by E. R. Mason
The depressed west side was even more foreboding in the real world then it had been in Dreamland. As the crowded areas of the city ebbed, the streets became less kept. The red brick buildings looked rustic, but with a touch of deterioration. The sidewalks lacked maintenance. The few trees still decorating the roadway looked dead. Steel bars guarded windows on the lower floors. More storefronts were boarded up.
Having taken only enough time to change into a gray business suit with a Glock 9mm accessory, Rogers bypassed the terrorist’s garage, a place she knew would soon be overrun with forensics. The families of two hard-working air-conditioning technicians soon would be receiving the worst news possible. Engraved within her memory was the ten-mile trip to the basement apartment of the third man, a man she had searched for much of her young life, a man who had casually left her an orphan. She brought the van within two blocks of his parking place in Dreamland. She parked around a corner, checked her Glock, drew her agency radio out of the glove box and clipped it to her belt. With a last look around, she climbed out and gently closed the van door. The street was as deserted as it had been in Dreamland. She headed for the parking spot, hoping against hope that the vehicle would really be there. A block away, she could see something parked, the color was different, but it was a foreign car. She paused in the shadows of the nearest building and searched the street carefully. Far in the distance, a delivery truck was parking, but otherwise there was no one.
There was something about the car. Rogers could feel it. It had the aura of death about it. Agent instincts had come to full alert. The impression was so strong it was impossible to ignore. Rogers unclipped her radio and called in.
“Dispatch, Agent Rogers.”
“Dispatch receiving you; please repeat.”
“Agent Rogers, Ann Rogers.”
“One moment. …Oh, Ms. Rogers. We don’t have you on the roster.”
“I’ve been on travel. I have an unexpected lead on a most-wanted, alias Katalia. I think you’d better send some back-up. My location is the intersection of Parker Street and Amber Ave.”
“We can send you Baker and Collins. All other agents are presently unavailable.”
“Do it. Tell them to run with lights. I’m proceeding. Rogers out.”
She waited, hoping her suspect would return to the car. If she checked out his apartment and he was off somewhere with his terrorist buddies, he could return for the car and she might miss him. If she stayed with the car, he’d be back for it sooner or later. After twenty minutes, she could stand it no longer. Scanning the area, she crossed the street well away from the vehicle. She walked along the sidewalk to the side street and dared a look around the corner. In the distance, a man was working under the hood of an old car parked against the curb. She stepped out and headed for the alley that led to the basement apartment. At the alley’s entrance, she looked carefully around and found it clear. She entered, took three steps, and froze. A man in dark, loose-fitting clothing came racing around the corner. He entered the alley with his head turned as though someone might be following him. He carried a suitcase in one hand and a bag slung over one shoulder. He looked around, spotted Rogers and became alarmed. He stopped abruptly.
Rogers’ gun was already in her hand. She held it low and behind. The two stood facing each other for a long, tense moment. Both understood. The man put down the suitcase and let the bag slide off his shoulder. He narrowed his stare, slowly raised one hand and slid it behind the loose clothing draped around him.
Rogers waited.
Abruptly, he relaxed and held up one hand. He smiled and waved off the tension. He raised one finger and opened his mouth as though to speak. Without changing expression, he jerked a handgun out of his clothing and shoved it in her direction. Rogers drew and fired, hitting him in the left hip. The loud crack of gunfire echoed off the narrow alley walls. He spun off-balanced and crouched over, clutching at the wound.
Rogers began a slow walk toward him, her weapon hanging carelessly at her side.
Once again, he straightened up and whipped around to shoot. Rogers drew and fired again hitting him squarely in the other hip, knocking him sideways so that he fell to the ground in a sitting position, bracing himself with his empty right hand, the gun resting on the blacktop in his other.
Rogers continued her slow walk, weapon down.
A third time he twisted around to shoot. Rogers fired once more, hitting him in the left side of the chest, sending his gun flying behind him. It spun along the ground and bounced off a nearby brick wall. Wide-eyed, he stared up at her, unable to move.
Rogers squatted next to him, holding her handgun loosely between her legs.
He looked up in confusion and spoke with a thick accent. “But how is it possible? You are a woman!”
“How did I out-gun you? Oh, thank-you for asking. A murdering bastard skilled in the use of firearms goes up against a poor, lowly woman and gets his ass kicked. Bullets aren't prejudiced, Mr. Katalia.”
Gasping for breath, he asked, “How did you find me?”
“You could say it was in a dream.” Rogers drew a picture from inside her jacket. “Do you remember this man? You should. You murdered him.”
Katalia paused to look. “I did what was needed.”
Rogers smiled. “Me too. That was my father.”
“You must help me. It’s your duty.” He slumped down into a prone position on the blacktop.
“The one thing I don’t get is why you risked coming back to the states. You know you’re top of the hot here. Why would you take such a chance?”
“I want a doctor,” he said, weakly.
“I know what it was. You wanted to see it, didn’t you? You wanted to see the bomb go off so bad you risked coming here. You were gonna get far enough away so you’d be safe, but you just had to see all those people die, didn’t you?”
“You must call doctors, or I could die.” Blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah, you’re bleeding pretty bad there. Do you remember how you killed him? How you killed my father?”
“I demand you call help.”
“He bled to death on the metal table where you were torturing him. You do remember don’t you?”
“I know my rights. You will call the ambulance.”
“Well, you do have a right to remain silent, in fact forever, but I wouldn’t go any farther than that.”
“You must call. I am dying.”
“Yes, but none too soon.”
His eyes closed and his head turned slightly away. Rogers touched her fingers to his neck. The pulse was gone. She pulled her radio off her belt and keyed the transmit button. “Agent Rogers at Parker and Amber. I’m in a side alley. Suspect is down with a gunshot wound. We’ll need an ambulance.”
She stood, tucked her gun back in the holster, and returned the photo of her father to her jacket pocket. She turned and walked back down the alley as two other agents in dark suits, guns drawn, came running to find her.
“He’s back there, but there’s no rush. It’s all yours. I’ll be on temporary suspension for a while.”
Without speaking, they resumed their sprint.
Rogers walked to her van, stood for a moment at the driver’s door, then climbed in and sat. She did not know where to go. Life had just ended and was now starting over. There had been no way to prepare for this. Half a life spent on a single ambition, and now that was gone. Rogers suddenly realized she did not even know who she was. She was no longer the hunter. She needed something or someone to hold onto. She needed a friend to look her in the eye and tell her about Ann Rogers, someone who might know that person. It wasn’t a tear she was wiping from the corner of her eye because she had never cried since her father’s death. She looked down at her waist, unclipped the holster from her belt, and placed the handgun under her seat. For a moment, she wondered if she was in Dreamland or reality. With her hands shaking, she found her cell phone and booked a flight to Orlando, Florida, the only place she knew to go
.
Chapter 28