“What the hell?” he mumbled, mad at himself for having drunk some of that last beer. That’d been stupid and it had obviously affected him, maybe because he’d had so little sleep and hadn’t been drinking all week. It looked like he was going to have to sleep off the effects in his car before heading home. He only hoped he beat Ronnie in to the precinct tomorrow as he really didn’t want her to see him looking as hung over as he suspected he was going to be.
Though Rusty’s had been crowded when he left, the street surrounding it was deserted. The residents lived a little closer to the river, homes and condo buildings huddled around a waterfront project that was supposed to restore the neighborhood but hadn’t done a very good job of it. Other than the ancient St. Elizabeth’s hospital, there were no big businesses within ten blocks of here and the small ones were mom and pop operations that were open only during daylight hours and barred their windows at night. The two nearest ones—a deli and a pawn shop, had been closed for hours. And every other building was abandoned, graffiti-covered and boarded up.
Urban blight, they name is Anacostia.
Blinking as the dim streetlight in front of him looked like it split in half and replicated itself, Daniels put a hand out. He wasn’t entirely sure he trusted his eyes right now, inclined to believe he ought to feel his way down the street. He honestly couldn’t believe how quickly the buzz had crept on him, considering he’d been feeling completely sober a half-hour ago.
He also wasn’t sure he could trust his ears, because he suddenly thought he heard the faintest whimper. He stopped in his tracks, cocking his head, listening.
He heard a car horn, the sound of breaking glass, the rumble of a garbage truck on the next block.
And one thing more.
“Please help me.”
He shook his head, trying to focus, still not sure he could believe what his ears were telling him Because that faint plea had sounded like it had come from a kid. God knew there should be no kids on this block alone at this time of night. Or any time of night.
A whimper followed the cry. Then a louder one.
“Kid?” he barked, knowing now that he was hearing something. Though he was slow to react, and a little off-balance, he didn’t even think about ignoring the cry. Somebody was in trouble. A little one who’d wandered away from home? Maybe been snatched by a neighborhood perv?
He turned toward a nearby abandoned building, certain the noise had come from within. When he heard a tinkle of broken glass, he went to the door and pushed it. It swung open easily, the lock long since broken. The place had probably been used as a flophouse or a drug hangout. It was definitely not where any child belonged.
“Kid, are you lost?” he called, blinking again as he tried to adjust to the low lighting in the building. The boards over some of the front windows had been dinged-up and broken over the years, and some light seeped in from the streetlights. Just enough for him to make out the empty room in which he stood.
The place had apparently once been a shop of some kind, because the front door had opened into a large, single room, with a long, rotting-counter on one wall and sagging shelves on another. In the center of the floor were piles of trash, debris, a torn, filthy mattress and a toilet tank. No kid.
He pulled out his flashlight, fumbling it in his thick fingers, which seemed none too steady. Deciding then and there that he’d never drink again so long as he was able to save the poor little one who was obviously in serious trouble, he closed his eyes tightly, focusing, then opened them again and flipped on the light. It cast a hard beam across the piles of junk, and also revealed a swinging door, dangling by one weary hinge, that led from this front area into what had probably once been a stockroom.
Another whimper.
His instincts warned him to be cautious, to proceed slowly, but his need to do something proactive drowned them out. If he’d had his service weapon on his hip, he would have at least unsnapped the holster by now. Unfortunately, he’d locked the 9mm in a gun case in his trunk when he’d gone off-duty. Right now, he only had the small backup piece at his ankle, and he wasn’t going to pull it out until he’d assessed the situation. Given the way his head was spinning, the darkness, and the proximity of a young child, he might accidentally shoot the very person he was trying to protect.
“Please….”
Hearing that helpless cry, he strode toward the back room, but again, feeling the ground sway a little beneath his feet, pushed too hard and stumbled over the toilet tank. He mumbled a curse, but managed to stay on his feet. The flashlight, however, hit the floor with a thunk.
He had just bent over to grab it when he heard the creak of a floorboard. Still confused—far more confused than he should be after one shot and three beers spread out over several hours, he suddenly realized—he looked between his own legs and saw a dark shoe move into place behind him. It was certainly not child’s size.
His reactions were slow, dulled from the alcohol, but Daniels still came up fighting. He swung around, throwing the weight of his entire body at the dark figure and was satisfied to hear the assailant’s oomph as he tackled him to the floor.
“Son of a bitch,” he snarled, thinking at first he’d caught some druggie who’d been about to rob him.
Then he noticed the black clothes. The black hood over the head. The gloved hands holding a state-of-the-art, police and military issue stun gun.
His blood chilled. This wasn’t a random mugging. He’d been lured here, just as Ronnie had been lured by this psychotic prick last week at the White House. There probably wasn’t even a real kid anywhere in the vicinity. The cries for help had likely been recorded, a speaker placed in the back room to draw him ever deeper into the darkness.
He was about to fight for his life, and he knew it.
The attacker rolled away, launching to his feet. Daniels followed, staggering, his head now spinning and waves of nausea rolling up from his clenching gut.
“You…the bar…you drugged me,” he mumbled, everything becoming clear even though his brain was still muddled and his reflexes totally screwed up.
“Just lie down, Detective Daniels,” the cloaked man said, his voice a low whisper, sibilant and laced with evil. “Lie down and go to sleep.”
“Fuck you,” he snapped, springing forward. He swung his arms like a bear, not knowing exactly where to grab, but certain that one of the three black-draped figures in front of his stupefied eyes had to be the real assailant.
The man ducked away from him, spinning just out of reach so that only Daniels’s fingers brushed his black cloak. The world grew a little more wobbly, the floor seeming to sway beneath his feet. He was having the hardest time keeping his balance and his whole body began to shake.
“Give up.”
“Not a chance.” He lunged again. This time, his shoulder hit the perp square in the middle, sending him stumbling against the front wall, which groaned and creaked.
“Stubborn bastard!” the psycho snarled.
He lifted the stun gun. Daniels spun around, kicking out with his leg. He’d never been as good at kick-boxing as his partner, but he could definitely connect with somebody’s arm if it was holding a weapon aimed in his direction.
Crunch. Boot met wrist. The thing went flying.
Now his opponent got worried. He began to scoot backward, edging along the wall toward the door.
“Not…so…fast,” Daniels growled, finding it hard to catch his breath.
Whatever the perp had slipped into his drink—that last beer purchased for him by a mysterious benefactor—it was getting down to business now. If he’d consumed the whole thing he probably would have been unconscious five minutes ago. As it was, he had to struggle to resist the urge to sit down and take a nap. Only extreme willpower kept him upright.
“I don’t have time for this,” the man snapped. He stopped retreating and pulled out a semi-automatic, which he’d probably hoped to avoid using because of the noise it would make. “Where is it? Give it to me.”
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Daniels attention was focused on the weapon. But not so focused that he didn’t realize his assailant had dropped the thick whisper and spoken in his true voice. A voice that rang remarkably familiar.
He knew this guy. Knew the killer. But his fuzzy brain wasn’t letting him associate the voice with the person.
“What did you do with it, is it in your car? I know you came straight here and didn’t take it to your precinct.”
The key. He was talking about that key Daniels had found in the tunnel. The tiny, innocuous-looking object obviously had meant something. It was a clue that would reveal this bastard’s identity, not just to him, but to Ronnie.
She would see the key, sooner or later. He’d made damn sure of that by looking at the thing at least five different ways since the moment he’d spotted it, stuck beneath the edge of a baseboard in a dark corner of the tunnel. Oh, yes, she’d see it.
As long as this cocksucker didn’t take his head and hide the evidence locked away in the device in Mark’s brain.
“Screw you,” Daniels muttered, smiling a little as he realized this psychotic monster would soon be caught. Whether Daniels was alive to see it, though, remained in question.
From outside, there came a loud shout. Somebody at Rusty’s, calling goodnight, no doubt.
“Don’t make a sound or I’ll blow the head off anybody who comes in here to help you,” his attacker snarled, his panic rising, becoming louder than his words. “I mean it!”
Mark believed it. This killer had murdered many people, he wouldn’t stop at one more.
He bent over, dropping his hands onto his knees, knowing his opponent expected him to lose consciousness. But he wasn’t quite there yet. Oh, no. He was far too interesting in seeing if he could slide his hands down his legs until they reached his ankles. He was going for the holster attached just above his right foot. His backup piece was his last chance to disarm this guy before anybody got hurt—including himself.
The drugs pounded at him from within. He swayed and pitched forward. He lunged, trying to stop himself from falling, but was unable to do it. Finding himself on the ground, he rolled across the floor, trying to make himself a small target.
Even from a few feet away, he could see the way his attacker smiled beneath the hood. Think you can wait me out, huh? Expecting me to pass out?
Maybe the bastard hadn’t stuck around inside to make sure Daniels finished that entire, drugged drink, and didn’t realize his intended victim wasn’t quite as out of it as he was supposed to be. He was waiting for the perfect moment to bring out the knife so he could do his thing in silence, without the sound of a gunshot to draw any unwanted attention.
Desperate, Mark bit his lip, drawing blood, needing the pain to focus. Salty fluid dripped down his throat. He spat it out, bending over at the middle as if sick.
It gave him the chance he needed to grab his small backup piece off his ankle.
He brought it up. His assailant’s eyes widened in shock. He raised his gun as well.
Two shots rang out. Boom! Boom! Flashes of light, acrid chemical smell. And pain. Oh, Christ was there pain. It bloomed in his chest, small and warm at first, then exploding outward with incredible fire. It scorched him, branding him with awful sensation.
He’d been hit. Couldn’t draw breath. The lung, maybe?
He fell back, blinking, trying to focus as the man drew closer, fearing he’d missed him. There’d been too many figures in black for him to aim properly; he was seeing not everything in triplicate and couldn’t imagine how heavily dosed that drink had been.
Mark didn’t for a minute think the sounds of those gunshots would draw help. In this neighborhood, they’d send people scurrying for cover and it would probably be an hour before any cop came out here to investigate. He was finished. Done for.
“Where is it?”
He slowly shook his head, not willing to speak, even if he’d been able.
The killer dropped to his knees beside him, patting him down, from his shoulders to his waist. Slipping a gloved hand into his pocket, he pulled out the small plastic bag and nodded in satisfaction.
“Thank you very much, Detective Daniels,” he said as he brought his weapon up again. “You’ve been most helpful.”
That was when it hit him. He put the voice with the face, and understood now. He knew who it was, knew who’d attacked him, knew who’d killed Leanne and had attacked Ronnie.
Bastard. You evil, sick bastard.
With the recognition came another kind of understanding. He considered the timing—tonight’s death all the way down in Richmond. The other clues that didn’t quite gel.
And he understood why the puzzle pieces hadn’t exactly fit.
The gun came up. Daniels rolled onto his right side, hoping he appeared unable to bear to look at it, that he didn’t want to watch death rushing toward him. He counted on the monster’s malicious streak to draw things out, to want to build Daniels’s fear.
To give him a few precious seconds.
In those seconds, he planned to take the last chance he would have to send the last message he’d ever send.
He slid his left hand up across the floor, painfully, willing his killer not to pull the trigger too soon. When his fingers were within sight, lying limply in front of him, he focused on them, trying to remember the classes, the shapes, the motions. The letters.
It had been a few years since he and Ronnie had taken that sign language class, all detectives being required to do it. He only hoped he remembered correctly.
The first three came to mind immediately. He formed the shapes as quickly as he could.
An R. An O. An N.
Got your attention now, don’t I, sweetheart?
He was growing weaker by the second, losing so much blood he could actually smell it now.
He stretched his fingers, trying to loosen them, thinking about the next letter he needed to form. He could picture it in his mind and tried to recreate it with his hand, losing sensation and feeling, not even sure he was making any sense at all.
But he kept trying. He signed a letter. Then another.
“What are you doing? Stop that!”
A click. Nothing. The gun had jammed. The figure in black cursed, trying to fix it, preparing for the kill shot, and when he heard the magazine slam back into place, he knew his time was up.
There was not a second to spare, no time to spell out a name. He had one more chance, one last opportunity to send a final message that Ronnie would hopefully see and interpret.
He knew what it had to be.
Gathering his will, he jerked both the index and middle fingers of his left hand straight out, staring at the V shape they made with every ounce of strength he had left.
Suddenly, hideous pain. Horrible, awful, brutal pain. And blood, spewing red, gushing, covering everything.
He howled, shocked and horrified, realizing that while Mark had been waiting for the bullet, the fiend had used his knife.
Daniels had done the best he could, and he hoped to God his partner would understand his message. There was nothing more he could do, no further message he could send.
Because he no longer had a hand.
Chapter 17
Falling asleep in Jeremy Sykes’s arms had definitely been the highlight of Ronnie’s week. Month. Year. Whatever. After the intense sex, they’d collapsed together, sharing the bed as easily as if they’d shared it all their lives. She woke up knowing her life had irrevocably changed.
Then the phone rang.
Still groggy, lying next to Sykes’s naked body in the pre-dawn light, she got up and grabbed her pants, which were still on the floor where she’d tossed them. She dug for her phone, answering it on the fifth ring.
“Detective Sloan,” she barked, recognizing the phone number from her precinct back in D.C.
“Veronica? It’s Ambrose.”
Her lieutenant. Why he’d be calling her at 5:45 a.m., she had no idea. “Yes, sir?”
�
�Where are you?”
“I’m at a hotel just south of Richmond, sir.” She quickly explained what had happened last night—coming down here, having to wait until morning for the latest murder victim’s remains to be released into their custody. She spoke clearly and succinctly, sensing Ambrose was tense and anxious about something. “I should be back up to the city by no later than noon.”
“Get here sooner.”
She froze, her grip tightening on the phone. “What is it?”
“I’m sorry as hell to tell you this, Sloan…”
Her stomach heaved. She threw a hand over her mouth, wanting instead to throw it over her ears so she didn’t have to hear what she suspected her boss was about to say. Because it was going to be bad. Life-changingly bad.
“It’s Daniels.”
“Oh, God,” she moaned.
Behind her, Sykes awoke. Obviously hearing the strain in her voice, he leapt out of the bed and came to her side.
“What happened?” she asked. “Is he all right?”
“He was attacked in a vacant building on the south side late last night.”
She closed her eyes, drew in a breath. Pushed it out. Drew in another. “Is he alive?”
“Yeah.”
Another slow exhalation. Then she asked the question she knew she had to ask. “For how long?”
Ambrose didn’t sugar-coat it. “It could be any time. Doctors are working frantically, but they just don’t know.”
She stared at Sykes, saw him already grabbing his clothes, yanking them on, ready to leave the very second she hung up the phone and got dressed.
“I’m on my way.
-#-
Although Ronnie had insisted she could fly back to D.C. by herself in the FBI helicopter he procured for the trip, Jeremy wasn’t about to let her go it alone. As he drove her to the nearest airport, where the chopper would meet them, he called Detective Baranski. Perhaps it was hearing that Ronnie’s partner—a fellow cop—had been shot that took the lead out of the other man’s ass and the bitchiness out of his mood. He put up no argument when Jeremy told him he’d arranged for the latest victim’s head to be transferred into the custody of an agent out of the Richmond field office. It would be driven up to Tate’s lab in Bethesda later today. Baranski also extended his sincerest condolences.
Don't Look Away (Veronica Sloan) Page 27