The Greatest Good Page 4

  While I wondered how I actually got the protection gig, I gave my eyes a good rub.

  “You okay, Agent Chase?”

  I looked over at Stanley. “I’m fine.”

  “Maybe you should take the day off.”

  “Day off? I just started. Are you trying to get rid of me already?”

  Stanley smiled. “Just testing you.”

  “Good one.”

  He turned his attention back to his phone. I leaned back and closed my eyes. It was about mid-seventy today and sunny. While I let the warm Southern California sun bathe my face, I wondered about my morning intruder. What I needed to do was prove to the custody judge that the intruder wasn’t a threat. Could the intruder have been an actual burglar and not a professional looking for payback? Maybe the burglar had stepped up his game and intended to start burning down homes instead of stealing stuff. Maybe the burglar had gotten bored of stealing and wanted a bigger thrill. The more I thought about that, though, the more doubts I had. If that were the case, the burglar wouldn’t use Semtex. Semtex was too hard to find and way too expensive. The burglar could find far cheaper and more accessible explosives.

  I turned my mind off, frustrated that I seemed to be getting more questions than answers. When I opened my eyes, I was blinded by a split-second flash of light. Within milliseconds the light disappeared, but my eyes scanned the surroundings anyway, searching for the source of the flash.

  A waist-high wall sectioned off the coffee shop patio. Beyond the wall was a huge stretch of grass that covered about two acres of land. Various concrete paths sliced through the greenness. The paths led to a number of tall buildings that skirted the edge of the grass. Hundreds of students walked in and out of the academic buildings. My eyes swept the area, but I didn’t see anything that would explain the flash, though I kept scanning back and forth for another minute. Before long, everything blurred into one. Once again, I gave my sockets a good rub. Maybe I had imagined the flash.

  “That coffee doesn’t seem to be working, Agent Chase.”

  I looked at Stanley. “It takes some time. I—”

  The flash happened again. I saw it through the reflection in Stanley’s glasses. I glanced at the buildings.

  “I what, Agent Chase? You’re acting strange. You can’t even finish a sentence.”

  I scanned the top of the buildings. A third flash happened. It came from the tallest building to my right. I squinted and saw a rifle barrel peeking over the ledge, pointed right at Stanley and me.

  The flash was the reflection from a sniper’s scope.

  I suddenly hopped to my feet, only to plop straight back down again, then I scraped my chair to the left. Quick movements caused snipers to realign, which bought their targets a few seconds.

  “Agent Chase, what on earth?”

  The barrel tracked my movements. I saw it. I was sure of it. The shot was aimed at me. I needed to get away from Stanley. I had to protect the kid.

  Suddenly my body reacted. I dove left, as far away from Stanley as I could, and collapsed into a ball, crashing to the ground in a heap.

  The rifle crack came a second after I hit the ground. The sound seemed to echo longer than it should. Every muscle in my body clenched as I remained in a tight ball. Nothing tore through me, though. I felt no searing pain; and my head was still intact. Plus, there were no gaping holes in my body. I looked up and gasped; saw the worst possible thing I could imagine.

  I blinked, but the image didn’t change. My mind told me I needed to move, but the gravity of the situation seemed to be pressing me to the ground, rendering me immobile. Everything in me wanted to stay curled up in a tight ball. But I needed to do something. I needed to act. I knew that.

  So I scrambled to my knees and headed toward Stanley Tuchek, who lay flat on his back in a pool of growing blood.

  CHAPTER 4

  The patio was deathly silent for a couple of seconds, then two girls saw Stanley lying in a pool of blood and screamed. Chaos ensued. Some students dove for cover while others ran around the patio, unsure of what to do or where to go.

  I leopard crawled, elbows advancing in unison with the opposite knee, across the concrete toward Stanley. When I reached his table, I yanked it over. The kid’s laptop crashed to the ground. I peeked over the table and looked toward the building. The rifle was gone, so I turned my attention to Stanley. He was flat on his back, completely still. His crisp white t-shirt had a growing crimson stain over the right shoulder area. His glasses had fallen off.

  “Stanley,” I said, patting his neck, searching for a pulse.

  I tried both sides of the neck, but couldn’t feel anything. I ripped open his t-shirt. Stanley’s sternum had a huge softball like divot in the middle and blood was pooled in the center of it. The divot concerned me for a second until I realized it probably always looked that way. My eyes followed the trail of blood up to his shoulder. I wiped away the blood with my sleeve and saw the bullet’s entry point just above his clavicle. The wound spurted blood. The kid was still alive.

  I jammed my palm against the wound, peeked over the clavicle, and saw a clean exit wound. Using my palm and fingers, I applied pressure to both sides of the wound, then placed my cheek to Stanley’s mouth and felt a faint breath.

  “C’mon, Stanley, stay with me.”

  I glanced up at the chaos. The couple sitting closest to Stanley had followed my lead and tipped over their table. Both were staring at me. I motioned to them.

  The guy shook his head. The girl looked cooperative.

  “Stay low,” I shouted. “I need your help.” The girl started crawling.

  “Stanley.” I lightly slapped his face.

  No response, so I tried a few more times. On the fourth slap, his eyes fluttered open. Stanley tapped the ground with his right hand, searching for something. I realized he couldn’t see, so I grabbed his glasses and put them on.

  “Agent Chase?” He blinked, for a bit too long, though.

  “Stay conscious, pal.”

  “What happened?”

  “You’ve been shot.”

  “For real? Am I alive?”

  “You’re gonna make it, Stanley. She’s going to look after you.” I turned to the girl crouched next to me. “Put your hand right where mine is, exactly. Apply steady pressure on the wound.”

  “I’m a nursing student,” she said. “Don’t worry.”

  I turned back to Stanley. “I have to go after the shooter, Stanley. You’ll be fine.”

  “Get him,” he said faintly.

  I looked toward the building. The shooter was still gone, so I ran to the guy at the neighboring table. “You have a cell?”

  His eyes were wide and pupils full. He didn’t respond to my question, so I smacked him. Not hard, but not soft either. Finally, he nodded.

  “Call 911, now. Get an ambulance here.”

  I waited until he pulled out his cell and dialed, then I hopped the waist-high patio wall and took off my flip-flops. I sprinted across the grass. At 150 yards away the side of the building came into view, and so did the shooter. It was a man; I could tell by the broad shoulders and choice of clothing. He raced down the side of the building on a fire ladder, which ran down the building’s side. The ladder had metal rungs embedded into the brick and a cylindrical cage wrapped around the rungs to protect from a fall. The shooter’s hands moved fast down the rungs. His feet weren’t moving in unison, though. They slipped over the rungs, barely touching each one in a controlled free fall. It was good technique.

  When I was a hundred yards away, the shooter made me. He kicked his feet toward the wall and jerked to a stop, then pulled out a handgun and pointed it at me through the rungs. I zagged to the right, then zigged back left. The shooter knew it would be a tough shot with a handgun, so he stuffed the gun back and continued his free fall. When he reached the bottom of the ladder, he hang-dropped to the ground and sprinted into an alley between the buildings.

  I maintained my charge, but was losing ground, so I
slowed and pulled out the Sig. When I reached the alley, my finger clicked the safety off. I stopped running and quickly surveyed the area. The alley was filled with huge industrial-size garbage bins, giant boilers, pumps, and other large mechanical structures. No students wandered the area. Not a soul around. I took a few breaths to steady my arm. The shooter was about seventy-five yards away, a mile for a handgun. He was angling toward a thicket of bushes at the end of the alley. I took up the trigger slack and steadied my arm as best I could with a heaving chest; then I dropped the hammer.

  At the last second the shooter angled behind a boiler. My round hissed into the metal cylinder. Water jetted out and steam squealed through the hole. I sprinted after the shooter, but soon watched him slip through the dense thicket of bushes.

  When I reached the foliage, I brought my forearms up and crashed through the tangle of branches and twigs. By the time I bashed through and burst onto a maintenance road on the other side of the bushes, I was just in time to see a sedan race away.

  A black Monte Carlo, identical to the one I chased after this morning.

  The intruder’s car.

  I charged down the road and popped three shots. One sprayed wide. Another smashed out the rear window. The final bullet lodged into the back bumper. Nothing, however, stopped the car’s forward momentum. It roared off. I watched the Monte Carlo squeal a hard left and disappear around the corner. It felt like my future was racing away from me, just like the car was.

  I bent at the waist and sucked in some air, for close to a minute. It was all I could do at that moment. After that, I put my hands on my knees and squeezed my kneecaps. I couldn’t believe Stanley was shot right in front of me, and that I dove away from him. This couldn’t get worse. I lay down with my back against the pavement, not caring if anyone was around and watching me.

  As I lay there and caught my breath, I thought about the kid. He’d survive the gunshot, which was the only silver lining. Life with my son was over, however, and my career wouldn’t survive. I’d lose my job and my paycheck. And a judge wouldn’t give weekend visits back to a deadbeat dad with no source of income. A man who harbors weapons, lies to the police, and can’t protect someone else’s kid. Not just someone else’s kid, mind you, the governor’s son, for crying out loud.

  I bashed the pavement with my fists, then put my hands over my face and stayed like that for about three minutes. After some wallowing, I resolved to figure out the mess. If I was going to have no family and no job, I wanted to at least know why.

  Suddenly I pictured Stanley alive, but unable to use his arm ever again, and the fallout that would occur because of that. I had to get back to him and make sure the kid was okay.

  I fought my way through the bushes and back into the alley. As I walked, my eyes focused on the coffee shop patio. Fortunately, an ambulance had already arrived. In fact, it looked like Stanley was about to be loaded into the ambulance, so I picked up the pace.

  As I approached the ladder the shooter used, something dawned on me. The shooter hadn’t carried a rifle down. It must be on the roof still. I stopped and thought a moment. I had to check the roof and see. Stanley was about to be carted off anyway. I wouldn’t get to him in time.

  I grabbed a large garbage bin and wheeled it under the ladder. About thirty seconds later I was on the roof. Aside from small gray stones pebbling the roof, not much else was up there. A couple of monstrous air conditioners hummed away. Around the AC units were four steel air ducts growing from the roof like oversized periscopes. To the right of the ducts was a small building with no windows and one door, clearly a covering for the stairwell landing. Around the perimeter of the roof was a concrete ledge about three feet high by two wide. I followed the ledge to the northeast corner where the shooter had set up. The rifle was braced against the ledge. Unbelievable. I couldn’t believe the shooter had left it.

  I walked over to it. It was a bolt-action RAI Model 500; a .50 caliber beast of a weapon that weighed over thirty pounds. It was way too big for a job like this. Like the Semtex used this morning, it was total overkill. I inspected the rifle, noting a bipod mounted midway down the barrel. I carefully extended the bipod, placing the two legs on the concrete ledge. I didn’t want to mess up any fingerprints, if there were any. After propping the butt of the stock on my shoulder, I looked through the variable 24x power scope and examined the shot. I eyeballed the distance to the coffee shop at about 200 yards. There was a ton of commotion at the shop. A couple of cruisers were there and the ambulance was gone.

  I pulled back and noted the rifle’s settings. The settings on the turrets were spot on. The proper adjustments were made for elevation change, wind, and bullet drop. The scope was dialed in at 204 yards. I would have set up the shot the same way. The exact same way.

  Yet the shooter missed.

  I tried to get into the shooter’s mind. He obviously knew the kid came to the coffee shop every morning and ate outside. That was clear. He likely knew Stanley moved quickly and had habits that involved touching his head. I noticed that within minutes of being around the kid. The shooter would have decided on a chest shot, not a head shot, because the head moved and wobbled much more than the chest. At this distance, and with this rifle, anyone with some shooting experience would hit Stanley somewhere in the chest. Not above the clavicle. I pulled my eye away from the scope.

  He missed on purpose. Because this was all about me. The shooter wanted me to dive away from Stanley, to make me look like a terrible protector, not to mention totally selfish. The shooter obviously wasn’t out to kill Stanley. He was out to make me look incompetent. Which meant this was deeply personal. Whoever was behind this wanted me alive, so I could experience pain, humiliation, and basically suffer. That was why the intruder gave himself away this morning, so I would escape the impending explosion and fire. That was it; it had to be. The plan all along was to raze my house, but the detonator malfunctioned.

  Obviously somebody, or perhaps some government, had found out about one of my black ops missions and was looking for payback. Which meant I was endangering the governor’s son.

  After blowing out a deep breath, I put my eye back to the scope to survey the scene. Just as I did, the stairwell door behind me burst open. I tensed and stayed in position. Because I didn’t want to spin around and look guilty.

  “Hands off, Gary.” The voice made my blood pressure spike. I heard a holster unclip and a weapon draw. “Step back from the rifle.”

  I hesitated.

  “I’ll fire,” the voice said. “I promise you.”

  I slowly stepped back and turned around, and looked directly at Agent Anfernee Gates.

  CHAPTER 5

  Gates stood thirty feet away, pointing a small automatic gun at me. I couldn’t tell what type of gun it was, but I could tell his hands were wrapped too high around the stock and his feet weren’t wide enough apart. It looked like he’d never fired his weapon in the line of duty.

  “Drop your other weapon,” he said. “I saw the bulge in the back of your shorts. And why are you barefoot? Where are your sandals?”

  “It’s my backup service piece, Gates. What do you care about my footwear? What’s your problem with me anyway?”

  “I don’t care if it’s a service piece. Drop it slowly, and it’s Agent Gates to you.”

  “It’s Agent Chase to you.”

  “Maybe a year ago it was, not now.” He waved the gun at me. “Reach around slowly.”

  I didn’t.

  Steps in the stairwell drew my attention. A moment later Palmer came through the door. Following that, Kowalski waddled through, breathing like he just climbed the Empire State Building.

  “Officer Palmer, relieve the suspect of his weapon.”

  Palmer hesitated.

  “Suspect?” I said. Was he that pissed that I’d stormed out on him at the station?

  “Officer,” Gates barked.

  Palmer walked over and relieved me of my weapon.

  “This is ridiculous” I
said. “The shooter got away and I came up here to follow a lead.”

  “Ridiculous?” Gates said. “Try cautious. You had a sniper rifle on your shoulder pointed at the scene of a crime. Doesn’t seem ridiculous at all to me.”

  “How did you guys know I was even up here?”

  “A maintenance worker heard shots and saw you climbing the ladder. He alerted us to a suspect on the roof.”

  “That’s why you came charging up here?” I said. “Did you even ask the worker a timeline for the shots? And stop calling me a suspect.”

  Gates didn’t respond.

  “For the record,” I said, “that was minutes after Stanley was shot. At least a dozen witnesses could verify this.”

  “Listen, Gary, I just arrived at the scene with Officer Kowalski and Palmer. We were alerted as soon as we arrived on campus that a man was spotted on the roof of this building. Naturally, we reacted right away.”

  “So you haven’t been at the crime scene yet? Is that what you’re saying? You haven’t spoken with any witnesses? You’re kidding me, right?”

  Gates blinked at me, but didn’t respond.

  I took a second to breathe and compose myself. “Let me give you the short story then. I was sitting beside Stanley when he was shot. Once he was stabilized, I went after the shooter, but didn’t catch him. I fired three shots at his getaway vehicle. I noticed the shooter hadn’t brought his weapon down the fire escape, so I came up here to investigate.” I walked toward Palmer. “Give me my piece back.”

  Gates stabbed his gun at me. “Stop.”

  I detoured away from Palmer and marched straight at Gates, stopping about two feet away.

  Gates kept the gun level at my chest. The gun was a Kahr PM9, the same gun the Charlie’s Angels used. I wanted to snatch it away and shove it down his throat. It was small enough to fit.

  “Tell Palmer to hand over my piece,” I said, wiggling my fingers.

  “Not until I talk with witnesses at the scene and verify your story.”