit the button on the key chain to unlock the doors again and climbed into the front seat.
“Damn it!” His frustration overflowing, he banged on the steering wheel with his fists. So close! I was on the brink! Only the month before, he had spent a whole weekend with a shapely brunette who had recognized him from an appearance on Crime Watch. Enamored with his celebrity, she had given herself to him freely—and had asked him question after question about being on television and about what Ryan Ritter, Yvonne Harding, and Pam Wiehl were really like.
He’d been inside the world of stardom. Using his resources on the police force, he had managed to maneuver himself closer to the center, and he had been on the brink of breaking into it.
“Damn! Damn! Damn!” He continued to pound the steering wheel. Glaring straight ahead, Hopkins huffed and puffed with fury.
“Grrrr!”
Stopping, he listened. Again, the low noise came from behind him.
“Grrrrrrrrr!”
He turned
around to peer into the backseat. Listening, he heard nothing. After jamming the key into the ignition, he started the engine.
Abby Gibbons’ voice blasted from the speakers, filling the interior of the SUV. “You’re nothing more than a common street thug with a badge!”
His deranged tone almost made his own voice unrecognizable. “I’m an exceptional opportunist—not only seeing but also using the opportunities that life has granted me. That’s the difference between common street cops like Roberts who retire to dreary little apartments and the stars.”
“Is stardom worth it? Sending those goons, Sauer and Logan, to kill David O’Callaghan—”
“No, Abby! You have it wrong! I sent them to kill Hudson—”
Hopkins pounded the console to turn off the player.
Silence filled the SUV—but only for a moment.
“Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”
Hopkins whirled around to look into the backseat again.
Again, he saw nothing.
After throwing open the door, he climbed out of the car. He took his gun out of his holster and slowly made his way around the SUV, checking underneath it. Abruptly, he sensed movement nearby. Rising up, he looked into the rear compartment of the SUV. Nothing.
You’re paranoid, Hopkins. With a sigh, he holstered his gun. Sooner you get out of the city, the better.
He hurried around the SUV to throw open the driver’s door and climbed in.
Absorbed in his thoughts of how best to make his escape, it wasn’t until he had fastened his seat belt and reached for the gearshift in the center console that he noticed the long, furry tail that was spilling out of the passenger seat.
Once again, he heard the low growl—only then it was next to him.
Raising his eyes from the gearshift, Wayne Hopkins looked directly into the eyes of Gnarly, whose head was equal in size to that of the detective.
“So it’s you,” Hopkins said while slowly reaching for his weapon. “Faraday thinks he can use you to intimidate me. Well first I’m going to shoot you, and then I’m going to skin you and cut off your head and ship you to his mansion on Deep Creek Lake.”