Unlucky Day

by J. R. McLeay

  The detective's eyes darted from side to side, skipping from the ground to the rooftops of the tall buildings surrounding him. With Weir injured, he knew the sniper would be even more unpredictable. Joe couldn't afford to be blindsided by another booby trap or ambush. And his suddenly fainthearted partner could no longer be counted on to have his back. There was something he saw in her eyes when she lined the sniper up at the end of the lane that he'd never seen before. Aided by the speed and maneuverability of his bicycle, the sniper was staying one step ahead of the tracking dogs and the police cruisers. Joe was the only tenuous link keeping a connection with the target.

  The blood trail wove erratically between the buildings in the courtyard. Overhead, the police helicopter followed the detective's path through the labyrinthine maze of lanes. Its spotlight danced ahead of him, searching for the rider. Joe knew Weir wasn't likely to abandon his bicycle and flee on foot. His only slim chance at escaping the dragnet closing in on all sides was to keep moving in the shadows.

  The spotlight suddenly stopped when it caught the outline of someone lurking in an alcove. Weir hesitated for a moment then darted out of the niche and banked his bike south onto Broadway. Joe pumped his legs and followed him onto the main boulevard. One hundred feet ahead, Weir was racing down the street against oncoming traffic.

  Two blocks away, a train of flashing patrol cars raced toward the rider. The patrol car at the front of the line skidded sideways to block Weir's forward movement. Weir banked onto the grassy median separating the northbound and southbound lanes and resumed his pace on the opposite side of the street.

  Joe hopped the median and picked up the chase. The roar of the helicopter above his head was deafening as it swooped low, skimming over the trees lining the median. The detective lifted his pistol and tried to get a bead on the sniper. He was weaving too quickly between the cars moving in the same direction on the busy avenue.

  Even in the middle of a life-and-death police chase, Joe thought, New York drivers still refused to yield.

  Weir swerved off Broadway onto 91st Street, heading west. Joe shook his head as he saw the treeline of Riverside Park rapidly approaching.

  I can't let him get to the park, he thought. There's too much cover. The river's only three blocks away...

  Joe raised his pistol to take aim at the rider. Traffic was thin on the side street, and he finally had a clear shot. But just as he was about to fire, a strange thing happened. People began pouring out of cafes and buildings lining the sides of the street, and they converged on the rider. They'd somehow been informed of Weir's movement, and a mob mentality had taken hold. Recognizing the sniper was finally on the run, they'd abandoned their fear and begun to turn the tables.

  The predator had become prey. The shadowy guerrilla was no longer taking people out on his terms. The battle was now in the open, and the odds had changed.

  It was now eight million to one in the people's favor.

  63

  Upper West Side

  July 24, 12:45 p.m.

  Five hundred feet above the unfolding street drama, a swarm of helicopters monitored the chase scene with intense interest. Like locusts swarming over a ripe cornfield, they moved in tandem, soaking up the action as it moved westward. The sniper killings was the biggest story in the country, and the capture of the New York rooftop sniper was a coup no news organization wanted to miss.

  The NBC local affiliate was no exception. Elizabeth Porter, the street correspondent for the Today Show, was reporting live from one of the helicopters. Her cameraman zoomed in on the sniper with the detective in hot pursuit and was broadcasting the chase on millions of televisions and portable electronic devices across America. The whole country was glued to their screens, transfixed by the drama taking place on the streets of Manhattan.

  Doug Morrison and NBC news anchor Robert Raynes provided running commentary as the two cyclists snaked a serpentine trail through the Upper West Side.

  “The New York sniper is desperately trying to evade police pursuit on a bicycle,” the anchorman reported. “We have reports that the cyclist following close behind is Detective Joe Bannon from the NYPD. Bannon has been trying to catch the rooftop sniper since his first killing almost three weeks ago. This is the closest anyone has gotten to capturing the mysterious killer.

  “Doug, I understand that shots were fired as the President was speaking in Central Park. Can you give us an update on the situation?”

  The camera cut to the Today Show host in the Rockefeller studio.

  “Bob, all we know is that a single shot was fired in the vicinity of the Great Lawn as the President was giving his address. He continued speaking while his security detail closed in on the suspect.”

  “That’s highly irregular,” the anchorman said. “In similar incidents, the President has always been hustled away into a waiting vehicle and rushed out of harm's way.”

  Morrison nodded.

  “It's definitely unusual. It's almost as if his security people were anticipating the attack and somehow knew the President couldn't be harmed.”

  “We're following the sniper on the live cam,” Raynes said. “Can you tell us where he is right now?”

  Morrison turned to his monitor.

  “Elizabeth Porter is following the chase from our helicopter flying over the action. Liz, what are you seeing?”

  The camera cut to the correspondent. The roar of the helicopter engine above her cab forced her to shout into her headset.

  “Doug, the sniper is moving westward toward Riverside Park along 94th Street, just past West End Avenue. Another cyclist, who we believe is Detective Bannon, is following closely behind. Hordes of people have begun pouring out of buildings all around the area, taking up the chase.”

  “Are they security personnel or ordinary citizens?” Morrison asked.

  “From what we can tell, they appear to be average New Yorkers. The live coverage of the chase seems to have awoken a primal urge for revenge. People are no longer afraid to move openly onto the streets of Manhattan.”

  “What about the local police and Secret Service?” the anchorman asked. “Why haven't they been able to stop one cyclist?”

  Liz pressed the headset against her ear, struggling to hear the studio feed.

  “We have reports that the sniper set booby traps along his escape route to slow down his pursuers,” she reported.

  “What kind of traps?” asked the anchorman.

  “One observer from the park said he used trip lines to slow down police officers pursuing on foot. Our camera subsequently captured Detective Bannon pulled off his bike as he followed the sniper into a lane between two buildings.”

  The camera cut back to Morrison in the studio.

  “The sniper's proven to be very resourceful in evading the police in previous attacks. Do you think these traps indicate he’s following a planned escape route?”

  Liz paused for a moment.

  “It's hard to imagine he's been able to stick to any plan with so many pursuers converging from every angle. Thousands of police and citizens are chasing by foot, car, and helicopter. Tracking dogs are only a few blocks further behind.”

  “How can he possibly hope to escape to under these circumstances?” Morrison asked.

  “I can't speculate, but he must know that his life lies in the balance. With everything he's done, the police and the mob won't hesitate to kill him if given the slightest chance.”

  The camera cut to the street scene where the riders approached a wall of flashing cruisers at the end of 94th Street. Scores of uniformed police officers crouched over the hood of their cars with their pistols pointed at the lead cyclist. The sniper veered into a cluster of high-rise buildings on the south side of the street and disappeared.

  “He's turned off 94th Street,” Morrison said. “Where is he now?”

  “We've lost sight of him,” Liz said, “but there's a police helicopter hovering over the block, continuing to move south. Citizens have reported a blood
trail following the path of the riders. We believe Detective Bannon may have nicked the sniper and that he's using the trail to track the killer's movement in the maze of buildings between the main streets.”

  A cyclist suddenly shot out between two buildings and turned westward onto 93rd Street.

  “There he is!” Liz shouted. “The sniper's camouflage clothing and face paint are unmistakable. Detective Bannon is close behind. It's only a matter of time before he catches the sniper.”

  Morrison leaned toward the monitor.

  “He's turning off 93rd now.”

  Liz nodded excitedly.

  “He's on Riverside Drive, headed south. Police cruisers are converging on his position from the north and south. He's got nowhere to go.”

  Weir's bike suddenly skipped over the roadside curb and disappeared under some trees at the side of the park. Joe raised his pistol and fired three shots into the trees then followed him into the park.

  “Detective Bannon just fired at the sniper,” Liz announced. “We've temporarily lost them in the trees.”

  The camera darted back and forth over the forested green space, trying to pick up the riders. A few seconds later, the lead cyclist broke into a clearing and headed toward a monument in the center of the park.

  “The sniper has reached the Sailors and Soldiers Monument. His bike is chattering down the steep steps leading from the plaza to the Hudson River Greenway. The detective is following close on his heels.”

  Morrison shook his head.

  “It looks like he's running out of real estate. There’s only a narrow patch of land between him and the Hudson River. Where else can he go?”

  Liz nodded as she scanned the area to the south.

  “He's shaken off the police cruisers and the mob following from the streets on the east side. But the park is narrowing as he moves toward its southern terminus. He's blocked by a trail of police cruisers on his left and the river to his right. He's headed toward a dead end.”

  64

  Riverside Park

  1:00 p.m.

  Weir banked his bike onto the park's central esplanade and glanced over his shoulder. Joe had followed his path down the monument steps and was only a hundred feet behind. Overhead, the police helicopter swooped down over the top of the trees, blowing debris in all directions.

  Shit, Weir cursed. He's one persistent son of a bitch.

  The Hudson River Greenway ran the length of the park. With two wide pedestrian lanes separated by a grassy median, it provided little protection from above. The sniper's only defense from police sharpshooters taking aim from the helicopter was to zigzag his bike along the path.

  Weir could hear the sound of bullets striking the concrete pavement as he veered back and forth over the median. He glanced to his right. There were six lanes of heavy traffic on the Henry Hudson Parkway separating him from the Hudson River. Even if he could scale the concrete roadside barrier and avoid getting run over trying to cross, he'd be too exposed to the sharpshooters flying above.

  To his left, he saw a row of flashing police cruisers lining Riverside Drive. Uniformed cops were streaming down the side of the hill through the trees, trying to cut off his flank.

  He was pinched on both sides, and the vice was closing.

  His only chance was to get to the end of the park where there was an underpass to the river. He knew it would likely be blocked, but he'd deal with that when he got there. Right now, he had to keep the swarm of approaching police on his left side at bay.

  He pulled out his pistol and began firing in the direction of the cops. Some of them paused to take cover behind the trees. Weir still had the speed advantage on his bike. So far, his unpredictable course changes had bypassed the blockades. The cops were still playing catch-up, trailing slightly behind.

  Detective Bannon and the copter were his biggest immediate threat. He could feel the pain from the bullet wedged in his shoulder and knew that he was losing blood. All he had to do was preserve enough energy to get to the Hudson River. The cold water would constrict his blood vessels and slow the bleeding. Then he could hide under the surface, and the current would carry him out of harm’s way.

  Weir squinted toward the end of the path. He only had a few hundred yards to go. The park narrowed as it approached 79th Street and the police were moving in on both sides. He had a narrow window before the wedge closed. He stood up on his pedals and pumped his legs. Bullets were flying from every direction. A few pinged off his bike and another one ricocheted off his Kevlar vest.

  Fifty yards, twenty, ten...

  Weir suddenly veered off the esplanade and hopped over the Parkway exit ramp onto 79th Street. Just ahead was the underpass leading to the Boat Basin quay. Two police cars formed a wedge across the road, and four cops pointed their pistols in the sniper's direction. Weir reached to his side and unclipped a grenade attached to his belt. He lifted it to his mouth and pulled the safety pin out with his teeth then flung it forward as hard as he could.

  Three seconds later, a loud explosion rocked the two cars in a cloud of smoke. Weir raced straight into the smoke and slammed past the shell-shocked cops to the other side of the underpass.

  Just past the Boat Basin Cafe, he saw the wide expanse of the Hudson River. He only had another hundred yards to go. Then he'd be in God's hands.

  65

  The Boat Basin, Hudson River

  July 24, 1:05 p.m.

  Weir stormed through the police blockade and sped onto the circular drive surrounding the Boat Basin Cafe. The helicopter pilot saw him shoot out of the tunnel and swooped down, clipping his shoulder with one of the chopper's landing skids. Weir winced in pain and wobbled his bike for a few seconds, then regained his balance and raced down the ramp leading to the quay.

  Across the promenade, he saw the pretty array of yachts moored in their slips. It was the end of the line. A few yards away, the opaque surface of the Hudson River slid southward like a giant slab of rolled steel. He smiled at the irony. The sniper who dispatched those stepping into the light would save himself by slipping under the cloak of darkness.

  Weir glanced over his shoulder. Angry diners streamed out of the cafe in his direction. The chase scene had played on the restaurant's big screen TV, and its patrons had talked about what they would do if they got their hands on him. Recognizing he had his back to the river, this was their chance to exact revenge on the killer who'd tormented them for weeks.

  There was only one way to go. Weir hopped off his bike and flinched. From the adrenaline of the chase, he hadn't realized he'd also been shot in the leg. As he hobbled down the narrow dock, he heard the pounding steps of the mob closing in. He wheeled around and fired two shots into the crowd. One man near the head of the line dropped onto the wharf, and the group paused.

  Weir pulled the trigger, but his magazine was spent. As he pumped his hand, the pistol clicked harmlessly. Seeing that he was out of ammunition, the crowd surged toward the sniper. A burly man caught a piece of Weir's vest as he tried to hop over the railing into the water and pulled him back onto the dock. He slammed the sniper's body onto the platform and began pummeling his face with his fists.

  Weir's body shook as the man worked him over. Realizing he had one last chance, Weir pulled his hunting knife out of his side pocket and stabbed the man in the neck. Seconds later, the sun disappeared as scores of citizens piled on top of him, knifing him repeatedly with steak knives.

  The last thing Weir remembered before passing out was hearing the familiar crack-crack-crack of a Glock pistol being fired into the air.

  66

  The Boat Basin, Hudson River

  July 24, 1:10 p.m.

  Joe stormed through the Parkway underpass onto the Boat Basin circular drive. He'd paused just long enough in the tunnel to check on the condition of his colleagues and call for medical assistance. From his elevated position above the docks, he could see a swarm of people in a pile at the end of the jetty.

  The police helicopter hovered overhead,
barking orders over its loudspeaker for the crowd to disperse. At the bottom of the pile, through glinting flashes of steel, he saw the unmistakable pattern of camouflaged clothes. It was obvious the crowd had closed in on the sniper and was taking matters into their own hands.

  Joe sped down the ramp and skipped his bike over the riverside path onto the pier. He raced down the dock and skidded to a stop at the edge of the crowd. He tried to pull people off the heap, but the angry mob clung to the sniper's clothing, refusing to be checked.

  Joe stood up and hesitated. For many days, he'd dreamed of the moment when he would be able to watch Weir suffer as he'd made so many others suffer. It would be a fitting end to the vicious killer, at the hands of his victims. But this wasn't the way he envisioned it. Whether it was his desire to see the life drain out of the sniper's eyes or to kill him himself, he couldn't just stand by.

  He pulled his service pistol out of its holster and pointed it over the top of the pile. Then he fired three shots in rapid succession. He’d kept track of the number of times he'd fired his gun since the chase began. He'd purposely saved one round.

  The mob stopped moving momentarily and looked back at the detective. He was pointing his gun directly at the crowd.

  “Police!” Joe shouted. “Back away immediately!”

  People slowly pulled off the pile and backed away in a circle around the wounded sniper. Joe looked at Weir's battered face and bloody clothes, unsure if he was dead or simply unconscious. On the dock beside him was a long breathing tube with a transparent float attached to one end. As the detective took a step forward, Weir groaned and lifted his eyelids.

  The sniper and the detective regarded one another for many long seconds. Then Weir's lip curled into a strange smile. As he reached for his empty pistol, Joe raised his gun and pointed it squarely at the sniper's head.