Last Breath

by Michael Prescott

  As a kid, he used to pick up bugs and put them in a tin can for safekeeping, and that was what C.J. was now—a bug in a tin can.

  He reached the window and drew his gun. He would go in cautiously. It was possible she’d be crouching just inside, wielding a makeshift weapon. He would take no chances now, not with the contest nearly won....

  Wait.

  He smelled something acrid, tangy.

  Smoke.

  He glanced around the alley, and in the glare of the high beams he saw a dim mist, which was not mist, rising from beneath his car.

  The engine was still idling. And the leaves, the dry leaves—the heat of the catalytic converter must have set them smoldering.

  No big deal, but he’d better shut off the engine.

  He was limping back to the car when a new scent reached him, unfamiliar and vaguely threatening.

  For the first time he considered his situation. Narrow alleyway, fence on one side, metal wall on the other, little room to maneuver.

  C.J. wasn’t stupid. She wouldn’t allow herself to be trapped so easily.

  Unless it was a way of trapping him.

  The leaves, smoldering ...

  That other smell.

  Oil.

  God damn it. It was oil.

  Adam knew what was going to happen, and his body reacted with an instinctive pivot and then a desperate leap toward the window, and behind him—

  A whoosh of combustion. A rush of heat.

  ***

  “What the fuck is that?”

  The shout came from the Sikorsky’s copilot, who’d been watching the FLIR data on the video display screen and had seen the screen nearly white out with a bloom of incandescence.

  But it didn’t take an infrared sensor to detect the red splash of light wavering northeast of the chopper, in the desolate hills.

  Tanner glanced at Walsh, peering over his shoulder. “It’s gotta be her,” Tanner said.

  Walsh turned to the pilot. “Set us down over there!”

  Behind them, there was movement—Deputy Pardon, his scout, his two assaulters, his rearguard, and an attached sniper team of shooter and spotter, all checking their utility belts, goggles, and firearms.

  They’d sat stiffly patient since boarding the chopper in downtown LA, but now they were coming to life.

  Tanner knew the feeling.

  Show time.

  55

  Brightness at his back. White heat in a solid wall.

  It singed Adam Nolan’s neck, his ears, and for a split second he thought he was on fire, actually ablaze like a corpse on a funeral pyre, and then the momentum of his leap carried him through the broken window and he landed on a concrete floor, his injured knee crying out.

  While the alarm shrieked around him, he rolled over and over, trying frantically to smother any flames on his clothes or his hair, but there were no flames. The heat had reached him, seared him, but that was all.

  He remembered C.J.

  Up in a crouch, the gun still in his hand. He snapped off two rounds into the dark. The shots echoed above the alarm’s ululant siren.

  He hadn’t hit her, but he must have convinced her to keep her distance.

  Now just switch on the flashlight, hunt her down ...

  No flashlight. He had lost it in his dive through the window. The only light in the warehouse was the fireglow from outside, and it did not extend more than a few yards into the interior.

  He would have to track her in darkness, with the alarm wailing and his knee pulsing with pain.

  God damn, he hated that whore.

  In the flickering firelight he saw the can she’d flung inside. The label read, “WOOD STAIN.”

  Oil-based. Inflammable.

  She must have poured the can’s contents over the leaves, where she had known he would stop. She had counted on him to leave his motor running, counted on the heat of the catalytic converter to ignite the fuel. She’d meant to roast him alive.

  “You cunt,” he breathed, then raised his voice to be heard over the alarm. “You fucking cunt, C.J.!”

  He glimpsed her white sneakers blurring into the darker recesses of the warehouse, and he fired again. Missed her, damn it, and already the light from the window was dimming as the fire died down. The inflammable liquids had vaporized, and there was nothing left to burn but dry grass and leaves.

  At least the BMW’s fuel tank hadn’t ruptured; there had been no explosion. Car must be ruined, though. Undrivable. How the hell was he supposed to get home? And even if he did, how would he explain the missing car, the injuries he’d suffered?

  Everything was fucked up. His perfect crime, his cover story—all shot to hell.

  He forced himself to calm down. Hard to think with that alarm clanging in his skull. And he was tired, worn out. But he had to keep it together. He almost had her. And once she was dead ...

  He would steal a car for the drive home. Clean himself up in his shower, and with fresh clothes and a false smile, he wouldn’t look much worse for wear.

  As for the BMW—why would the cops even ask to see it if he wasn’t a suspect? He was the grief-stricken ex-husband, remember? He had fooled Detective Walsh before. He could do it again.

  Things would still work out. There were complications, sure. Well, when life gives you lemons ...

  “Make lemonade,” he said with an odd, lopsided grin that felt strange on his face. He thought he might be laughing. It seemed strange to laugh at a time like this. He might be cracking up.

  If he was, it was C.J.’s fault. This whole mess, from start to finish, was her doing. She had walked out on him, ended their marriage. She had wormed her way inside his brain until he could think of no other woman. She had fought him and hurt him and cost him time and pain.

  She had done her best to fuck him up.

  Now it was time to return the favor.

  56

  C.J. reached the wall at the far end of the warehouse and groped for an exit, any kind of exit, a door or a window or a hole to crawl through. There was nothing, just smooth metal that stretched in all directions like a sheet of solid darkness.

  Stop. Think.

  There was no exit. The window was the only way in or out. The doors were padlocked from the outside. She had seen the heavy locks and chains.

  She was stuck in here, and Adam was with her.

  She’d been waiting for a flashlight to come on, but he must not have a flash. He would find her anyway. He had all the time he needed, and she had no place to hide.

  The worst thing was that she couldn’t tell if he was right behind her or fifty yards away. The screaming alarm covered any sound of footsteps.

  Covered her own footsteps too. She ought to be grateful for that, but she was past being grateful for anything.

  Her ambush had failed. She had worked it out so carefully, and in the end all she’d accomplished was to get herself trapped in a steel cage with a madman.

  Nice going, Killer. Real slick.

  She didn’t think he’d even been hurt. When he’d called out to her, she had heard no weakness in his voice, only rage—and an edge of hysteria.

  He was out of control. There was no telling what he would do to her, how bad it might be ...

  That line of thought would get her nowhere. She needed a strategy.

  The window was her only way out. If she could slip past Adam in the dark, then climb through the window unobserved ...

  She took a step toward the fireglow dimly visible in the window on the opposite side of the warehouse, and then there was silence, slamming down like a hammer.

  The alarm had shut off.

  She stopped, aware that Adam could hear her footsteps if she moved.

  The glow in the window died away. The last light in the room vanished.

  No sound. No light. Utter stillness.

  She waited, suspended in an ocean of darkness, with only the contact between her sneakers and the floor to convince her that she was still part of physical reality.


  Then Adam’s voice, echoing around her. “You can’t hide, C.J. I can hear you breathing. I can hear the pounding of your goddamned heart.”

  He was trying to goad her into answering or running. Either way she would reveal her position.

  But she couldn’t just stand here.

  She still had to get to the window—if she could find it with no light to guide her.

  She crouched, untied her sneakers, pulled them off, and tied them by the laces to a belt loop on her cargo shorts. Her socks came off next; they were slippery, and she needed traction on the smooth floor. She wadded them up, stuffed them in her pocket. Then stood.

  The floor was cold against the soles of her feet. She took an experimental step, then another.

  He couldn’t hear her. Couldn’t see her.

  She froze. Heard something.

  Footsteps. The click of hard soles on stone.

  Unlike her, he hadn’t taken off his shoes.

  How close was he?

  Couldn’t tell. But she could judge the direction. He was on her left.

  Click. Click.

  Coming closer.

  Did he know where she was? Could he really hear her breathing, her heartbeat, as he’d claimed?

  She untied one of the sneakers from her belt. Waited, standing with shoulders hunched, eyes darting uselessly.

  Another footstep. Very close.

  She threw the sneaker behind her. It hit the floor with a soft thud.

  Laughter. “Think I’m stupid, C.J.?”

  He hadn’t been fooled. Was still coming.

  Her only hope was an all-out sprint to the window.

  She ran—

  And there was a shock of impact, a body heavier than hers flung against her, driving her down, and Adam saying, “Game’s over, bitch.”

  57

  She landed hard on the floor with Adam on top of her. His thighs clamped on her hips as he straddled her, and crazily she thought of the first time they’d made love.

  “God, I’ve wanted this,” he breathed. The same words, then and now—spoken then with passion, now in hate.

  She thrashed and flailed at him, and his hand closed over her right wrist, squeezing hard. “Fuck you, C.J.”

  He twisted her wrist. She jerked sideways and rammed her elbow into his face. A shout of pain, a crunch of bone, but his grip on her wrist didn’t loosen.

  “Broke my nose,” he muttered. “God damn it, you broke my fucking nose.”

  She’d ruined more than that. “Guess what, Adam? You can’t get away with it anymore.”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Busted nose. Very visible. No way to hide it.” She panted out the words, her whole body shaking with raw triumph and raw fury. “How will you explain that to the police, asshole?”

  Silence from Adam as he took this in. Then a croak of rage. “I’ll kill you.”

  I sort of thought that was the idea, C.J. almost said, then felt cold metal against her cheek.

  The gun drifted lower, its muzzle kissing her lips.

  “Open your mouth,” Adam said.

  She wouldn’t.

  “Come on, C.J. You used to like it when I put it in your mouth.”

  The noise that escaped him was less a laugh than a high, hysterical shudder.

  “Open up. And don’t tell me how it doesn’t match the MO. You’re right. I can’t face the cops, so it doesn’t matter anymore. Come on, Officer Osborn. I want you to go out with a bang.”

  She clamped her jaws. She would not yield to him in this last contest of wills.

  “What’s the matter? You won’t open up for me? You won’t put out? Nothing new about that. You were always too goddamned busy. Why do you think I took up with Ashley? She knew how to have fun. I’ll bet you haven’t been fucked since you walked out on me.” He laughed again. “Well, you’re fucked now, C.J. You’re fucked now!”

  Ringing in the darkness.

  The alarm again? No, the sound was too soft.

  His cell phone. That was what it was.

  It seemed to take Adam a moment to remember the phone. Then he swore, and she heard a rustle of clothing as he removed it from his jacket. It rang again, but he still didn’t answer.

  The gun shifted position, and now the muzzle was under her chin, in the hollow of her jaw.

  “Make one sound, I blow you away,” he whispered.

  Click, and the phone’s keypad light came on, illuminating Adam’s face. She stared up at him. His eyes seemed to have sunk into deep hollows. His mouth was a ragged line.

  But when he spoke into the phone, his voice was calm, almost normal. “Adam Nolan.”

  He was close enough for her to hear the reply over the phone’s small speaker. “Mr. Nolan, this is Detective Walsh.”

  Adam closed his eyes briefly, as if a headache was coming on. “Oh. Yes, Detective, I—I’ve been waiting for your call. How is she? Did you find her? Is she okay?”

  C.J. wanted to scream. Wanted more than anything to incriminate him. But she couldn’t. She had fought so hard to live, and she still wanted to extend her life, even if for only another minute. A minute was a long time. Anything could happen in a minute. Anything.

  “We’re not sure, Mr. Nolan,” Walsh was saying.

  “What do you mean you’re not sure?” A good imitation of concern. It was all in his voice. His face remained blank, a mask. “Did you find her or not?”

  “Oh, we’ve found her, all right. But as for her condition, I’m afraid you’ll have to fill us in on that.”

  A beat of silence, Adam’s eyes shiny and faraway, and then she saw the heavy swallowing motion of his throat.

  “Mr. Nolan?” Walsh asked, a tiny voice, like a buzzing insect.

  “What is this,” Adam said finally, “some kind of sick joke?”

  “No joke, sir. Your ex-wife is with you, in a warehouse in an unfinished business complex called, uh, Midvale Office Park, I believe. And I’m right outside—me, and some friends of mine.”

  “You ...” Adam’s face had gone slack. The light in his eyes was dead. “You couldn’t ... you can’t ...”

  “We did. Come out, Mr. Nolan. Come out right now.”

  Hesitation, and then she saw a new coldness in his eyes, a sudden resolve. “No way.”

  “Be reasonable, Mr. Nolan.”

  “Fuck reasonable. You want to know C.J.’s condition? She’s alive, with a gun to her head. I’ve got a hostage—you hear that? Anyone comes in here, and she fucking dies.”

  Click, and Walsh’s voice was gone, and so was the light.

  They were in darkness again, the two of them.

  “You’re not getting out alive, C.J.,” Adam whispered. “That’s a promise. Till death do us part, remember?”

  58

  “You can survive this, Adam.”

  “Sure I can.”

  Her words and his, two voices floating in the dark.

  “They’ll negotiate,” she said. “That’s why Walsh called you. They want to talk.”

  “Talk me into surrendering—so I can spend the rest of my life in jail.”

  “They can work something out. A deal.”

  “Bullshit. He said he and his friends were outside. Tell me what that means, C.J. You’re a cop. What’s standard procedure here?”

  “Standard procedure is to negotiate—”

  “And if I won’t cooperate?”

  “They’ll be patient. They won’t force anything.”

  “Suppose I force something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A gunshot—that would get their attention, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “They hear a shot fired, they come in, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How? Who are they?”

  She swallowed. “SWAT, probably.”

  She was thinking of another warehouse, another hostage situation. Harbor Division. Long Beach. Family killed in the cross fire. Mother, father, two kids, all dead. Casualties
of urban war. The first civilian deaths she’d seen on the job. Now she might die the same way, killed by friendly fire.

  “SWAT team’s outside?” Adam said, his voice ragged.

  “I think so.”

  His phone buzzed again. He ignored it. “How many cops would that be?”

  “Five or seven, depending.”

  “Depending on what?”

  “Whether a sniper team’s attached.”

  “Sniper team. Jesus. How will they get in? The window?”

  “Or the doors.”

  “Doors are padlocked.”

  “They can breach the doors with Magnum slugs.”

  “And they come in wearing body armor, helmets, all that crap?”

  “All that crap. Yes.”

  “Submachine guns?”

  “Yes.”

  “Grenades?”

  “Flash-bangs. Diversion devices. Tear gas.”

  “Fuck.”

  The phone was still ringing. “You have to negotiate, Adam.”

  “I don’t have to do any goddamned thing. Shut up.”

  She could smell the reek of his sweat.

  “So there’s no way I can outgun them,” he said finally.

  It was not a question, but she answered it anyway. “No.”

  “It’s surrender or die.”

  “I guess it is.”

  “Christ.” His voice broke, and she heard a stifled sob. “It was supposed to work out better than this.”

  “Things don’t always work out the way we want.”

  “You’re telling me, bitch. Our marriage is exhibit number one in that department.”

  “It’s not worth dying for,” she said quietly, unsure whether she meant the marriage or its failure or the rage he carried with him.

  “I don’t know.” Another sob, then a noise like laughter. “I thought it was worth killing for, didn’t I? Kill and die, two sides of the coin. Kill and die ...”

  The phone stopped ringing.

  “Sounds like they’re not as patient as you thought,” Adam said.

  “They’ll try again. Or they’ll use a bullhorn. They won’t do anything rash.”

  “No? You told me at the coffee shop that a SWAT raid can turn into a bloodbath. That’s your word, C.J. Bloodbath. That’s why you went in to save that kid all alone. Didn’t want a bloodbath, you said.”