What Lies Behind. J.T. EllisonЧитать онлайн книгу.
Can you take him?”
“I need to get closer, and higher. If I start heading his way, he’ll know I saw him. You’re gonna have to end around, let me get into position.”
“There’s a metal ladder behind me, runs up the side of the terminal building. The two buildings are about the same height. Should be the right angle.”
“This might draw some attention to our client.”
“Better attention than dead. I’ll cover Denon, you take the shooter. Out.”
Xander heard the whine of the engines. He was out of time. He broke with the employees and quick-walked to the edge of the terminal. Went up the ladder, wishing like hell he had his M4. He’d have a better chance of taking the guy out that way.
His mind was preternaturally calm, clear, crisply assessing everything. Wind speed, atmosphere, angle. The lack of a load in the SIG, the best place to take the shot. Up on the roof now, and of course there was very little to hide behind.
He’d lost eyes on his target, but he scooted to the north edge of the roof, and found him again. The assassin was low now, crouched against the concrete buttress. Relaxed, but ready, a M2010 ESR trained on the crowd below. Xander recognized a professional at work, and his heart sank.
Xander clicked his mike. “I’m in position. Son of a bitch has an M2010.”
Chalk whistled. “Can you take him out?”
Xander took off his sunglasses. Laid on his stomach, inched to the edge. The terminal’s high roof was a boon; he had a down angle on the shooter.
“Xander? Talk to me, buddy. What’s happening up there?”
“Shh. I’m concentrating.”
Chalk’s voice raised slightly. “Concentrate faster, the plane door’s opening.”
God, he would kill for a set of binoculars, or even a range finder. He made the distance between the two buildings, from the end of his muzzle to the shooter’s head, at just under a hundred yards.
Doable.
Xander shut his eyes, then opened and refocused. Modulated his breathing. Rolled onto his knees. Braced, got his grip perfect. Ignored Chalk in his ear saying, “Tick tock, buddy, time’s running out. They’re making them all disembark. I’ve counted three, that’s the staff. Denon’s going to be out next.”
He watched the shooter on the roof swivel his rifle down, finger in the trigger. It was time.
Xander braced his arms. Felt a wind gust, made a small adjustment. Swallowed, and squeezed.
The gun moved smoothly in his hands, and the shooter on the opposite roof collapsed, his rifle catapulting over the concrete buttress to the tarmac below.
“Threat eliminated.”
Georgetown O Street Tommy Cattafi’s apartment
SAM ADMIRED THE building that housed Cattafi’s apartment. His place was in the basement of a beautiful three-story redbrick town house. An overgrown Norway maple was planted in front of the house, its broad leaves just beginning to show a tinge of yellow. In a few weeks, Georgetown would be a riot of colors, putting on a show, but for now, it was still green, only a bit less vibrant and deflated than even a week before.
Crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze. A patrol officer sat in his vehicle, unseeing, staring into his lap. The scene hadn’t been fully released yet. It would be another day or two at least before that happened and the cleanup could begin. The reparation of lives torn asunder by those left behind. As if by cleaning away the blood and gore, a life could be set to rights again.
Sam thought about the kid in the hospital, and his family flying to see him, to make life and death decisions on his behalf, and a familiar sense of hopelessness filled her. Senseless violence always did.
The cop still hadn’t noticed them standing five feet from his vehicle. Fletcher arched an eyebrow at her and put a finger to his lips. He squared his shoulders, put on his best glower and marched up to the patrol car.
When the young patrol saw Fletcher, he jumped out of the car, fumbling his phone into his pocket, and practically saluted. Sam bit back a laugh—Fletcher’s new position was a source of great pride for him, and if terrorizing the junior officers made him happy, so be it.
The young officer stammered a greeting. “Lieutenant, I didn’t know you were coming by.”
“Officer Beggs. Are we finding the crime scene less than scintillating this morning?”
“No, sir. Not at all, sir.”
“Hmm. This is Dr. Samantha Owens. We’ll only be a minute. You have the sign-in sheet?”
“Yes, sir.” Beggs reached into the patrol car and came out with the clipboard. Fletcher signed himself and Sam into the crime scene. “I’m sorry, sir. I should have been ready for your arrival.”
“Yes, you should have. What if Chief Armstrong had walked up to you playing with your dick in the front seat of your car?”
The patrol’s face turned beet red. “Sir, I was texting my girlfriend that I wouldn’t be home for a while. I wasn’t—”
Fletcher started to laugh. “Relax, kid. I’m playing with you. You’re fine. Go back to whatever it was you were doing.” And to Sam, “Come on.”
She gave the kid her best apologetic yes, he’s an idiot smile and followed Fletcher to the steps that led down to Cattafi’s apartment.
Sam shook her head. “Why must you torture the youngsters?”
“Oh, that was nothing. You should have seen the hazing we got when I was coming up. These kids are so protected, the worst we can do is hassle ’em a little. We can’t get mean with them.”
“Still, Fletch. You’re a leader now.”
“Yeah, that’s me. The leader. Leaderman!” He put his hands on his hips and braced his legs apart, turned his head to the side in his best superhero pose. “I should have a giant L on my shirt.”
“And a cape. Don’t forget the cape.”
“Lieutenant Leaderman. I like it.”
“I don’t know, Leaderman. You’d probably have to wear lederhosen or something, just to go with the theme.”
“Screw that, Owens. I’m wearing tights and a cape, or I’m not gonna play.”
“You are five. You know that, don’t you?”
He smirked at her. “You have no idea.”
The banter felt good, right. But it was time to be serious now. Sam snapped on nitrile gloves and followed Fletcher down the stairs.
Fletcher turned off the goofball, turned on the cop. “You know some of the story, but I’d like you to give me your impressions based on what you see. Be prepared, it’s a bloody mess.”
He swung open the door, and they went inside.
The hallway was dimly lit. The windows were low and the space didn’t have much light. But it was surprisingly spacious, with dark hardwood floors and white walls. They walked past a kitchenette with brown granite countertops and stainless appliances into a decent-size great room with a large flat-screen TV and a relatively new black leather couch.
“Someone spruced up this place,” Sam said.
“Apparently, Cattafi. He likes to renovate in his spare time. Landlord was all for it—it will only improve the rental value for a new renter.”
“Spare time? When I was in med school, spare time meant shoving in two slices of pizza while