Every Breath You Take: A Novel (A Kristen Conner Mystery Book 2) (45 page)

I lift the card to the electronic pad. Before it gets there, the door opens. I’m standing face to face with Bob Randall. Both our jaws drop.

“It’s about time you got here,” he says, quickly. “I’ve got them secured in the back room.”

I’m disoriented. But not stupid. My gun is up and pointing at his chest at the same time his gun magically appears.

“Drop the gun, Conner. Do not think I will hesitate to blow your brains out,” he says with a snarl.

“Your trigger finger so much as twitches you are a dead man,” I snarl back.

“Then how about my gun?” Junior asks. The barrel is pointed at my face. Yep, he’s armed. “Drop the weapon, Detective.”

My mind runs through percentages and options. None of them favor me.

“Now.”

My only prayer is that he doesn’t have a silencer in his pocket and doesn’t want to wake up the whole building with a blast from his handgun. He’s got Baretta 9 mm. My old model. I actually still have one in my lock box at home.

I see him tense and I immediately point the barrel of my Sig Sauer at the ground. I’ve watched cop dramas on TV so I know the routine. I remove my finger from the trigger and hold the weapon by the handle between my thumb and forefinger.

Junior laughs.

“If you would be so kind as to hand that to my colleague, carefully I would add, I would be most appreciative.”

“How many pieces of silver did you get, Bob?” I ask as I hand him the gun.

“Shut up, Conner,” he says. “Your schtick gets old real quick.”

“Let’s go back where you can join an old friend and get more comfortable,” Junior says.

“You know he’s tying up loose ends and you’ll soon be one of them,” I say to Randall.

“Shut up, Conner,” he says.

I knew quiet, unassuming Randall was dirty. But this dirty? Oh man, oh man.

“I think Detective Randall can take care of himself,” Junior says. “Unlike others, which should be very obvious to you at this particular moment. That’s why I selected him for my team. You should have accepted my dad’s job offer. He was serious you know. I’m going to recommend Detective Randall instead. I think he might enjoy his pay raise and bonus.”

I look behind me at Randall and he smiles. He gives me another poke in the back with his standard issue Glock. Where are Don and Martinez? Where is Konkade?

So far, the only colleague I don’t want present is here.

78

DERRICK PULLED IN the covered entrance to Barbara’s condo. He turned off the engine, got out, and walked to the front door.

He almost bumped into a big man turning the corner and running forward. He looked familiar.

“Derrick?” Squires asked.

“Yeah. Are you one of the detectives?”

“Yes.”

“I’m here to make things right and then turn myself in. I killed Jack.”

“You didn’t kill Jack, Derrick.”

“Not literally. But I was responsible.”

“What are you really doing here?”

“Bobby wants to talk.”

“You sure?”

“No.”

“Sit down in the lobby. We’ll take care of Bobby.”

“I’m tired of being told to sit down and be quiet, Detective. I’m coming with you.”

“Not a good idea, Derrick.”

“Can you stop me?”

“Let’s go. Stay behind me. Keep your mouth shut.”

• • •

The gun nudges me again. It wouldn’t surprise me if Randall scores better than I do on the firing range. Doesn’t take a whole lot. But I’m positive he hasn’t studied the tactical moves of capturing or being held captive to the degree I have. The three of us are walking into the sunroom where Penny is gagged and tied up on a chair in the middle of the room. She’s alive. But more importantly for the moment, we are in a single-file line. That basically neutralizes the second person’s weapon. Durham is a civilian and isn’t expected to know how to cover a captive, but Randall has gone through classes on basic coverage concepts and should know better.

I take a second step into the room and slow down. He nudges me yet again.

Bob, you may not like my schtick but you have poked me in the back with that Glock for the last time.

When I feel him pull back the weapon I stomp on his instep with all my strength and weight. At the same time I snap my head back and catch him on the nose. I’ve thrown both elbows down and back in a blind attempt to hit the tops of his forearms as viciously as possible. His left was already down and I make no contact. But his right arm was up with the gun and I can feel my elbow drill into his ulna. Not sure I snapped it but I got it good.

He roars in pain as he staggers back. But he keeps his senses and ignores his broken nose—no easy task—and begins to bring the Glock up to shoot me. Before he can reach firing position, I whirl and grab the wrist of his gun hand and push it back down. I hear bones grind and note with satisfaction that if his ulna wasn’t broken before, it is now.

He is in trouble and knows it. I know his instinct will be to ignore the searing pain in his forearm to push up against my downward force. Things are moving in slow motion and I am fully ready for the move. What I’m not ready for is what Junior is up to behind Bob.

I take my hat off to Bob. I know how bad the move hurts. But Bob launches his arm forward with his weight behind it. Instead of resisting I go with it and yank his arm over his head and out of shooting range in a nanosecond. I wrench it down and back and pull it up tight behind his back, turning him face-to-face with a stunned Robert Durham, Jr. I taste bile at the sound of bones grinding another direction—and Randall buys me another second as he lets out an ear-splitting scream. The Glock clatters noisily to the floor and I’m levering Randall’s arm even further up his back to drive him straight into Durham. He is no longer fighting back and is actually bull rushing Junior with me.

Durham’s eyes widen and he gets the gun up but we are knocking him backwards one staggered step at a time. The explosion from the barrel of his Baretta is deafening. I feel Randall’s body convulse but keep pushing forward to crowd Durham from getting a clean shot off at me. A 9mm gun is a killing machine, but thankfully the ammo gauge is just small enough to careen around inside Randall’s internal organs rather than come through his body and hit me.

I told you he was going to tie you up as a loose end, Bob.

I keep momentum going and push the three of us into the living room.

Durham tries to get his gun around Randall’s dead body to shoot me, but I push Randall into him as he squeezes the trigger. The bullet misses me, but I am showered with shaved bone and brain matter from the side of Randall’s head.

• • •

Frank, Derrick, and Don rush out of the elevator. Don races ahead, his heels nearly sliding on the corner. Frank didn’t have another key to Barbara’s condo. Don didn’t care. He would blow the hinges off the door.

A gunshot sounded at the end of the hall.

Am I on time?

• • •

“Your call, Karl. But it’s your career, including your pension, on the line.”

“Don’t threaten me, Commander. We go back way too long for that nonsense.”

“Conner is an immature hothead.”

“Yeah, but she gets the job done.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Go call Fergosi and then Doyle. Cover your butt. But you know in your heart of hearts, Conner did right.”

• • •

I can’t hold Randall’s body up anymore. It is getting heavier and my muscles are turning to jell-o. My heart is racing from the effort, but my adrenaline rush keeps me driving at Durham with Randall’s body as a shield. I’m gasping as we reach the center of the living room and tumble to floor. Durham falls flat on his back and his arm flies over his head, but he keeps hold of the Baretta and is immediately struggling to sit up and point the gun at me.

I plant a foot on Randall’s chest and launch myself at him. The gun is arcing down and forward as he sits up. I am flying through the air at him like superman—or superwoman. My eyes are fixed on the arc of the gun. I stretch and strain in midair as if time has stood still. I doubt it looks as good as the fight scenes in the old Matrix movies, but I’m sure it would still be impressive on film.

The mind is an amazing thing in its capacity to compute incredible amounts of data and thought in an incredibly short amount of time.

I wonder if Don is close. I wonder again if I get to keep the clothes that Barbara Ferguson bought me—and if I can trade in the size 0 Dolce and Gabbana jeans for a size that allows me to walk and breathe.

My hand connects with his right wrist, pushing the gun up and out. The Baretta explodes again. The bullet doesn’t part my hair but I’m pretty certain I felt it scream and roar within inches of my temple. The gun was less than a foot from my head and the sound was deafening. Literally, my head is buzzing and I can’t hear anything. I might have lost an ear drum on that.

I keep my hand on Durham’s wrist and push forward on top of him. The fight now feels surreal with no sound. I’ve got his right hand clutched in my left. Our faces are six inches apart. He gasps as he tries to bring his arm back forward. I feel the spray of his spittle and am revulsed.

He wrenches his body hard left and right trying to throw me off him. I hold on for dear life. I may have better tactical position but he has a gun.

He thrusts his head forward with teeth barred and tries to bite me. I snap my head back but then back forward. He dodges and I barely clip his jaw. Not enough force to do any damage.

He bucks to throw me off and tries to bite me again. I’m riding in a row boat in a thunderstorm, but stay on top of the raging sea.

I feel him flatten beneath me, undoubtedly to marshall his strength in another attempt to free his arms. I go back to my in-close combat training with krav maga. In a timed maneuver I twist my shoulders hard to the left, throwing my right elbow up and forward as hard as I can from short range. I catch him flush in the temple and I see the lights go out. A one punch knockout. The gun clatters harmlessly away.

I can’t wait to tell Soto.

I breathe in and out. The world is silent. I begin to relax. His eyes pop open wide. Like lightning his hands are on my neck to choke me.

I push up and away but his hands fumble to keep a hold. Halfway up I fall toward, my arms rotating up and down and catching his wrists to break the hold. I roll away and see his hand shoot for the gun. Mine gets there first and I send it soundlessly skidding across the narrow plank oak floor.

Then Durham stops fighting.

Two arms grab me from behind and pull me backward. I see navy slacks and polished black work shoes step past me. I look up and see Don with his Glock pointed at Durham. He is giving him orders. He might be yelling. I still can’t hear anything out of my left ear.

But I am alive.

79

“I THINK YOU’VE got a perforated tympanic membrane,” the paramedic says to me an hour later. I hear him with my right ear but nothing with my left.

“In English,” I say.

“Ruptured eardrum. You need to go to the hospital.”

I shake my head, which is aching. The ten bass drum players residing in my brain are awakened from the movement and start to pound out the beat for a Sousa march.

“What will they do?” I ask.

“Not much. There’s really no treatment for a ruptured eardrum. It will heal itself in a couple weeks.”

“So why go to the hospital?”

“I said I think it’s a ruptured eardrum. So they need to look at it. But if it is a perforated tympanic membrane, this does make you susceptible to middle ear infections and I promise you, you don’t want that. They’ll put you on an antibiotic and might want to apply something topical as well.”

“Okay.”

I look around the room. Robert Durham, Jr. is in handcuffs. Derrick is a couple feet away, his mouth wide open. He is in shock.

The tech team from the Medical Examiner’s office are working on Bob Randall . . . on his dead body.

I see Penny walk by. Our eyes meet. She looks away quickly. I saved her life, but I somehow doubt we’ll ever be friends.

“Hey, Penny,” I yell.

She and the officer escorting her out turn and look at me.

“Where’s Gary?”

She shrugs meekly and begins to sob.

“Who is Gary?” Don asks me.

“Her bodyguard. Call Tedford and see if he can find anything on Ajax Pest Control.”

80

“I’M SORRY, SIR, I didn’t hear what you asked.”

Czaka arches his eyebrows and gives me the evil eye. Hey. My eardrum is still healing.

“Did you deliberately disobey orders?” he asks me again.

Maybe I heard him the first time. I’m in a conference room with him, Commissioner Fergosi, DA Angela Flannigan, two CPD attorneys, Zaworski, and my union rep.

“That’s a nuanced question and you are asking for a simple ‘yes or no’ answer,” my rep, Terrance Stone says.