Author: Dustin Stevens
Category: Suspense
Go to read content：https://onlinereadfreenovel.com/dustin-stevens/page,18,518182-justice.html
On the wild-eyed look he was giving Blue, the enormous animal continuing to growl as he paced menacingly, marching ever closer to the man.
“Where’s Koob?” Rye yelled, the man’s eyes already starting to glaze as he swung his attention up to her, at the weapons pointed his direction. Drool seeped from the side of his mouth as he did so, coupling with the steady trail of blood droplets across the floor to show his time was dwindling fast.
“Where’s Koob?!” Rye yelled a second time, watching as the words resonated with the man.
Making no attempt to answer, his hands continuing to scramble for his weapon, his intentions were clear.
Which left her with only a single choice.
Chapter Forty-Eight
“Reed, get your ass over here, now.”
It was the first time in over a year of working with him that Reed Mattox had ever heard Adam Gilchrist curse, the single word imparting enough urgency to send Reed hurtling down the stairs toward the front entrance.
In the wake of the two shots shattering the mirror in Lynda Cantwell’s apartment, no further fire had come in. At some point, he might have to explain how and why he had openly drawn it into what was still an active crime scene, the glass and wood shards creating a nightmare effect should Earl and his team ever need to go back in.
Though something told him whatever he was now running toward would be enough to get him the slack he needed.
Like Grimes had said time and again before, wrapping cases had a way of shortening memories.
In Reed’s experience, it also tended to lengthen the amount of leeway one received.
Without bothering to call for Billie, knowing she would be pressed tight by his side, Reed pounded down the two short flights of steps and out through the front door. As he exited, the cool night air passed over his skin, pulling him out into the street, his head swiveling to either side.
“Up here!” a voice called, catching his attention, drawing it to a third-floor window across the street.
Jerking his focus up that way, he saw Gilchrist’s face flash through the open frame before turning back toward the room, his arms extended before him.
Whatever was going down, whoever they had found, was clearly still inside.
Feeling another jolt surge through him, Reed tore across the street, aiming for the open front door of a brick apartment building running parallel to the Franklinton Luxury Suites. In line with the shots that had been fired, it provided a perfect vantage to where he’d just been standing.
To Alice Hartong and Lynda Cantwell for an unknown length of time before that.
Pumping his arms, Reed ran hard for the door, Billie easily pulling ahead of him, nothing more than a black bolt as she sprinted on, passing through the opening.
Coming in three steps behind, Reed didn’t bother checking the space, instead going straight for the stairs. Running as fast as he could, he heard Billie climbing ahead of him, his partner reaching the top floor a full five seconds before he did.
A timeframe he knew without question, demarcated by a deep and guttural bark erupting from her the moment she arrived.
A sound unlike anything he’d heard her make before, it was angry and braying, echoing off the walls, drawing him upward. Using it as a guide, he ran on, not knowing what to expect at the top, only that Greene and Gilchrist were there, and whatever they had was enough to spur Billie into a frenzy as well.
A moment later, the answer came back to him, the sound of a second animal matching the barks in kind pouring into the hallway.
Pulling up just slightly, confusion flooded Reed’s features as he made the final turn at the top of the stairwell, flinging himself through the shattered remnants of a doorway to find a scene out of hell itself staring back at him.
Just inches inside the door was Billie, her body poised, hair raised along the length of her spine. Underfoot, a steady spray of blood spatter had been streaked across the floor, footsteps and paw prints spreading it over the exposed wood.
To either side, Greene and Gilchrist stood with weapons raised, the barrels extended as if continuations of their arms, one straight line from the shoulder to the tip of the barrel.
In one corner, a lifeless body clad in black leaked blood onto the floor, the surface of it still wet and glossy.
In the other, Sydney Rye, a pair of weapons with noise suppressors screwed down on the ends held at the ready.
Making up the center point in the macabre scenario was a dog with at least a few inches and a good deal of weight on Billie, a gray animal that looked to be part coyote, part hell beast.
Pulling up short, his weapon still in hand, Reed made no effort to raise it.
Instead, he focused on Rye, looking past the standoff between the two animals dominating the space, their combined braying rising to a decibel that could be heard in Cincinnati. Blending into a steady cacophony that left Reed’s ears ringing, he looked to Rye.
“Is this yours?!”
With an equal amount of annoyance in her tone, on her face, Rye said, “Damn right!”
Pausing, waiting for something further, for her to settle it, Reed felt his own aggravation rising, fueled in no small part by everything that had happened in the preceding hour.
“Call that damn thing down!”
“No chance,” Rye said, looking to him before glancing to the officers on either side. “He won’t budge until these two lower their weapons.”
Not bothering to look in either direction, Reed said, “That won’t happen until you drop yours.”
Her bottom lip parting slightly, as if beginning to respond, Rye pulled up short. Glancing to either officer, she eventually landed her gaze on Reed, seemingly debating something in silence.
For another moment she held there, Reed unable to tell if she was about to open fire, if he was going to have to raise his own gun on her, if he was going to have to later explain why a man in black, a federal agent, and her dog were lying dead in a Franklinton apartment.
If he would have to add this mess to the growing list of shit he was already dealing with at the moment.
With a single nod, Rye managed to diffuse the thoughts, dipping her chin just slightly before dropping the tips of her guns only a few inches.
As she did so, the tension among the humans in the room seemed to subside.
Though it did nothing for the canines.
The pair continued to bawl at one another, the combined acrimony being spat much larger than Reed had ever witnessed between grown men before.
Shifting a glance to either side, he saw Greene match the downward drag of Rye’s gun, Gilchrist following his senior officer a moment later, the three all shifting their aim toward the floor.
“Down,” Reed said, his voice curt, tone unmistakable, Billie falling silent before him. Moving slow, she lowered her backside to the floor, the coiled position she was in making it clear she could be up and off again as fast as necessary.
“Blue,” Rye spat across from him, the dog going quiet as well, the lack of sound a marked contrast to just seconds before.
With his ears ringing, Reed ventured a half-step forward, the floor slick with blood beneath his feet, the smell of cordite burning his nostrils.
“What the hell is that thing?” Reed asked.
“He,” Rye responded, more annoyance flashing on her face. “And his name is Blue. He’s my partner.”
Looking down at the animal, there was no doubt in Reed’s mind about the power he possessed, the disposition that had clearly been ingrained.
But that didn’t mean he was anywhere near the level of Billie, a real-life depiction of the maxim about it never being the size of a dog in a fight that mattered.
“He’s damn lucky Billie didn’t just destroy him.”
Across the room, Rye smirked, her chin rocking slightly. “Like hell. Blue would have torn her apart. And he’s not fixed, so I can only imagine what he would have done to the body afterward.”
With that, Reed stopped
his forward progression, letting his thigh come in contact with Billie’s flank, every strand of muscle tissue pulled taut.
Which animal would come out on top was a matter of perspective, each siding with their own partner. All that could be known for certain was it would be ugly, both fighting to the death if need be.
A situation they could all do without.
Choosing to push the conversation no further, to ignore the crass comment just made, Reed glanced to either side. “Officers, this is Sydney Rye, a federal agent also working the case.”
Reed could sense the pair each flash a look his direction, though neither verbalized whatever they were thinking.
Not wanting to even try and ferret out whatever that might be, he focused on Rye, her weapons now lowered by her side, resting against her hips.
“What the hell happened in here?”
Chapter Forty-Nine
Why Arron Hirsch had decided to open fire, Clarence Koob didn’t know, and at this point likely never would. Having given him a stipulated green light, he had to trust that whatever his longtime associate had seen across the street was enough to warrant his actions, even if they now turned out to be bad.
Which was exactly what Koob figured had happened.
Parked on the far end of the street, he had arrived in time to see most of the sequence play out.
He had watched as the first shot was taken. Being a seasoned professional, Hirsch had done everything he could to block the flash, to keep his position hidden, but working against what was essentially a black canvas, it was impossible to hide it entirely.
Which was exactly what had caught the attention of Sydney Rye, her SUV flying past Koob, the woman never so much as suspecting he was sitting on the curb nearby.
Had things occurred even a minute later, he would have already exited, would have been standing in the open as she drove by.
A situation that would have played out much uglier for everybody involved.
As it was, she tore past him, her vehicle disappearing from sight, Koob sitting tense behind the wheel, watching, waiting, as she and the dog both appeared soon thereafter. On foot and moving fast, it wasn’t until the second round of shots rang out that they truly had a bearing, tearing off in the opposite direction.
Again, in that moment, Koob had thought to climb out. Knowing where Rye was, that her attention was diverted, it was as good an opportunity as he would likely ever receive.
Lifting a hand to his hip in the same absentminded movement he had made a thousand times in the preceding two years, he ran his fingers over the gnarled skin of his hip, almost able to feel the teeth of the animal ripping into his flesh.
Every fiber of his being wanted to move on the woman, to end the only outstanding mark he still carried in his ledger.
To give himself the freedom for the first time to consider walking away from Gerard and this life, the fortune he’d amassed more than enough to allow him to fade into the background.
But in order to do so, he forced himself to remain stationary, knowing that a response to the initial shots would soon be coming. If Hirsch’s aim wasn’t at Rye, it had to have been at something equally pressing to cause him to reveal his position.
Which likely meant the detective’s sedan sitting outside the apartment complex, the death of whom would bring reinforcements screaming in from all directions, a situation Koob had no interest in joining.
Rye was a loner, someone that might make the occasional alliance in the name of perseveration, but would eventually have to break free again.
He would have another chance.
Certain with that belief, Koob sat and watched as a pair of uniformed officers materialized from the opposite direction, both with weapons drawn.
He saw further as a series of smaller flares flashed across the glass of the third-floor walkup he knew Hirsch to be hiding in.
As the coppers went inside the building.
As the detective exited the apartment complex and sprinted across to join them a moment later, his own canine partner by his side.
Not until that very last image passed by, seeing the detective and his animal, did things snap into place for Koob. His earlier assumptions – and that of Hirsch – had been wrong, faulty guesses that had led them down this path.
In all their years together, Rye was the only instance they had encountered a working animal partner before.
Now, it appeared they had walked into a second such situation, an unforeseen circumstance that had forced Hirsch’s hand.
The first shot, he likely thought he was gunning for Rye.
The second and third, he was trying to clean up a mess.
A mess that Koob himself was at least partially to blame for.
Reaching out, Koob smacked the palm of his hand against the top of the steering wheel twice, the heel making solid contact. On the third, he wrapped his fingers around it, squeezing tight, letting the veins and tendons on the back of his hand bulge with the effort.
Sydney Rye had now cost him Neville and Hirsch. Had mutilated and discarded Vincent Gerard.
Had done something a decade in the military had not, leaving him with a gunshot wound and an occasional ache in his left shoulder.
It was long past time for her to die.
If that included taking down the detective and every damn dog in the city along the way, the list of people she was pulling into her jet wash growing ever larger, so be it.
Chapter Fifty
The original directive for responding officers to come in quiet was cast aside, the point where it made any sense to do so long since gone. With one man dead, and no sign of Clarence Koob, there was no way anybody else was returning to the hideout, or likely even the street it was on.
Not that they could get through now, even if they wanted to.
A handful of cruisers were pulled up onto the street outside – including that of Greene and Gilchrist – the group forming a vehicular barricade around the front entrance. A few feet beyond them, wooden stanchions sporting yellow police tape had been set up, the scene a near match to the one across the street a few nights before.
Beyond them, Earl and his crew had just arrived, a trio of individuals unloading heavy plastic cases, everything they would need to process the place tucked away inside.
In total, the scene was painted a rotating mix of red and blue, the color scheme provided by the lights twisting atop each of the cruisers.
A sniper had opened fire, followed by a federal agent breaking in his door and gunning him down.
No longer was there any concern for being subtle, for worrying about the media catching wind of things.
Once an initial pass was made through the apartment, an attempt to glean out something useful made to no avail, Reed handed off the scene to Greene and Earl. Giving them as much information as he had, twisting Sydney Rye’s arm into doing the same, they left the criminalists to do what they could, their chief concern being with forensics that would tie Clarence Koob – or anybody else for that matter – definitively to the apartment.
Until then, they were still left with a whole lot of conjecture, Reed painfully aware that the timeframe he was already operating under was about to become even tighter.
“You know they’re not going to find anything in there that matches Koob,” Rye said, the statement delivered in a matter-of-fact manner, the outcome already a foregone conclusion.
Standing a half-block away, his hands in the front pockets of his sweatshirt, Reed glanced her direction. Already he could feel the adrenaline from the earlier encounter seeping from his system, his body fighting to reestablish equilibrium.
“What makes you so certain?” Reed asked.
Pursing her lips, Rye shook her head. “Because there isn’t any to be found. Bastard is so paranoid, he shaves everything. I mean everything.”
Pausing, she raised her eyebrows, making sure her point was made.
How she knew that piece of information, Reed didn’t feign to know, certain on
ly that she was adamant it was important.
“Okay,” Reed said.
“And he keeps everything but his head covered all the time,” Rye added. “One goofy looking son of a bitch, I tell you that.”
Unable to stop himself, Reed smirked, his upper body flinching slightly with the movement.
Even if what she said was true, there were still plenty of other ways to collect DNA. Saliva on a paper cup or cigarette butt, a spot of blood from a nick or cut.
Worth going through the motions, if nothing else.
“Any idea who that was up there?” he asked.
“Naw,” Rye said. “Basic foot soldier. Star trooper. Minion. Whatever you want to call them. The kind of thing these guys seem to buy in bulk.”
Raising his eyebrows, Reed looked her direction. From the beginning, a lot of what she was saying about Vinson Gerard seemed like something from a B-level movie, the sort of thing someone cooked up in the wee hours after watching Scarface a few too many times.
Now finding out there were henchmen on call seemed to strain the seams of credibility even further.
Tucked away alongside a brick building, they stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their respective partners on either side of them, the two casting glances between one another, a palpable tension between them.
It being the first time Reed had ever seen Billie around another dog – let alone one larger than her – he wasn’t sure what he expected, though he was reasonably certain it wasn’t this.
A model of complete control, of following her training, the presence of Blue seemed to have her a bit unnerved.
A surprising turn of events, for sure.
Though, to be fair, it seemed to be having even more effect on Blue, the animal almost salivating as he looked over.
“Had a few encounters with them?” Reed asked, deciding to go with a more roundabout approach, not to come in straight ahead, sounding accusatory.
“Them? No,” Rye replied. “Just the once, but plenty like them, for sure.”
Again, Reed felt his eyebrows rise. At some point, he would need to familiarize himself a bit more with the agency she worked for, get a better understanding of what exactly it was she did.