bolt. I take off running to try to reach him before he has a chance to climb down and get away.
Shannon and Gimbal are behind me, far behind me, by the time I make it to the fence.
I thank God for yoga as I slip my body over the top rail and land in a crouch without hurting myself. I should wait for them to catch up, but time is everything.
I slip my Glock from my holster and run to the other side of the building. Footsteps echo from the alley. I can’t tell if they’re running away or running toward me.
9
T HE WATCHER WHO was on the roof can only be a few hundred feet away. On the other side of the building I reach a narrow alley between the warehouse and a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Wild grass and torn-up garbage bags litter the empty lot on the other side.
The sun has set and the alley is lit only by stray streetlights and the dark silver sky, hiding the moon. My knee bangs into a broken crate that slams into a metal Dumpster. I have to keep my eyes on the ground to avoid tripping on the abandoned machinery.
I can’t see anyone moving, but I decide to shout anyway. “Freeze! FBI!”
I’m answered by the sound of wind whipping at tattered newspapers. I step forward, keeping my gun trained on the darkest corners. I know I saw someone on the roof, I just don’t know who. It could be our perp or some kid who wanted to get a better look and was scared off by Shannon’s shout. I proceed carefully, more afraid of shooting an innocent person than for my own safety.
My eyes adjust a little to the shadows. I can’t see where anyone could be hiding. The rusty door on the loading dock looks as if it hasn’t been opened this century. I continue along and hear the sound of Shannon climbing over the fence. The metal makes a rattling sound, followed by a groan as he lands.
He catches his breath and shouts to me, “Anything?”
I keep my eyes trained ahead. “Negative.”
I reach the end of the alley without seeing a thing. At the back end of the warehouse is a fire escape leading to the roof. Gimbal approaches from the other side with his gun leveled at the ground.
The street in front is empty. Rain-filled puddles are still rippling from the drizzle. Across from us are a few more buildings like this one and a trailer park several blocks over that we passed on the way in.
The wail of squad cars grows louder as they try to cordon off the area. I think we’re too late. I holster my gun and look up at the ladder. The rungs are rusty. It’s doubtful they’ll get a print off of it. But I decide not to climb up. I don’t want to chance it. Besides, they might get something from the metal sidings on the top.
Gimbal holsters his gun too. “You sure you saw someone?” he asks us.
Shannon nods.
“I know, I’m positive,” I reply. “I saw the shape and watched it move.”
Gimbal scratches his chin. “Could it have been a bird?”
Shannon and I ignore the question. His eyes scan the ground and come to a stop. Almost invisible in the darkness, it’s little more than a triangle.
Shannon squats, takes a pair of tweezers from his pocket and holds the object up to the street light. Blue cardboard, torn at the edge. He gives me a look. We both recognize it. I use the same brand.
“What?” asks a confused Gimbal.
“Memory card packaging,” I explain. “Everything was being recorded.”
Gimbal finally understands. “Reporter?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Maybe our perp. Maybe a gawker.”
Shannon stands up and takes another suspicious glance across the street. “We need to check with all the drugstores around here. If they needed to get a card, it means they probably filled up the other one.”
A cold wind blows down the street as a police car races by. The rain has soaked through my sweatshirt. My FBI jacket is somewhere in the cemetery, a pile of ashes on a corpse.
Shannon makes a gesture to give me his jacket. I wave him off. I’ve dealt with worse. Cold doesn’t bother me.
Shannon and Gimbal are behind me, far behind me, by the time I make it to the fence.
I thank God for yoga as I slip my body over the top rail and land in a crouch without hurting myself. I should wait for them to catch up, but time is everything.
I slip my Glock from my holster and run to the other side of the building. Footsteps echo from the alley. I can’t tell if they’re running away or running toward me.
9
T HE WATCHER WHO was on the roof can only be a few hundred feet away. On the other side of the building I reach a narrow alley between the warehouse and a chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Wild grass and torn-up garbage bags litter the empty lot on the other side.
The sun has set and the alley is lit only by stray streetlights and the dark silver sky, hiding the moon. My knee bangs into a broken crate that slams into a metal Dumpster. I have to keep my eyes on the ground to avoid tripping on the abandoned machinery.
I can’t see anyone moving, but I decide to shout anyway. “Freeze! FBI!”
I’m answered by the sound of wind whipping at tattered newspapers. I step forward, keeping my gun trained on the darkest corners. I know I saw someone on the roof, I just don’t know who. It could be our perp or some kid who wanted to get a better look and was scared off by Shannon’s shout. I proceed carefully, more afraid of shooting an innocent person than for my own safety.
My eyes adjust a little to the shadows. I can’t see where anyone could be hiding. The rusty door on the loading dock looks as if it hasn’t been opened this century. I continue along and hear the sound of Shannon climbing over the fence. The metal makes a rattling sound, followed by a groan as he lands.
He catches his breath and shouts to me, “Anything?”
I keep my eyes trained ahead. “Negative.”
I reach the end of the alley without seeing a thing. At the back end of the warehouse is a fire escape leading to the roof. Gimbal approaches from the other side with his gun leveled at the ground.
The street in front is empty. Rain-filled puddles are still rippling from the drizzle. Across from us are a few more buildings like this one and a trailer park several blocks over that we passed on the way in.
The wail of squad cars grows louder as they try to cordon off the area. I think we’re too late. I holster my gun and look up at the ladder. The rungs are rusty. It’s doubtful they’ll get a print off of it. But I decide not to climb up. I don’t want to chance it. Besides, they might get something from the metal sidings on the top.
Gimbal holsters his gun too. “You sure you saw someone?” he asks us.
Shannon nods.
“I know, I’m positive,” I reply. “I saw the shape and watched it move.”
Gimbal scratches his chin. “Could it have been a bird?”
Shannon and I ignore the question. His eyes scan the ground and come to a stop. Almost invisible in the darkness, it’s little more than a triangle.
Shannon squats, takes a pair of tweezers from his pocket and holds the object up to the street light. Blue cardboard, torn at the edge. He gives me a look. We both recognize it. I use the same brand.
“What?” asks a confused Gimbal.
“Memory card packaging,” I explain. “Everything was being recorded.”
Gimbal finally understands. “Reporter?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Maybe our perp. Maybe a gawker.”
Shannon stands up and takes another suspicious glance across the street. “We need to check with all the drugstores around here. If they needed to get a card, it means they probably filled up the other one.”
A cold wind blows down the street as a police car races by. The rain has soaked through my sweatshirt. My FBI jacket is somewhere in the cemetery, a pile of ashes on a corpse.
Shannon makes a gesture to give me his jacket. I wave him off. I’ve dealt with worse. Cold doesn’t bother me.
Similar Books
