“As soon as shots are fired? Terry, that would be too late!” Robbie protested.
Don’t I know it? “If we swoop in before they do anything wrong, they’ll slip through the cracks of the justice system. We’ll never get this chance again.”
Rachel shook with nervousness.
Robbie scratched at his stubble, frustrated. “They’d better not get hurt. The Salingers.”
“They won’t,” Terry said. “At least, I hope not.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Come on. We can’t just stand here and wait for somebody to die. Excuse me.” Robbie used the tire as a stepping-stone to reach the car’s hood. Raising a hand to his eyes, he scanned the crowd for anything of use. In the distance, Val and Blake were standing inches apart.
“Whatever you’re doing, Parker, you’d better keep out of the way. I’m trying to help,” Terry said from below him. And he was trying to help. He was doing a good job, too, for the most part. But Robbie didn’t think it was acceptable to let anyone die today.
When he saw it, his eyes lit up. It stood out from the scene the way an oasis shines in the middle of a desert, like a beacon screaming for acknowledgement.
Robbie stepped down. “The press.”
Terry’s face scrunched up. “Huh?”
Rachel stepped in. “No, he’s right. If the Agency is caught on camera and half the country is watching, they won’t have a leg to stand on. Robbie, you’re a genius.”
“Terry,” Robbie said, ignoring the compliment, “if we get the people to scatter and alert the media, can you put on a show for the arrest? I’m thinking mass exposure: names, guns in hands. Everything.”
His face broke into a wide smile. “Of course.”
“Wait.” Rachel put her hand on his arm. “If we do this, we’re taking a risk. If this doesn’t work out how we planned, the Agency will have us. You’ll be on camera, and we’ll both be arrested. Are you okay with that?”
“Are you?”
Rachel lowered her eyes. “I guess so.”
“Good. Then give me three minutes before you start hauling ass,” Robbie said to her. He gave a polite nod to Terry and hurried into the crowd where people nudged and shoved in a desperate bid to reach the front of the group. If only they knew what was really happening, Robbie thought, they would be running the other way. He hopped the railing that separated people from the road and ran across to the other side.
“Hey, asshole!” someone screamed at him.
“Get out the way!”
To his left, farther down the parade route, an ambulance was parked on the side, pulling along a gurney with a man lying across it. He had the head of a human but the fluffy body of a pink elephant. His eyes were closed, and Robbie then saw the huge blob of red on the costume’s stomach. Blood.
Robbie turned to find the nearest reporter.
“…where thousands of people have come out to celebrate the end of another year,” the reporter said to the camera into a handheld microphone. She was slim, tall, and blonde with designer clothes. “It looks like we have—”
“Excuse me.” Robbie swooped in and took her by the arm. He knew he had seconds before security dived on him, so his next words had to count. “There’s going to be a shooting. People are going to get hurt.” That was all he could get out before he saw big, burly guards rushing toward him, dressed in black uniforms with their sleeves rolled up.
The news reporter didn’t react in the way most people would have. Where there should have been shock, there was pleasant surprise. Where there should have been panic, she only licked her lips with excitement and morbid curiosity.
Robbie pleaded with his eyes, and just then, his arms were grabbed, and he was pulled away from her. Lifted off the ground like a child. The size of these guards was monstrously obscene—huge, in a freakish way.
“Wait.” The reporter strode forward, apologizing to the viewers through the camera. This in itself must have been exciting enough for anyone watching from home. “Let him go!” she screamed and sent the guards away.
“Thank you,” Robbie said, adjusting his sleeves. It should have been freezing out here, but he was sweating up a storm. “I know it sounds ridiculous, but there’s an undercover agency that manipulates the police.”
The reporter rolled her eyes, turned, and began to walk away. “Should have guessed.”
“No, no—wait!” Robbie ran in front of her and stood like a roadblock. “I know—I know—how stupid it sounds, but if you look up on that roof, you’ll see a sniper rifle, and it’s pointed right at these people.”
The reporter followed his finger to the top of a building, and her jaw dropped in horror.
“Now, you can film that right now if you like, but if you steady your camera and just give me a few more minutes, you’ll hopefully see the arrest of these people too.” Robbie looked at the camera, knowing he’d been seen.
No turning back now.
The reporter looked back at him. “You’re that detective, aren’t you?”
Perhaps it was good for Robbie that he’d been recognized—now he could relate to her more easily. “Yes. With Val Salinger.”
She nodded, intrigued.
“He’s right over there with the head of the Agency.”
Again, she followed his finger, this time squinting her eyes to see through the crowd. She then waved at the camera operators, summoning them as she began to walk toward Val and Blake for the big scoop.
“Wait!” He stopped her with his hand. “Just wait. Five minutes and you’ll have yourself a career-maker. I wouldn’t be here telling you this if I didn’t think it would benefit everyone.”
The reporter stared at him with assessing eyes. Finally, she gave a half-smile and called off the camera operators. “You’d better be right,” she told him, and then held out her hand and signaled “five minutes” to her crew.
“Look.” Robbie pointed across the road, where Rachel was yelling “bomb!” at the top of her lungs. People ran with alarm, headed in senseless directions, scurrying like bugs. The marchers in the parade stopped playing. The young kids’ screams were deafening. The police were coming toward Rachel, and she’d soon be pinned down by them.
If they’re agents…
“All right, let’s move!” The reporter put a hand on Robbie’s back and squeezed between the people as the crowd engulfed her. She was getting her big break, and Robbie only prayed she would get more than she’d ever dreamed of.
Blake clutched at his wounded arm—it was going numb now—and took a slow, steady step back, not wanting to entice the snipers.
“Don’t even think about trying to run,” Charlie said. “You won’t make it five feet.”
“Stop right there, son,” Val demanded.
Blake was around three feet away from them now, but it didn’t feel like it was enough. He wondered if Val had been bluffing—if he really had a gun tucked away somewhere. If he had, it wasn’t visible through his clothing.
“You don’t understand, do you?” Charlie screamed at them. “You’re both going to die here. There’s no way out of it. Can’t you get that through your thick skulls?” His arms were still spread out, taking his chances at welcoming death.
Blake had known that the odds of leaving here alive weren’t good, but he’d also considered that the Agency would have to kill them publicly. To his right, people had overheard Charlie and were already beginning to edge away with caution.
And then, in the distance…
Rachel? No, it couldn’t be. Blake felt ridiculous for even thinking it was her. But nevertheless, there was somebody standing amid the thick group of people screaming something at the top of her lungs. Everyone began to disperse, dashing around in every direction while the woman continued to yell.
“Coincidence?” Val asked, a smarmy look on his face.
Charlie had never looked so pissed off. His face was growing bright red, and he was grinding his teeth. But then his lips curved upward and transformed into
a slight smile as if the lottery numbers had been read out, and he was slowly starting to realize that they were his numbers. “So… what? Drawing attention to us doesn’t get you anywhere. This is pretty desperate, Salinger. Even for you.”
Blake had no idea what he was talking about. Had Val planned this?
A camera crew was edging closer, the reporter adjusting herself and preparing to present the news. It hit Blake all of a sudden; while people ran for their lives and he was silently praying for his, this camera was aimed at them.
“No, you don’t understand,” Val said to his ex-employer. “You may think you have us by the throat. That whatever move I make now will be my downfall…”
Blake steeled his nerves.
“But you don’t have the first clue about how to survive.”
The reporter started talking.
“The truth is,” Val went on, “we own you now…”
All eyes were on him.
“And I’m going to enjoy this, even if it kills me.”
Blake watched as his father took a gun from inside his belt. Time seemed to slow down then, and he watched helplessly like he was frozen to the spot. The gun came up, and fire exploded from the barrel as the bullet flew toward Charlie. The moment it came in contact with his face, a beautiful scarlet splashed from his skin, and his body toppled to the ground. It killed him in an instant.
But the body had no sooner hit the concrete than Blake heard another gunshot—another whoosh coming from the sky, and his father’s body rotated. The bullet struck him with such violent ferocity that it spun him before he fell to the ground.
Blake lunged forward, his instincts telling him to run to his dad rather than avoid any incoming sniper fire. Time sped back up, and the ambient sounds returned with it. The camera crew ran closer, and the spectators around them screamed and ran for their lives.
It was a sense he had—not that he felt it—he could just sense a bullet coming his way. It strayed off, striking the ground a few feet away. Blake expected another as he slumped down beside his father, panting. He picked up his father’s hand and squeezed, waiting for it to squeeze back—holding on until he felt some sign of life, some jerk of his fingers.
Only he never did.
Val Salinger was dead.
Chapter Twenty-Six
The instruction was clear: “Move in! Go, go, go!”
The police heard the radio channel through their earpieces and initiated their tactical sweep of the rooftops. Doors were kicked down, and their automatic rifles were aimed directly at the snipers. They were each in teams of four, and they’d stayed alert until the very second the order had come through. It was what they’d been trained to do.
As the Agency’s snipers were approached, they each had their own reactions. Some panicked, unfamiliar with the threat that came with the police not being on their side. They’d been so used to that feeling of superiority, knowing the Agency owned them both. Other agents dropped their guns and ran, although there was nowhere to go. Those who did run were shot in the legs, the bullets disabling them with ease.
One of the agents got in one last shot while he could, firing down at Blake Salinger below. He missed and took a bullet to the back of his own head. Lethal threats had always been taken down fast.
There was one agent, observing that his entire corrupt career had come to a screeching halt, who turned and ran. An officer was a split-second away from firing his gun before the agent leapt off the roof. He disappeared out of sight in the flutter of an eyelid. The officer moved forward and peered over the roof at the messy remains.
“Good work, boys.” Davenport’s voice came through the headsets.
They were escorting the agents down the stairs, cuffed and protesting.
But no matter how hard they pleaded, one fact remained: they’d been caught.
There had been gunfire, and everyone scrambled for their lives.
Rachel had been among them, waving them all to safety. She’d known her actions would cause trouble. In fact, she’d depended on it. But as she flailed her arms around, screaming her lungs empty and trying to intimidate the people who ran around her, a lingering cloud of worry hovered over her.
Two policemen were coming.
Rachel spotted them at once. The uniforms were symbols of trust to the unknowing, but her instincts told her differently. She knew little about police procedure, but she was bright enough to know that if someone yelled “bomb,” two armed police officers would certainly not come her way. It didn’t matter how brave they were—it simply wouldn’t happen. That was why she stepped back.
More people came her way, zooming past and fearing for their own lives. Rachel silenced herself, her eyes trained on the (agents) officers, but she still uttered low-mumbled get-out-of-heres to the people running. Whatever happened next, at least she knew she’d succeeded in both causing the necessary stir and attracting media attention.
At least nobody can get caught in the gunfire.
The policemen moved forward.
One of them, lanky and young, took her by the arm. The other grabbed hold of her hair. This was evidence enough that they were dirty, confirming her previous suspicions. Rachel felt a sudden panic rise up within her as she was being pulled away from the street.
In a storefront window, she caught a reflection. It was a pleasant sight: Terry Davenport approaching them all, his nostrils flaring with anger.
Rachel heard the crunch of the officer’s nose before she saw it. She turned to see the other one blocking a punch, but Terry was too fast for him. As soon as the second policeman took a headbutt, he fell to the floor like a sack of potatoes.
“Are you all right?” Terry asked.
Rachel had been in worse situations and come out okay. “I’m fine.”
“Look.” He pointed across the street, where men in suits were being escorted into armored vans. They had their hands cuffed behind them, and the police were swarming all over the place. It must have been a busy day for them.
Rachel gazed across to where the Salingers had been, but she could no longer see them. The crowd around her thinning, she stepped forward until a parade cart moved out of the way, and everything suddenly became clear.
“Go,” Terry said. “It’s all right.”
Believing it (although there was a dash of paranoia telling her otherwise), she sprinted across the road, leaping over the barriers with an agility she didn’t know she had. She crossed the distance in no time at all, until she came to see what she feared.
Oh, Val.
A few feet from her, Blake Salinger knelt beside his father, who lay in a pool of his own blood. Beside them was the body of a man with a scarred throat. A pair of broken sunglasses lay smashed beside him. It wasn’t hard to identify him.
Rachel ran to them, taking Blake by the shoulders. At first, he shrugged her away, not seeing her for who she really was. But when he turned around for a second look, his eyes filled with shock and disbelief.
“No,” he said. “You’re not…”
It must have been torture for him, being confronted by someone he thought to be dead. Rachel dropped to her knees, her arm around him. “Yes,” she told him matter-of-factly. “It’s me. I’m here. It’s okay.”
Blake fell into her arms, letting her hold him while he stared at his father.
“We’re safe. It’s okay.” While Rachel also mourned the loss of Val Salinger, she found herself believing that her words had been true. The man who lay before her had given everything to end the Agency. She told herself again and again and said it out loud until she finally understood the truth of what she was saying. “We’re safe.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The press called it Justice Day, and they sold it as the collapse of a conspiracy. Which, in truth, it was. It was the day when everything had been put right.
Almost everything.
Blake Salinger had been introduced to a man named Terry Davenport, who’d told him with a sincerely caring tone that he woul
d have to be arrested. “It’s only procedure,” he’d said. “We just need your account of the situation, and then you’re a free man.” He’d left Blake then and stood to one side while everyone cleaned up around him.
An ambulance arrived surprisingly late—it must have been difficult for them to maneuver the busy, taped-off streets where the parade had taken place. When they got there, they saw to Blake’s bullet wound, describing it as “a clean in-and-out.” It would have been a relief had he not then had to see his father lifted onto a gurney.
“I’ll take care of the arrangements,” Rachel offered, though she was in no better shape.
“Thank you.” Blake wanted to ask her a thousand questions but felt more like he was the one who owed the explanations. The way he’d acted recently, he could tuck his head away and stay out of everyone’s sight until the day he died. And now that it was too late to say the things he needed to say to Val, he didn’t know what to do with himself.
“Come on. There’s somebody I think you should meet.”
Rachel shuffled him over to the crowd, where the media were now kept behind a barrier—they’d been given their fair share of attention. A man stood next to the FBI agent, leaning on the hood of a black and shiny car. He stood up as they approached.
“This is Robert Parker,” Rachel said. “And I’m sure you know who this is.”
“Oh, I think you can call me Robbie by now.” The man was smiling, but it was obviously false—there was pain there, mixed with a deep relief.
Blake appreciated the effort. “Pleasure to finally meet you,” he said and shook hands with the former detective. He’d heard a lot about this man and how he’d helped his father and Jackie (whose injury had been explained to him by Rachel only minutes ago). But now he felt incredible, painful guilt for ever having allowed the Agency to pursue these people. These good, kind, loving people who he should be so lucky to call friends.
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