by Karen Rose
The windowless CPD van was probably five minutes from downtown, if Troy was taking a direct route. It was impossible to know as Adam had pulled the curtain separating the front seats from the back, cutting off their view—and cutting them off from view, which was more important.
But Meredith wished she had just one window, so she could stare out of it. Or glare out of it, which was more accurate. In the absence of a window, she focused her irritation fully on her grandfather. She didn’t need to be a shrink to see that he and Adam had had words on the balcony. Adam had been tense, her grandfather uncharacteristically broody.
“You can look at me like that all you want to, young lady,” her grandfather said, breaking into the heavy silence. “It won’t change one little thing.”
Her grandfather sat opposite her, Kyle next to him. Shane sat next to Meredith, silent except for an occasional sigh, but at the sound of Clarke’s voice, Shane’s chin came up, his gaze bouncing between Meredith and her grandfather. “What’s going on?” he asked.
Clarke started to answer, but Meredith shot him a warning look. “Sometimes,” she said to Shane, but keeping her gaze on Clarke, “folks can love you a little too much. Sometimes they forget you are all grown up and not five years old any longer.”
Shane shrugged. “He is eighty-four. Which he claims allows him to give unsolicited advice. On video games and life.”
Clarke snorted. “He’s a smart kid, Merry.”
“Yeah, he is. He said claims.” She glanced at Shane. “What advice did he give you?”
Shane’s expression softened. “That I shouldn’t feel guilty that I laughed at his jokes when I’m supposed to be grieving. That laughter is basically my heart taking a break.”
Meredith’s heart clenched, because Clarke had said the same thing to her when her parents had died and her life as she knew it was imploding. “He’s right about that,” she murmured. She sighed and met Clarke’s gaze. “Just . . . don’t push, okay, Papa?”
“Okay.” Clarke rolled his eyes. “I’ll try, anyway.”
“Thanks,” Meredith said dryly, then looked at Shane. “How are you doing, Shane?”
He shrugged. “Detective Kimble asked me if I’d listen to a recording of a 911 call.”
“I know. I overheard him talking to you.” It had been as they were putting on their coats and bulletproof vests. Meredith figured that Adam had intended for her to overhear, since he’d talked to Shane while she stood only a few feet away. “Are you okay with that?”
Shane bit at his lip. “He thinks it might be Linnie. But what if it is?”
“Well, I guess first and foremost, if it is her, then we know she’s alive.”
“Or was this morning,” Shane said gruffly.
“What are you afraid of, hon?”
“That it is Linnie.” He dropped his head, his shoulders sagging. “And that she had something to do with Andy getting killed. Because if she didn’t, why didn’t she go to the police? Why call anonymously? I mean, I thought I knew her. I thought she’d do anything for Andy, because he would’ve done anything for her.” He looked at her, his eyes narrowed and red from tears, fear, and a mostly sleepless night. “He died to keep her safe.”
“All good questions,” Meredith admitted. “Ones I wish I could answer. I can ask Detective Kimble if I can sit in there with you, if you want. For support.”
His lips trembled, then firmed when he pursed them. “That would be good, I think.”
The curtain whipped open and Adam’s face appeared. But instead of agreeing to her sitting in with Shane, his jaw was taut and he held a rifle in his hands.
“Get down!” he shouted. “Everyone on the floor.” Then he was gone and the van took a hard turn, brakes squealing.
After a single blink, Meredith sprang into action, unbuckling her seat belt, but Shane was fumbling with his. She batted his hands away and released the catch, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him off the seat just as the van careened again, throwing them both to the floor. Meredith’s head hit the floor hard and she blinked to clear her vision of the bright flashing stars, vaguely aware of her grandfather and Kyle falling to the floor beside her.
Just as the windshield shattered and bullets sprayed the top half of the van’s walls, on the side where Meredith and Shane had been sitting.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, December 20, 3:43 p.m.
Crouching as low as he could, Adam grabbed the radio. “Detective Kimble,” he barked when Dispatch acknowledged his call. “Shots fired during transport of witnesses. We were shot at. We did not return fire.”
“Injuries?” the operator asked.
Troy’s right arm was bleeding, but it appeared to be a slow bleed. He’d slid down so that he could see through the stripe of undamaged glass at the base of the windshield. “Special Agent Troy has been shot in the arm. Hold on.” He looked over his shoulder, his heart stuttering at the sight of Meredith’s green eyes looking up at him from the floor. Thank God. “Is anybody hit back there?”
“No,” Meredith called back. “We’re just shaken up.”
Troy pulled into a small city park and stopped the van behind a thick copse of evergreens. “We’re out of range,” he muttered. With his left hand, he pulled his service weapon from its holster, wincing. “The trees will provide cover if the sniper tries again.”
“No injuries other than Agent Troy,” Adam told the operator. “Send backup. We’re one block north of Linn and Ezzard Charles, out of range of the shooter.”
“Backup is on the way,” the operator informed him.
“Send officers to the school nearest the corner of Linn and Ezzard Charles. The shots came from the roof. Then send another van or several cars to our location. Five of us to continue to the precinct. Agent Troy will need an ambulance.”
“I can go in one of the squad cars,” Troy gritted out.
Adam didn’t argue. He figured Troy knew his own body and how badly he was hurt. Besides, EMTs wouldn’t approach a hot zone until it was declared safe. “Did you copy that?” he asked the operator.
“Yes, Detective,” she said. “Officers on their way.”
“All right.” Adam took stock of the damage. The windshield was a mess of fractures, but it had held. Both he and Troy were covered in glass because Adam’s side window had not. “Keep your heads down,” Adam said to Meredith and the others in the back. “I’m going to take a look,” he murmured to Troy, “in case he decides to approach on foot.”
Because if he did, they might not see him until it was too late. The sniper would likely try again to take out Adam and Troy, leaving the passengers unprotected.
Adam slipped out of the van and took a three-sixty look, holding his rifle against his chest. It was quiet today, too cold for anyone to be enjoying the small park. It was so peaceful, it was hard to believe they’d been shot at only minutes before. Not wanting to drop his gaze to his phone, he called Isenberg using a voice command.
“Detective Kimble?” Isenberg answered when she picked up the call. “We expected you already.”
“We hit a snag,” Adam said, walking around the van, his eyes on the trees, looking for any movement. Until he saw the passenger side of the van, riddled with bullets. Holy shit. He’d heard the bullets hitting the van but hadn’t had any idea . . . We were lucky. So damn lucky. He jerked his gaze away from the van and back to the trees. “We were shot at.”
“Explain,” Isenberg said sharply.
“Both boys are all right, as are Meredith and her grandfather. Shaken, but unhurt.”
“Hold on.” Isenberg relayed this to the Davises and he heard a small sob. Then Deacon’s voice, asking Isenberg’s clerk to find the parents a conference room in which to wait. “Deacon is here. I’m putting you on speaker. Explain.”
“Are you and Troy all right?” Deacon asked.
“Troy’s hit in the arm. Not a gusher, but he’s losing some blood. We’d just gotten off the highway. Troy was driving. I was shotgun. Or rifle.”
“You’re the sharpshooter,” Isenberg said practically. “Did you return fire?”
“No. I saw the glint of the rifle on the school rooftop as we approached from the west. I warned Troy, and he hit the gas, but the shooter got some shots in as we took evasive action. The windshield was hit with”—he counted bullet holes—“four bullets. Passenger-side window was destroyed and there are five bullet holes on the passenger side of the van, all at the top.” He frowned as he came around to inspect them again. “All inches from the roof. None would have hit anyone in the back unless they’d ricocheted.”
Adam heard sirens. “I’d be shocked if the shooter stuck around, but I had Dispatch send officers to the rooftop anyway. CSU should check for the casings. We’re going to move the four passengers to squad cars ASAP and continue to your office. Troy will have one of the squad cars take him to the hospital.”
“All right,” Isenberg said wearily. “How did they know where you’d be, Adam?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “And I’ve been wondering the same thing. Who knew we were on our way in?”
“My clerk, who called Kyle’s parents.” She sighed. “And anyone who was in the lobby when they arrived, asking for me. Which was at least a dozen people.”
“Someone might have heard and assumed we’d be bringing both Shane and Kyle in, but how they knew where our vehicle would be at that exact moment is still unknown.”
“They’d have to have known your route, which means they’d have to have at least suspected where you’d be coming from.” She sighed again. “Come on in and we’ll figure it out. Be careful.”
“I will.” Ending the call, Adam studied the bullet holes on the passenger side once again and took photos with his phone. Either the shooter had been rattled, or he hadn’t intended to kill any of the four passengers.
He frowned again. The only one who’d been actually shot at . . . was me. He did another walk around the van, watching for any movement through the trees. Hugging the van for cover, he didn’t relax his watch until backup arrived.
He directed two of the officers to help Troy, then opened the back door of the van and took his first easy breath. Meredith sat on the floor of the van, her arm around Shane, whose eyes were closed, his face unnaturally pale.
Kyle hadn’t looked good before. Now . . . he was all but catatonic.
Meredith’s gaze shot to Adam’s. Eyes filling with tears, she huffed out a breath that sounded like a sob, letting go of Shane to slide to the open door. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” he said, then staggered back when she threw her arms around his neck. She was trembling now and he couldn’t stop himself from wrapping his arms around her. To hell with Isenberg’s “no getting involved” bullshit. Meredith needed him now and he wasn’t going to turn her away.
He smoothed a hand down her back. Then frowned when something hard poked him in the sternum. “Meredith?” he murmured cautiously. “Are you carrying?”
“Duh,” she whispered unsteadily. “I’ll check it at CPD security. I do that every time I visit anyway.”
He found himself chuckling. “Okay.”
“You’re sure you’re not hurt? I saw your window. It’s gone.”
“Just glass in my hair, which is going to be all over you now.”
“I don’t care.”
Was it ridiculous how good that made him feel? “I think me leaning back to warn you guys kept me from being hit. Unfortunately, Troy was.”
“I’m fine,” Troy snapped from the front seat.
“I’m glad,” Adam called back, then bent his head to whisper in Meredith’s ear. “You gonna be okay if I step back?”
Her arms tightened for a few heartbeats, then she nodded and let him go. “Yes.”
“Good. We need to get you all out of here. I haven’t seen any activity in the trees and I think if the shooter had wanted to try again he would have already. But let’s not take that chance.” He took a step back, then unapologetically met her grandfather’s sharp stare. “Mr. Fallon, do you need to be checked out?”
The old man looked insulted. “You mean did I have a coronary? No, son. I did not.”
Meredith turned to face her grandfather, shaking her head. “Papa. You promised.”
Fallon huffed. “He’s implying I have a weak constitution.”
“You are eighty-four,” Meredith said affectionately. “He doesn’t know you well enough to know you’re a tough old coot. He’s being professional. Cut him some slack.”
Then Shane sobered the mood. “Were they shooting at me, Detective Kimble?”
“Or me?” Meredith asked.
Or me? “I don’t know,” Adam said honestly. “We’re going to find out.”
Chapter Eighteen
Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, December 20, 3:49 p.m.
His cell rang, startling him. It was Mike. Hopefully with good news. Taking a look around to make sure no one was paying him attention, he hit ACCEPT. “Well?”
A beat of hesitation. “I missed.”
He closed his eyes, fury pounding through him. “You’re a fucking sharpshooter. How did you fucking miss?”
“They must have seen something. Seen me. Took evasive action.”
“Was anyone hit?”
“Just the driver. The Fed. Troy, I think is his name.”
Well, at least one of the asswipes was out of commission. “What about passengers?”
“Unhurt. I continued to fire, aiming for the top of the van, so none of the passengers were hit.”
“Why the hell did you do that?”
“Because you said you wanted the boy alive, dumbass. I’ll follow them, try again.”
He seethed, wanting to put Mike in his place. “I have another job for you first.”
“Do tell.”
He rolled his eyes. “I’ll message you. Don’t hesitate when you get my signal.”
“Doesn’t sound positive. I’m not gonna like it, am I?”
“Probably not.”
Mike huffed a sigh. “Fuck. This just keeps getting worse.”
“Taking out Kimble and Troy would have been a big step forward,” he said sarcastically. “You could have grabbed Shane, who is still our ticket to Linnea. Maybe you should hit the target range while you’re waiting for the next job.”
“Fuck you,” Mike said angrily. “I taught you everything you know. If I couldn’t hit Kimble in the van, then you never could.”
Not true, but he wasn’t going to argue. “Fine. Just wait for my message.”
He ended the call. He had places to be.
Cincinnati, Ohio
Sunday, December 20, 4:25 p.m.
They were a ragtag bunch, Meredith thought as they exited the elevator onto Isenberg’s floor. They began shedding the vests as soon as the elevator closed behind them.
A middle-aged couple rushed forward, then stumbled to a stop when they saw Kyle. “What’s happened?” Mr. Davis asked loudly. He twisted to glare at Isenberg. “You said he was okay! He’s like a walking zombie!”
“He is physically unharmed,” Meredith said quietly. Damn, her head hurt. Especially now that the adrenaline was wearing off. She’d hit her head harder than she thought when she’d fallen in the van. Unbuttoning her coat, she approached the Davises, who were well and truly terrified. And tired. Join the club. “Kyle is grieving and he’s just had another shock. He’s withdrawn into himself, which can happen in these situations. He’ll need rest and quiet and most probably some grief counseling. When you take him home, can you make sure he has the support of a therapist or a grief therapy group?”
Mrs. Davis put her arms around her son. “Of course.”
Mr. Davis’s shoulders sagged. “Who are you, exactly, miss?”
“This is Dr. Fallon,” Shane supplied. “She was at the restaurant yesterday when Andy—” He broke off. “She’s nice, Mr. Davis. She made things easier for us. Kyle and me.”
Mr. Davis put his arm around Shane’s shoulders, pulling him in for a hug, but he looked directly at Meredith. “Thank you. I’m sorry. This has just been . . .” He looked overwhelmed.
“I know,” Meredith said. “I’m not used to being on this side of it. It’s horrible.”
“I’m Detective Kimble,” Adam said from behind her. “I’m the lead investigator on this case, but we’re working with Chicago PD. What are your plans? Do you want to take Kyle back to school or return to Michigan?”
“We’re going home. We want to leave within the hour,” Mr. Davis said. “Why?”
“Given what’s just happened,” Isenberg said, “and I will give you a complete accounting of it, we’d like you to wait to leave until we’re sure it’s safe.”
The Davises’ eyes widened. “You think Kyle is in danger?” Mrs. Davis asked, a thread of panic in her voice. “Even if we take him home and not back to Chicago?”
“We don’t know,” Adam told her. “But because of what happened to Tiffany and her mother—and adding in what just happened to us on the way over here—we think he could be. Whoever wants Shane won’t hesitate to hurt the people around him to get their hands on him. We want you all to make it home safely.”
Shane dropped his chin to his chest. “I’m so sorry.”
Adam gripped Shane’s shoulder. “This is not your fault.”
Mr. Davis pulled Shane close for another one-armed hug. “Hush, Shane. We’ll figure this out.” He gave his son a sad look before turning to Adam. “We want you to know that we appreciate the precautions you and the other guy took. What was his name again?”
“Special Agent Troy,” Adam said.
Mr. Davis nodded. “Yes, him. He said that if you hadn’t seen the rifle, he couldn’t have reacted in time and it might have been worse. And you had them in vests, you told them to get down . . . You took every precaution.”