Without Justice

by Carsen Taite

  *

  After she disconnected the call with Kennedy, Emily stood on the sidewalk outside Eric’s car, her mind whirring through a thousand possibilities. Leo Fontana had killed Eric. She was certain about that, and if he’d murdered one federal agent in cold blood on the street in a quiet neighborhood, the other agent assigned to Cade had probably met a similar fate.

  Which left the question of where Fontana was now and what he had done with Cade. She looked down at her phone, scanning the lines of text that had initially triggered her to go on full alert.

  Key under the mat. Wait for me inside?

  Inside. Cade was in the house, and Fontana was there too, trying to lure her to enter. She’d listened to the FBI briefing that morning, but she’d given short shrift to their theory about Fontana targeting her as some sort of plan to get to her father. Maybe she was too cynical after years of growing up in the spotlight, but being a Sinclair meant sometimes you had to deal with the ravings of the lunatic fringe. If she took every threat seriously, she’d never leave home. She looked back at Cade’s house. If Fontana was expecting her to show up inside, what would happen when she didn’t?

  Kennedy had said to stay put and secure the crime scene until backup arrived, but she hadn’t heard a single siren yet. If they were approaching with caution, they were being way too damn slow about it. She heard a door open and glanced over her shoulder, instantly recognizing the neighbor from across the street bustling toward her. The woman’s hair was in rollers, and she was wearing a pink chenille robe over a frumpy yellow housedress, but the most remarkable thing about her was the Smith & Wesson 500 revolver weighing down her arm.

  “What the hell’s going on?” the woman asked in an exaggerated whisper. “I was in the shower and I heard something that sounded like firecrackers. I—” She stopped and gave Emily a hard stare. “Hey, you look familiar.”

  Emily couldn’t look away from the gun. If the woman fired it, the kick would send her flying backward, halfway down the street. But more importantly, the gun inspired an idea. She flipped open the leather case on her cell phone and flashed her ID. It wasn’t the same as her badge, which was in her purse in the car, but she hoped it would buy her some sort of deference. “I’m Emily Sinclair, the district attorney. What’s your name?”

  The woman frowned and squinted as she considered the question and then she finally answered. “Mavis Percy. Something’s going on out here, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.”

  If getting to the bottom of it involved Mavis firing her beast of a gun, Emily didn’t want to know. “Did you see anything?”

  “Just this car parked where it shouldn’t be. I just got out of the bath and looked out to see if it was still here when I saw you poking around.”

  “You’re right,” Emily said. “Something is going on and federal officers are on the way. I need to check something out, so I’m going to—” she searched for the right word, one to make this one-woman neighborhood watch feel important enough to do whatever she commanded, “deputize you to secure this crime scene.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Emily held a finger over her lips and shook her head. “Can’t say. Can I trust you to make sure no one touches this car until the feds get here?”

  Mavis nodded, her expression solemn. As satisfied as she could be that no one would get past Deputy Percy, Emily sent a quick text to Kennedy along with a photo of Mavis to alert the incoming cavalry not to shoot the woman guarding the scene. Her next stop was her car where she reached into the compartment between the front seats and grabbed her own Smith & Wesson. The snub nose .38 was no match for the hefty revolver Mavis was toting, but it would be much easier to hide and she trusted it to do the job, whatever it turned out to be.

  She tucked the loaded gun in her coat pocket and felt the key she’d pulled from under the doormat. Walking through the front door where she’d be expected wasn’t an option, but maybe the key worked for the rear door as well, assuming there was one. Casting one last look at Eric’s car and the street devoid of responding law enforcement, Emily ducked around the corner of the house to explore her options. She’d barely made it halfway to the back when her search paid off. What she saw nearly shook her resolve to carry on.

  Through a window surrounded by a tiny arbor laced with long dead wisteria vine, Emily had a clear view of the kitchen. The room itself was plain and boring. White walls, white counters, not a knickknack in sight, but smack in the middle of the room, Cade was bound to a chair, and Fontana was taunting her with a knife that was a twin to the one the sheriff had found at Kevin Miller’s apartment.

  She hunched low at the windowsill and took in every detail of the room. Where was the gun? The gun was part of his signature. If she was going to carry out any kind of plan, however half-ass, she needed to know where things stood.

  As if on cue, Fontana started pacing. Ducking her head lower, Emily held her breath, praying he wouldn’t detect her presence, but scared to look away and miss whatever was about to happen next. Seconds later, he pivoted away from the window and walked back toward Cade. There it was, the gun, stuck in the band of his pants, just like in the movies. Except this was no movie and unlike the big screen, there were no assurances the bad guy would get what he had coming.

  She couldn’t see any sign of a back door in the kitchen. If there was one, it had to be in some other room in the house. Willing Cade safe until she could get to her, Emily dashed toward the rear of the house and unlatched the low picket fence surrounding the small backyard. A few steps in, she found the back door blocked by the body of another federal agent covered in blood from a gaping wound on his neck and a gunshot wound to the chest. Standing over him, she started to rethink her plan to bust into the house. She’d been taught to shoot from childhood, but this agent on the ground and the one in the car out front were trained in protection, yet both of them had succumbed to Fontana’s blistering attack. Who was she to think she would fare better?

  She checked her phone again, but there were no updates from Kennedy. She sent a quick text. Where are you!?

  Almost there. Five minutes.

  Five minutes with a knife near Cade’s throat was too long. Emily stuffed the phone back in her pocket. She knew what she had to do. She’d never witnessed a hostage situation, but she’d seen plenty on TV. In five minutes an army of cops would show up on the street, locking it down, and some FBI hostage negotiator would try to talk Fontana into giving up Cade and coming out with his hands in the air. Meanwhile snipers would be looking for a clear shot while the SWAT team plotted a way to overtake the house. Maybe Cade would live, maybe she wouldn’t. Emily wasn’t convinced the feds would care either way as long as they got their man.

  But she cared. More than she’d ever thought possible. The very idea Cade was in danger filled her with rage. Rage at the lost opportunities because they’d seemed at cross-purposes even though they really hadn’t been. Rage that she’d never have the opportunity to tell Cade she was the best thing to happen to her. Ever.

  Emily looked at her phone one last time, but there were no more messages. No miracles. If she wanted to control the outcome of this situation, she had to take control. She might not have the same training as the agents assigned to protect Cade, but she did have one thing they didn’t. She had the element of surprise, and she was going to use it to save the woman she loved.

  *

  Cade had no idea how much time had passed. From where she was seated, she couldn’t see the clock on the stove, and the darkness outside the kitchen window told her nothing since the sun had gone down well before she’d arrived home. Fontana, cursing the sound of her voice, had finally resorted to stuffing a dishcloth in her mouth and securing it with duct tape. Unable to talk, she’d been left with only her anxious thoughts as Fontana’s growing impatience manifested into full-blown frenzy.

  Every sound made her flinch from the cycling hum of the refrigerator to the dull roar when the furnace kicked on. Please don’t be Emi
ly, please don’t be Emily. She prayed her mental chant would work, but feared it wouldn’t. Any moment now, the creak of the front door might signal the end was near. Once Fontana had Emily, once he got what he wanted from her, he’d have no use for either of them, and then he’d do what he did best.

  A vision of Fontana’s knife against Emily’s smooth, slender neck sent waves of panic through Cade’s body, but the panic quickly morphed into resolve. She had to find a way to disarm Fontana before Emily arrived. She tugged at the tape binding her arms and legs, but there was no give. She scanned the room, but the block of steak knives on the counter mocked her feeble attempts to escape. Her gaze settled on one of the glasses she’d set on the table earlier. She was close enough to the table that if she used all her energy to bump the chair into it, the glass might fall to the floor, breaking into plenty of sharp shards she could use to cut through her ties.

  Except she wouldn’t be able to reach them. And Fontana was standing right here. Undaunted, she decided it was her only shot. All she had to do was figure out a way to distract him, make him leave the room, and she’d sort out the rest.

  Cade grunted to get his attention, and when Fontana looked her way, she jutted her head forward, over and over, narrowing her eyes into what she hoped was a something important is happening expression. She threw her shoulders into the act, and the urgent movement rocked the chair back and forth. Finally, he strode across the kitchen, leaned down toward her face, and yanked away her gag.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  Cade fought the urge to spit in his face. “I heard the front door open,” she said, praying he was hopped up enough to check rather than wait and see. His eyes widened, and he tilted his head, like he was listening. Silence.

  “You’re lying,” he said.

  “I heard it. I swear. Someone came in the front door.” Cade barely had the words out when she did hear something. The unmistakable click of a gun being cocked and a familiar voice.

  “Actually, I came in the back, but I guess that doesn’t really matter now.”

  Fontana swung around and reached for his gun.

  Cade bobbed her head, trying to see past him. When she spotted Emily standing in the doorway to the kitchen, her feet planted and her hands holding a small revolver pointed directly at Fontana, she’d never looked as beautiful. She started to call out, but stopped when the cold prick of Fontana’s knife pressed against her neck.

  Emily shook her head, her eyes trained on Fontana. “Don’t even try it.”

  “Well, if it isn’t little Miss State’s Attorney?”

  “I understand you’re from out of town, but down here it’s district attorney.”

  “Is that so, Miss District Attorney?” Fontana laughed, the same mad, mirthless sound that had made Cade shiver earlier. “I guess it really doesn’t matter what they call you,” he said, “if you’re no longer around.”

  “You’re right,” Emily said. “Titles don’t mean much, but they do carry a certain amount of power. Whatever you want to call me, I can assure you there are things I can do for you—a phone call is all it takes.” She let one hand drop, reached into her jacket, and pulled out her phone, holding it toward him. “My father’s on speed dial. Would you like to call him or should I?”

  The knife against her neck limited her sightline, but Cade sensed Fontana’s energy spike and saw the black metal barrel of his gun twitching at his side. If he reached for the phone, he’d have to either put down the gun or the knife, and then maybe—

  A siren, loud and close, interrupted her attempt at strategy. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Fontana raise his weapon.

  Emily dropped the phone and grasped her gun with both hands. They exchanged a brief look, and Cade saw a snip of regret cross Emily’s face before the sting of the blade and the sharp crack of gunfire blocked out everything else.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Everything happened at once. When Fontana raised his gun, Emily squeezed the trigger of her .38 and fired until he started to fall, taking Cade with him. Emily had barely registered the clatter of his gun on the hard tile, the dull thud of his body, and the harsh scrape of the chair legs losing purchase when new sounds filled the space—loud shouts and heavy footfalls.

  She ignored the noise. Cade, still strapped to her chair was in a heap with Fontana. She had to get to her. Nothing else mattered. Emily lunged forward, leading with her gun, but strong arms held her back.

  “Ms. Sinclair, wait.”

  “Let me go!” Emily writhed, struggling to get loose. Cade. She had to get to Cade.

  “Emily, stop!”

  She knew that voice. Kennedy Stone. She turned her head. The marshal’s face was a mixture of command and concern.

  “Let me go,” Emily said. “Please.”

  Kennedy nodded. “I will, but I need you to give me the gun.”

  Emily looked down at her hand, clutching her gun like a lifeline. It kind of was, since a moment earlier it had been the only thing keeping her and Cade alive.

  “Cade?” She willed Kennedy to hear the urgency in her voice even as she fought to stay calm.

  Kennedy gently extracted the gun from her death grip and handed it to one of the horde of cops swarming the scene. She held out her hand. “Come on.”

  Emily took her hand, holding tight, and followed Kennedy as she parted the dense crowd. Their destination was only a few feet away, but when she saw the scene, she understood why Kennedy had accompanied her. Fontana lay in a pool of blood on the floor, and agents were pulling Cade’s chair upright. As she came into view, Emily gasped at the sight of blood running down her neck. She started to run forward, but Kennedy held her back.

  “Hang on.”

  She crushed Kennedy’s hand, but her eyes never left Cade, searching for a sign, any sign, to let her know her efforts hadn’t been in vain. She glared as the agents dropped Cade’s chair to the ground a few feet away from Fontana. When the chair legs struck the floor, Cade’s eyes fluttered open and Emily sagged with relief.

  “Okay, go.”

  Emily rushed past Kennedy, daring any of the other federal agents to stop her. While one of the agents cut through the duct tape binding Cade, Emily kneeled between Cade’s legs and placed a hand on the side of her neck. “Baby, you’re hurt.”

  Cade touched her neck and stared at the blood on her fingers, turning them back and forth. “I’m, I’m okay.” Her voice was weak. “I think maybe he just nicked me when he went down.”

  Emily took Cade’s hand in hers. “You might be in shock.” She used her free hand to yank the sleeve of the agent closest to her and used her best boss voice. “We need a paramedic over here. Right now.” She didn’t wait for a response, instead turning back to Cade. She couldn’t stop looking at her, couldn’t believe she was alive and safe. The sentiment spilled from her lips. “I was so worried I was going to lose you.”

  A shadow passed over Cade’s face, and she squeezed Emily’s hand. “Nice shot, by the way.”

  “Thanks. Haven’t had time to get to the range in a while. Guess I was lucky it was such a close shot.” Emily shuddered. “Too close. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you.”

  There. She’d spoken her worst fear twice. She searched Cade’s eyes for something, anything to show she felt the same way, but Cade was looking past her. Emily turned to see what held her attention. Kennedy was standing behind them, and next to her was a tall, lanky woman wearing an FBI jacket. Emily pulled herself up, balancing on Cade’s chair, and faced them with a sense of dread.

  “Ms. Sinclair,” Kennedy said. “We’ve already notified Sheriff Nash that the FBI will be handling all matters related to the Fontana case.” She motioned to the woman standing beside her. “This is Special Agent-in-Charge Nicole Grant. She’ll be conducting the investigation into the shooting.”

  Emily nodded. “I understand. Dead body means lots of paperwork. I’m happy to cooperate.” She watched as Grant and Kennedy exchanged puzzled looks. “What
am I missing?”

  “Ms. Sinclair,” Agent Grant said, “Leo Fontana’s wounds are serious, but he’s not dead.”

  Emily clutched the back of the chair. As glad as she was in the abstract that she hadn’t killed someone, she’d been relieved that Fontana was gone forever, that he would never haunt Cade again. Now her relief had been yanked away, and its absence left her shaken.

  “Are you okay?” Kennedy asked.

  Emily took a deep breath and waved a hand in the air. “This is a lot…it’s a lot to process.”

  “It is.” Grant was the one speaking this time. “As a courtesy, we can do the interview at your offices. We’ve got a car waiting outside.”

  “Right now?” Emily fought the tide of rising panic. She wasn’t about to leave Cade’s side. Not now anyway. Not when they’d just reconnected again.

  Grant started to speak, but Kennedy put a hand on her arm, and said, “It’s really important they get your statement right now, while it’s fresh.” She lowered her voice. “And I’m sure you know how important it is for a future prosecution that you and Cade not be together when you give your versions of what happened.”

  She did know, but it didn’t change the fact she couldn’t stand the idea of separating so soon. She looked over at Cade who was watching their exchange with a clouded expression she couldn’t read. Something was wrong, but she couldn’t tell what. Maybe she was blowing it out of proportion. Cade had spent the last God knows how long with a gun to her head and a knife at her throat. She’d nearly died, and not for the first time. Quit making your insecurity about someone else.

  “Emily?”

  Emily stopped her internal monologue and looked at Cade. “Yes?”

  “Go with them. I’ll be fine.”

  Was this a good-bye or was her imagination running wild? Deferring to the later, she asked her own question. “Promise?”