by Dan Alatorre
With the meeting over, she stepped into the hallway, shut the door—and exhaled.
“Detective Sanderson.” Mellish came toward her. “I have some urgent updates from Agent Eicholtz.”
She grinned, whispering. “Bigger than section 21.7 of the HR manual?”
Mellish kept his eyes forward, holding his hand low for a fist bump—out of sight from the lieutenant’s view.
Carly made a fist and touched it to his. “Thanks, Mellish.”
“Now,” he said, “get ready to really have your socks blown off.”
* * * * *
Outside the condo, a car revved its engine, growing louder as it quickly approached. Its wheels screeched as it came to a stop in front of the condo.
Rossi dropped to the floor. “Get down!”
In the hallway, Bree crouched, glancing at him, then to the fuses on the kitchen counter. “Give me the Glock, baby. You take the rifle.”
He tossed the gun to her and picked up the rifle. Pressing himself to the wall, he eased the blinds away from the window and glanced outside.
“It’s them. They found us.” He stared at Bree, his eyes wide. “It’s Wagner and Antino. They must have come looking for Turley.”
Bree raced to the window. Two big thugs got out of a car and walked toward Marla’s unit. Her gaze went back to the kitchen entry. On the other side of the wall, the big gas cans and fuses waited.
There isn’t time for all this. I haven’t called 911 yet.
Think.
She cursed to herself.
Roll with it. Adapt and overcome. It’s close enough to the right time.
“Okay.” Bree looked at Rossi. “Take them out, baby.”
“What?” His face turned white. “In broad daylight? Everyone in this place will know where the shots came from—”
“Do it!” she screamed. “They’re here to kill us! Shoot them now, before they get any closer!”
“I—I . . .” Rossi’s knees buckled. He slid to the floor. “I . . .”
“They’re surrounding us, baby! They’ll kill us! Shoot them!”
Rossi gasped, his mouth hanging open as he curled up into a ball.
Bree nodded.
There we go.
She tossed the Glock to the couch and yanked the AR-15 from Rossi’s hands. Jerking the window cord, she sent the blinds up, then slammed the rifle barrel through the glass.
The two men looked at the condo.
One fat target in front. Taller, muscular target in back.
As bits of glass fell to the carpet, Bree dropped to one knee and raised the weapon to her cheek, squeezing off a shot.
The fat man on the concrete walkway exploded in a spray of red. His ribs opened like a newspaper on a windy day, his head jerking backwards as he flopped forward into the lawn.
“No, no, no!” On the carpet, Rossi grabbed his head, closing his eyes and stomping his feet on the floor. “No! Oh, no! Make it stop.”
Bree swept the rifle half an inch to the right. As the second thug pulled a gun from his belt, she put her crosshairs on the middle of his chest.
Chapter 45
At the sound of the first shot, Sergio dropped to the ground. He crawled forward along the side of his car, hugging the asphalt as he reached for his sidearm. He yanked the hem of his jacket up and grabbed . . . nothing.
His gun wasn’t there.
Tension gripped his chest. Off duty, he’d locked the weapon in the trunk—which now faced the gunfire coming from somewhere inside the yellow condo building.
Heart pounding, he moved to the grill of the car and peeked over the hood.
A muzzle flashed in the lower unit window. The unmistakable boom of a large caliber weapon echoed across the parking lot. Near the front of the building, a tall, muscular man fell backwards, his arms flailing.
Sergio ducked.
What the hell! It’s the freaking wild west out here.
The loud shot was from a big weapon. A rifle. Powerful enough to drop a big man with a single bullet, fired from a window at a distance.
A pang of fear gripped his insides.
I haven’t found a parking ticket violation. I found the sniper.
“Shoot them, Rossi!” a woman shouted. “Shoot them all!”
Sergio crouched lower, scanning the parking lot. It was mostly empty, with enough trees and foliage that he could potentially get away. An end run, to the opposite side of the condo—and away from the killer.
Get away and call 911. You can gather intel from a safe spot on the other side of the compound. The cops will swarm this place in three minutes.
He winced.
And the arriving units will drive right into the sniper’s line of fire.
That’s probably just what he wants.
But staying here could get your head taken off.
He eyed the condo.
So . . .
So call 911 now, and warn the cops about what they’re headed into.
He patted his pocket for his phone.
Nothing.
Crap!
Leaning around the side of the car, he saw it. His phone lay in the parking lot near the rear of his car.
Great.
Plan B . . .
Run for the phone and return to the front of the car? Grab it and head for the hills?
He looked around.
Trees. There were plenty of trees. A dumpster. Bushes.
It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough. A moving target is hard to hit. Harder if there are obstacles.
And I will be sprinting, Mr. Sniper. I won’t be standing at a car wash, vacuuming my car.
Adrenaline pumped through his system. He stuck his head out an inch, viewing the building. The two men lay on the ground, not moving. There was already enough blood on the asphalt to know each man was dead or would be in a few more seconds.
The first-floor condo behind them had a broken window. There was movement inside, behind some ripped venetian blinds. That was it.
Okay, so I can get to a phone, even if it’s not mine. What’s the situation?
I’ve got a shooter named Rossi and some woman. Sounds like she’s not a hostage. More like a partner, but maybe a combination of both. And scared for her life.
He glanced at the condo again.
It’s Marla Palmer’s unit. Is she the one yelling at him? Or is she dead on the floor? A hostage, tied up in a closet?
Frowning, he looked around at the other cars in the lot. There were a few, but none had a better view of the condo than he did.
The shooter hasn’t spotted me yet, so I could make a run for it. Get to a phone, call in what I know . . .
But somebody other than me heard those gunshots. They’ll call it in to 911. Tampa PD will be sending a squad car to investigate.
And since the sniper doesn’t know I’m here yet, I can sit tight for a few more minutes and gather intel. But how do I let the responding officers know they’re walking into an ambush?
* * * * *
Bree eased the bathroom door shut and stared at the screen on her laptop. The wifi software would pass the signal from her burner phone through an encoder and across several out-of-state servers before routing it back to the local emergency center. If anyone traced the call, it would not show it emanated from the condo; when the call ended, the program would automatically erase itself from the hard drive, like it had never been there at all.
When the dot on the screen finally glowed green, the phone signal had connected to the wifi. Bree dialed, holding the disposable phone to her ear.
“This is 911 dispatch. What is your emergency?”
Bree kept her voice low, looking at her reflection in the mirror. The tie-dyed pink shirt was a favorite, as were the stone washed jeans. It would be a shame to mess up such a pretty top.
I’m so glad I bought two.
She lowered her voice and tried to sound concerned. “I just saw a man carrying an AR-15 with a scope on it, like the ones they showed on the int
ernet that the sniper might be using.” She gave the address of the condo building. “And now I hear shooting. Hurry, please!”
Ending the call, she opened the cabinet and reached for the chloroform.
Rossi was still sitting on the floor, whimpering.
“There, there, baby.” She approached him, her hands behind her back. “I’m gonna make it all better, just like I did before.”
Rossi trembled. “I can’t—I just . . . the noise. I can’t.”
“I know, baby.” She leaped forward, jamming the chlorophyl-soaked cloth over his nose and mouth. “You never could.”
He fought less this time. Less than in the garage, or the bedroom. Less than at Ft. Brannon or Atlanta. The fight had already gone out of him.
“Shh.” She laid his head on the carpet. “It’ll all be over soon, baby.” Stroking his hair, she leaned over and whispered in his ear. “This time, you won’t wake up to the threat of a military trial.”
Walking to the kitchen, Bree picked up one of the big red cans and doused the floor with gasoline.
* * * * *
At the conference room, Eicholtz and Carly discussed strategies.
Mellish ran down the hallway toward them. “We just got several 911 calls of a man carrying an AR-15 with a sniper scope, and shots fired. The Homeland Security linkup says the address is one of your parking ticket citations, Detective—a brown Buick.”
Carly’s jaw dropped. “Who’s the ticket assigned to?”
“Tyree’s company,” Mellish said. “I called them. Tyree said Sergio had that citation. He was headed to the address this morning.”
She yanked her phone from her pocket and pounded the screen, calling Sergio’s number. Eicholtz jumped behind the desk and opened his laptop.
“Mellish, alert the units headed to that 911 call,” Carly said. “Tell them this could be our sniper.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Mellish rushed back to his desk.
Carly bit her fingernail, staring at Eicholtz’s laptop screen as she lifted her phone to her ear.
Sergio, whatever you do, don’t approach that condo.
* * * * *
On the asphalt ten feet away from him, Sergio’s phone rang.
The woman in the condo shrieked. “There’s another one, Rossi! He’s—he’s crouching in front of that car! Shoot him, baby! Kill him before he kills us!”
The rifle blast was like a thunderclap. A shower of glass rained down on Sergio.
* * * * *
“Detective!” Mellish hollered from his desk. “More shots fired at the scene!”
Carly wrung her hands. “Do we have units responding?”
“Two units are in the area. Dispatch estimates they are less than five minutes out.”
She dialed Sergio’s phone again.
We may not have that long.
* * * * *
Sergio peeked over the hood of his car and glimpsed the condo. There was no movement near the front window.
Now that they know I’m here, I’m a sitting duck. The sniper could walk out that front door at any second and unload that cannon into me.
A few feet away, his phone rang again. No one fired.
Sergio chewed his lip.
The sniper left, or they’re getting ready to leave. Maybe it’s time to make a move.
Are they waiting to pick me off as soon as I come out from behind the car, or are they getting away?
He gritted his teeth.
They’re not going to get away.
He hurled himself to the driver’s door, yanking it open and pressing the trunk release. As the lid of his trunk inched upward, Sergio was there, heaving it open and grabbing the case with his service weapon inside.
Crouching as he ran back to the front of the vehicle, he scooped up his phone and dived for the grass.
He lay there, panting. No shots had been fired.
Sergio unzipped the case and pulled out his gun, checking the ammunition. Chest heaving, he gripped the weapon with both hands and bolted upright, leveling his gun at the condo’s front window.
* * * * *
Bree shoved open the rear sliding glass door. Cool air brushed her cheeks. Setting a pink robe by the exit, she walked back toward the kitchen.
“All set. Now I just have to—”
The glass in the front window shattered. Plaster dropped from the kitchen wall.
“You, in the house,” a man shouted. “I have a gun on you and the police are on the way. Put down your weapon and we can talk about this.”
Bree pressed herself to the wall, peering outside. The top of the salesman’s head was visible over the hood of his car.
She smiled.
What do you know? The salesman is a cop.
She grabbed the AR-15, staying low. Her tie-dyed pink shirt was too visible, even from a distance, and made for an easy target. “He’s with them, Rossi!” she shouted. Raising the rifle to her shoulder, she prepared to squeeze off a round, selling the scene like she had before. “Shoot him, Rossi! Kill them before they kill us!”
As she fired, the cop ducked. The bullet glanced off the edge of his hood and ripped a hole in the asphalt behind him.
“I’m not messing around out here,” he shouted from behind the car. “Put it down or the next one’s between your eyes.”
She lined up her crosshairs at the front edge of the car, near the bumper, then to the hood.
Peek your head out, cop.
Except . . .
She lowered the rifle, wiping her hands on her stone washed jeans. “That is not part of the plan.” Setting the AR-15 against the wall, she unlocked the front door and walked to the kitchen. “I have the situation I need, baby. It’s time to go.”
Lifting one of the heavy gas cans from the counter, she twisted the spout open and poured gasoline all over the floor tiles, making sure she splashed plenty onto Rossi.
“Too tired to get up and come with me, baby?” She shook her head as he lay unconscious on the floor. “Okay, you can stay here.”
Setting the can down, she walked toward the sliding glass door at the rear of the unit and took a lighter from her jeans. The pungent gasoline smell filled the condo, carried by the holes in the front window and the open rear door.
Flicking the lighter, a small, yellow flame emerged. “Goodbye, Rossi—and thanks for everything.” She lowered the lighter and stepped to the gas-soaked carpet. Blue and orange flames raced down the hallway, growing larger as they neared the ten large, red gas cans on the kitchen counter.
Bree cupped her hands around her mouth. “Shoot them all, Rossi! Shoot the car. Shoot down the street. Kill everyone out there!”
As the fire engulfed the kitchen, Bree put her hands on her hips. The yellow-orange flames stretched upwards along the walls.
No evidence but ashes and—
Her ankles lit up in pain.
Bree recoiled like she’d been slapped, looking down at her feet. The flames curled around her shoes, licking upwards past her ankles to her jeans. She screeched, jumping backwards and kicking as the orange flames reached for her. The pungent gasoline smell filled her lungs. Smoke rolled across the ceiling.
“No!” Bree coughed, staggering backwards. “No!”
The fire didn’t listen.
She fell, choking as she slapped at the flames on her legs. The thick, black clouds curled down toward her.
* * * * *
Crouching in front of his vehicle, Sergio lifted his phone to dial 911. It rang in his hand with an incoming call. The screen lit up with Carly’s name.
He hit the green button, keeping his eyes on Marla Palmer’s condo. “I’m a little busy right now.”
“Sergio!” Carly shouted. “That parking ticket is the sniper’s address. Don’t approach the building.”
“Too late.”
She gasped. “Are you okay?”
“So far,” he said, “but that’s mostly due to luck. We have a shooter with what looks like an AR-15. Where’s the cavalry?”
“Looks like the shooter’s name is Rossi. There’s a woman in there, possibly his partner, possibly not, and no fix on the homeowner. She may be a hostage or she may be dead.”
“The responding units will be there in a few minutes,” Carly said. “But Sergio—it could be the sniper. If a shooter comes out with a weapon in hand . . . you shoot.”
“I saw a text,” he said. “Something about keeping the sniper alive because he’s a patsy.”
“I’m authorizing you to use any necessary means. Don’t . . .” She sighed, lowering her voice. “Marty, please don’t get killed today . . . Okay, partner?”
“Okay.” Sergio nodded, clenching his jaw. “Tell your officers to watch their approach. The driveway is directly in the line of fire. Got it?”
“I have a second phone in my hand. As you’re telling me, I’m relaying to dispatch.”
Sergio lifted his head another inch above the hood of the car. “Wait a minute.” Behind the ripped blinds, orange light flickered inside the condo. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“Looks like flames. Gotta go.”
“I’m alerting fire rescue. Sergio, listen to me.”
He kept the phone to his ear as he crept along the side of his car. The vehicle blocked him from direct view from the condo. “The homeowner might be in there, or we might have partners turning on each other. Either way, we have a ton of evidence that’s about to go up in smoke.” He rubbed the stubble on his chin. “By the time a fire truck gets here, it’ll all be gone.”
“Sergio, wait!”
“Carly, the place will be charcoal in three minutes,” he said. “I’ll be in and out in two.”
“Wait!”
He lowered the phone, staring at the building. “I’ll call you right back, I promise.” As a flame flickered in the corner of the window, he ended the call and shoved the phone into his rear pocket.
Now or never.
Putting his hands on the trunk of the car, he flung himself upward, sprinting across the parking lot.
At the unit, he grabbed the doorknob and shoved the door open. Flames rolled out, curling upwards. The sudden heat forced his eyes shut. Sergio dropped to one knee, pointing his gun inside.
A man lay on the floor, face up, with an AR-15 next to him. The flames were everywhere, climbing the walls and engulfing the body. The heat scorched Sergio’s face and eyes as the dead man’s charred, black skin cracked and burst open.