Half-Past Dawn

CHAPTER 30

Bracato and Stratton sat in the back of the evidence room at a makeshift desk, feeling like overqualified guards, as Holly whirred away at her computer, trying to locate the evidence case that might or might not be down there.

Stratton didn’t mind babysitting Holly. He had always liked blondes and had been partial to the more athletic types, a description that the twenty-five-year-old Holly easily fit. He hoped at least to get her phone number by the end of their shift.

Greg Stratton was the senior of the two agents. He and Carl Bracato were in their third year as partners and had developed a substantial and successful case history in the white-collar crime division. Stratton had thought it ironic; after all of the training they went through at Quantico, all of the weapons and hand-to-hand skills they had developed, they had never even drawn their Glock 23s from their holsters. Having met on the first day of class, they were always competitive, Stratton seeming to edge out Bracato in everything from target practice to exams to navigating city streets in mock car chases.

Stratton might have been the better shot, the smarter of the two, but Bracato was the one who wasted no time in seizing the day. He had already set up dinner with Holly for next week.

“What do you say I go pick up dinner?” Bracato said to Holly and Stratton.

Holly looked up from her computer amid the stacks of paper and smiled in the affirmative.

“Sure, how about-”

The sound was muted, a dull pop, but Stratton knew at once what it was.

“Shit,” Stratton said as he drew his pistol. “Holly, go to the back corner, and stay there until we come back for you.”

The second muted gunshot sounded. Bracato pulled his gun and was already on the run up the aisle.

“Who the hell would try and shoot their way down here?” Bracato said. “They’ll never get in.”

Then the sound of the muffled explosion reverberated through the evidence room, the tinkle of shattering glass trailing off.

“Holy shit,” Bracato whispered as Stratton arrived at his side. They bisected the main aisle, hiding between the twelve-foot-high rows of shelves twenty feet from the main entrance door. Sounds of commotion drifted out from the office.

Bracato looked to Stratton for direction.

“No question, they’re coming in here. Stay lost among the shelves. If you take one out, quickly move your position so they don’t find you.”

A skinny red-haired man in a sportcoat rolled into the room, spinning into the first row of shelves. Bracato watched as he looked back, signaling a second, taller man who came in gun held high, sweeping the room. Bracato could see from the way they held their guns, the positions they took, that they were law enforcement.

Bracato stayed low, two rows back from the two men, watching, thinking. The taller man was obscured by the shelves, but Bracato could see over the evidence boxes, through the open spaces, as the man took a few steps forward. Bracato could see his eyes focused. This man was not there to capture anyone. He was there to kill.

In that single moment, Bracato made his decision. He crouched low, creeping forward, his eyes fixed on the man through the slatted shelves, watching as he approached, only ten feet away now.

Bracato wrapped his fingers around the trigger. He could hit a small target at one hundred feet, so ten feet should be nothing. But he had never shot anyone; this man would be his first. And Bracato had no intention of shooting to immobilize, to take out a leg or an arm. He was going for the kill, knowing that the man would do everything to kill him if given the chance.

He lined up his sight, shoulder high, and waited for the man to appear in the open.

And the bullet exploded through Bracato’s chest, entering through the left of his back, piercing his lung, nicking his heart. Bracato collapsed face-first to the floor.

He never saw or heard the other man’s approach. He was so focused on the tall man that he failed to notice the other.

Bracato was roughly flipped over onto his back. The tall man, the one who had been the bait, leaned down and took the gun from his hand.

“Where’s your partner?”

Bracato stared up into the man’s eyes. His face was plain, an average-Joe kind of look that would get lost in a crowd, the type of face that so easily obscured a dark heart.

Bracato knew that he was dying, a minute, maybe two, left as his lungs filled with blood, and in those two minutes, he would do everything he could from his position to save his friend and the young woman with whom he would be missing a date next Saturday.

“He left,” Bracato struggled to say, stifling a cough. “He and Holly went to get our dinner.”

“When?”

“A couple of minutes ago.” Bracato could taste the iron flavor of blood in his mouth. “Maybe five.”

The man leaned down and looked into his eyes, searching for truth. Bracato did everything his crippled body could do to convey it. It was a moment, the two men assessing each other.

Then the tall man laid his pistol on Bracato’s brow. “You shouldn’t have hesitated. Lucky for me, I guess, or we’d be switching positions.”

And the man pulled the trigger.

Jack watched as Charlie’s large body was violently hoisted up into a rolling desk chair by Cristos. Small rivulets of blood rolled down his friend’s face, pooling in the collar of his white shirt. But other than the small cuts and singed hair, he seemed to be all right. Jack couldn’t bear the thought of his friend dying at his expense.

Aaron stepped back into the office.

“Well?” Cristos said.

“We got one. He says the other two left to get dinner. We’ve swept the room, didn’t find anyone, but I’m not sure.”

“Then the two of you escort Keeler back there. We are running out of time.”

Jack looked around at the devastation, through what was left of the window into the vestibule, and could see the three bodies lying there in intermingled pools of blood.

“You said no one was going to die. You’re going to kill my wife and me as soon as you get the box, so why should I get it? Why should I help the man who is going to kill me?”

Cristos stared at Jack. “I’ll make a deal with you.”

“I’ve seen your deals.”

“I made no promise about people not dying. Collateral damage, you remember what that is? You remember those teens who died in your pursuit of justice?”

Jack hated this man.

“I give you my word, I’ll let Mia live,” Cristos said.

“You have no word to give.”

“On the contrary. If you get me what I want, she will live.”

Jack said nothing, not believing the word of the man before him.

Aaron and Donal stepped over to Jack, flanking him. They looked to Cristos for guidance.

“Or how about this?” Cristos said as he drew out his gun, laying it on Charlie’s thigh.

“I’ll let you choose: your friend here or Mia. Could you make that choice in front of your friend?”

“Jack, don’t let this guy mess with your head,” Charlie said as he looked up.

“Say it, Jack, who would you choose? Could you watch the eyes of your friend here as he suffers and dies so that your wife may live? Does he even know her? Would he be willing to make the sacrifice for her?”

Jack’s mind was spinning. He couldn’t bear to look into Charlie’s eyes. They both knew the choice Jack would make, what any person would do for the one they love.

“If you don’t want to be faced with that choice, you’ve got one minute to go get me my case.”

Remaining in the shadows of row Q, Stratton watched at the far end of the evidence room as three men walked through the main door into the room. He couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw Jack Keeler. Stratton did not know the man, since he and Bracato were based out of the Washington office, but he had seen his file not twelve hours earlier when he was assigned to babysit this place.

Keeler was being escorted by the two men who had killed Bracato. Stratton heard the gunshot too late, rounding the corner to see his friend lying on the ground. He had tried to take a shot but had no clear angle, and by the time he did, the two men had lost themselves in the rows of shelves, only to slip out the door.

Stratton watched as the taller man shoved Keeler forward. He was their prisoner and there was no doubt that he was leading them to the mythical box everyone had been searching for all day.

As he watched the three men walk down the aisle, he had a clear shot, and he was certain that he could take one of them out. But that one kill could lead to Keeler’s death, Holly’s, and his own. The second man could disappear into the oversized rows of shelves and later come back at him without warning, striking him down just like Bracato. And he had no idea how many more were outside.

But all moves be damned. He could overthink a simple decision. He held his gun in a two-handed grip, lined up the sight on Bracato’s killer, and pulled the trigger.

Donal’shead exploded in much the same manner as those people he had killed in the last five minutes. Sounding like a smashing melon, the rear of his head bloomed into a red mist that splattered onto Aaron’s face.

Instinctually, Jack and Aaron dove for cover in opposite directions away from the carnage. Jack’s eyes scanned the direction the shot had come from but saw nothing. Grateful for the help, he didn’t know how much of an ally the gunman really was or how long he would live as he came up against Aaron and Cristos. Not waiting on a savior, Jack looked back at Donal’s body and saw the gun he had been holding when the bullet pierced his right eye. It lay not two feet from his outstretched dead hand.

But then Aaron was there, quickly snatching it before Jack could react and disappearing back into the row across from him like a rat stealing food. Without further delay, Jack scrambled backward into row J and raced out the other end into an adjacent aisle.

• • •

Stratton worked his way up to row C just fifteen feet from the entrance door. He knew the momentary confusion would shield his movements and that the space where the gunshot originated would soon be searched.

He focused his hearing, careful to stay within the shadows, watching and listening to both his front and his back so as to avoid the same fate as Bracato. He could hear a man speaking with a distinctive, polished accent, its origin unclear. There was no question a second man was there, no doubt a captive, as the conversation was one-sided. He couldn’t make out what was being said but caught intermittent words: “death,” “box,” and “Keeler.”

He could see through the door into the small hallway that led to the main entrance and its offshoot into the office. Shards of blood-laden glass were scattered over the cream-colored carpet, looking like rubies in the sand. He could smell burnt air, the odor of residual C4 thick in his nostrils.

Stratton moved back through the aisles, eyes darting to and fro, making sure that he was not in anyone’s gun sight. He worked his way back to the far corner to check on Holly, finding her crouched in a corner, her head tucked into her knees, sitting motionless.

“Holly,” Stratton whispered as he approached. But she didn’t respond, frozen with fear.

Stratton turned his back to the corner, looking around as he stepped backward toward her. “Let’s go. I’m going to tuck you somewhere safe, up into the shelves. You’ll be fine, I promise.”

But there was no response.

Stratton bent down, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder.

And she tumbled over. Blood coated the front of her white shirt. The slash across her throat had nearly bled out.

Stratton recoiled in shock, seeing the girl he had pined over for the last eight hours so brutally murdered. With the horror of death witnessed for the second time, his mind was distracted. He never saw the small charge of C4 in her lap. It never occurred to him that she would be booby-trapped. The charge tore him and Holly apart before he had any chance of escape

Charlie was sitting in the office chair, still struggling to get his bearings. The ringing in his ears had died down a bit, but he still had the sense of being underwater. The sounds of the world were muddled and distant. He felt as if he had just been hit by a train. His skin burned from the heat of the blast, but he was thankful that nothing appeared broken and that somehow he was still alive.

Aaron slipped into the room, his gun at the ready. “Someone else is in there. They took out Donal. Now Keeler’s slipped away.”

Cristos grabbed Charlie by the hair and pulled him out of the chair, slamming him against the wall. “You know why we’re here.” It was a statement, not a question.

Charlie smiled at Cristos. It was a knowing smile, a fuck-you smile.

Cristos slammed him against the wall again. “Where is the case brought in here by Jack Keeler?”

“I moved it,” Charlie said with a grin. “Jack doesn’t even know. Once I heard he was killed, I had a feeling something like this would happen. And you, my friend, will never find it.”

“Then I guess I have no need for Jack anymore,” Cristos said as he threw Charlie back into the chair. He shot a knowing look at Aaron.

The statement was like smelling salts, pulling Charlie to full alertness.

“If you value not only your life but theirs, you’ll tell me.”

Charlie stared up at the man, ignoring the pain of the burns, the stinging of the glass in his face. When Charlie woke up this morning, showered, dressed, and kissed his wife, Lisa, good-bye, he’d had no idea it would be the last time he would see her. He valued his life, something he knew the man before him did not, and he knew that it would quickly end once he got what he came for. Charlie resigned himself to death and in doing so would take the location of the box with him.

“Keeler’s loose in there,” Aaron said as he tightened the strap of the black bag on his shoulder.

“Relax. He’s got nowhere to go.” Cristos looked at his watch. “But we don’t have much time.”

Aaron looked at the computer on the side desk, its monitor cracked. “Not a chance we’re going to find it in there.”

Cristos stared off, his mind spinning, then, without a warning, he turned and shot Charlie in the foot, the sound of the report deafening in the small space.

Charlie grimaced as he instinctively tried to lift his now-mangled foot. But Cristos restrained his hands as he glared at him, letting the shock of the wound fade and all of the pain pour in.

“You’re going to tell me where the case is-” Cristos leaned in close, eye-to-eye with Charlie, staring at the tiny pieces of glass under his skin, at the pain in his eyes. Charlie’s eye lids began to flutter; he was near passing out. “Because every man has his breaking point.”

Cristos pulled an EpiPen from inside his jacket, removed the needle cover, and jabbed it into Charlie’s neck.

Charlie’s body went rigid, his eyes flashing open as his heart began to race.

“No passing out on me now,” Cristos said. “The epinephrine and adrenaline will keep your ass wide awake and your senses on fire, so you’ll feel everything I’m about to do to you.”

“I may be wide awake,” Charlie said as he gritted his teeth, “but I’ll bleed out before you find out what you need. The only person I would ever tell is the one the box belongs to, and we both know that is not you.”

Cristos centered Charlie’s large frame in the wheeled office chair and bound his torso to the seatback with an extension cord so Charlie wouldn’t fall as he lost his strength. He pushed him out into the evidence room, guiding him from behind like a nurse, except that the gun he kept pressed against Charlie’s head quickly vanquished that image.

“Aaron!” Cristos shouted as he continued pushing Charlie down the center aisle toward the middle of the room. “Keep an eye on that door.”

Aaron stood at the exit door, his pistol gripped tightly in his hand, his other wrapped around the black bag strap on his shoulder, as his eyes scanned the area for movement.

“So, Mr. Keeler!” Cristos called out. “Your friend Charlie seems to have moved your little box. And he’s only willing to tell you were he moved it to.”

Jack stayed low, in the shadows of aisle L. He could see Charlie and Cristos as plain as day, his friend precariously perched on the chair. Blood flowed from his shattered foot, leaving a red-dotted trail behind him. Cristos stopped at the midpoint of the main center aisle beneath a harsh bright light that seemed to wash what little life remained from Charlie’s shattered face.

Cristos stood over Charlie, his gun pressed down against his knee. “Mr. Keeler?”

Jack remained silent.

Kpow. The gun exploded, the large-caliber bullet shattering Charlie’s knee cap, cartilage, and tendons, nearly separating the leg at the joint. Charlie grimaced in agony, but no cry escaped his lips, his pain channeled into an angry gasp.

“Mr. Keeler,” Cristos said without remorse, without emotion, “I’ve got far more bullets than you have time. I suggest you answer me.”

Jack remained silent, his soul broken as he watched his friend suffer. As despicable as it seemed to watch a friend die, he knew that it was inevitable. They had no intention of allowing Charlie or, for that matter, himself to live.

Kpow. The bullet tore into Charlie’s groin. Charlie’s eyes were glazing over from the pain, his staccato gasps echoing in the room.

“Your wife’s survival depends on you. I suggest you speak to your friend and get me that case before it’s too late.” Cristos spun around and walked back down the aisle, leaving Charlie sitting there in the open.

Jack moved closer. He could see the damage to his friend, shocked at his condition: his face dotted with wounds, his lower body soaked in blood.

“I’ll give you thirty seconds to talk to him,” Cristos called out. “Then you’ve got one minute to get me the case. Or your wife will die a far more slow and horrific death than your friend.”

Charlie looked around the room, his head turning to and fro, when he finally caught sight of Jack. Their eyes locked, a moment of painful understanding passing between them.

Charlie managed a pained smile and nodded as Jack emerged from the rows of shelves. He slowly walked forward, paying no attention to Cristos and Aaron, who stood in the doorway at the other end of the room. Jack put his hand on Charlie’s shoulder and stared down at his shattered body. He was filled with pain, heart-rending agony at the torture of his friend. He had spent so much of his life seeing the aftermath of crimes, the horrific photographs, the witness statements, the testimony of those who had seen the evil in men’s eyes, that he had forgotten the reality of the brutal origins of those pictures and stories.

“Don’t look so troubled,” Charlie whispered.

“I’m so sorry.”

“Jack,” Charlie whispered, “you have to do me a favor.”

Jack leaned into his friend, taking his bloody hand in his own. “Is there something you want me to tell your wife?”

“No, she knows how I feel. No worries.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Row S,” Charlie struggled to speak. “Case nine-two-nine-six.”

Jack looked into his dying friend’s eyes. “What’s in it, Charlie?”

“Just find it. You’ll understand.”

Jack nodded.

“And Jack,” Charlie whispered, reaching out with a closed fist to place something in Jack’s hand, “it’s always brought me good luck. It will help you get out of here.”

Jack said nothing as he looked down at the tip of a rabbit’s foot protruding from his closed fist. Without a word, he slipped it into his pocket and smiled at his friend.

As he looked Charlie in the eye, he watched the light slip away; he heard the last subtle breath escape his lips as his head gently tilted forward.

Jack’s head snapped up as he saw Cristos nod at Aaron and Aaron begin his approach.

Without thought, Jack broke into a full-on sprint, racing down the aisle, calling out the rows as he went. K, L, M… O, P… S. Quickly ducking in, he scanned the shelves, eyes darting back and forth. He heard Aaron’s running footsteps charging his way. Moving down farther and farther, Jack finally spied it on the fifth shelf: 9296.

The box was simple, reinforced cardboard, looking as if it had been up there for years, blending with the numerous metal cases, transfiles, and accordion folders. The section was civil, not criminal. Jack didn’t fully understand what Charlie did, but he realized that his friend had taken matters into his own hands when he heard that Jack and Mia were killed. He was the only other person to know about the box and its location and, Charlie being Charlie, realized that people would be coming for it, so he took it upon himself to create a contingency plan.

With Aaron’s footsteps nearly upon him, Jack drew down the box and flipped open the lid. And as he peered inside, he was floored by what he saw.

Aaron charged down the center aisle, clutching his pistol, his bag banging against his back. He had watched Jack dodge right into row S and pumped his legs as hard as he could. Cristos’s orders not to kill him were clear, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t maim him, shoot him in the leg or the spine to cripple him. All they needed was the case’s location; it didn’t matter if it came out of Jack’s mouth clearly or as a last gasp.

And as he turned the corner, his gun held high, double-fisting it as trained, he caught a glimpse of Jack standing there. But much to his surprise, Jack wasn’t scrambling away like a trapped animal-he was facing him, his eyes focused. And when he realized what Jack was holding, it was too late.

By the time Aaron pulled the trigger, a bullet was already tearing into his own chest, straight through his heart, the force knocking him back and to the ground.

Jack was instantly upon him, grabbing his gun and tossing it away. He took his cell phone, the key-fob-like device, and finally the black bag from his shoulder before melting back into the shadows of the aisle.

Jack looked back at case 9296, the case that, besides a canvas shopping bag filled with Oreos, two bags of chips, beef jerky, and a six-pack of Budweiser, also held a loaded pistol and two clips in the event that a situation arose. Charlie always said this place was his home and that his home had its little touches, its little stashes for all kinds of emergencies.

Jack quickly ran to row Y, looked up to the seventh shelf, and found the evidence case that he and Mia had stashed away on Thursday. He quickly opened it, verifying that it hadn’t been discovered and emptied. He had no idea what he was looking at, nor did he take any time to inspect it.

He unzipped Aaron’s black bag, tucked the metal case inside, and threw it over his shoulder. He slipped the gun into the waistband of his pants but pulled it out as he heard Cristos’s rampaging approach; his accent had all but vanished as he screamed desperately on the run, “You will never get out of here!”

Digging into his pocket, Jack felt Charlie’s rabbit foot and smiled. Filled with hope, he charged out of the row, catching a glimpse of Cristos seventy-five feet away, racing toward him. Gunfire erupted, erratic and staccato, ricocheting off the floor, walls, and shelves. He pressed on, driving his legs as hard as he could.

Without looking back as he ran toward the rear of the evidence room, Jack shouted between deep breaths, “I’m going to burn everything in this case!”

Suddenly arriving at the rear fire door, Jack ground to a halt, pulled out the rabbit’s foot, and stared at it-more specifically, at the three keys that dangled off the small chain. He tucked the largest key into the lock, turned it, and, with a broad smile, opened the rear emergency exit.

Cristos ran through the evidence room. He needed that box at all costs. His life, his future, depended on it.

When he saw Jack race out of the shadows, he knew what had happened. Somehow Charlie had gotten the better of him. Although shot multiple times and left to die, the old man had somehow reached up from the dead and helped his friend. They had taken his gun, his cuffs, but they couldn’t take his mind; Charlie had tricked them all.

Cristos had no idea where Jack was running to, but his greatest fears were realized as he saw the open emergency door, the wash of dim light pouring out of its opening. Cristos held his gun tightly, ran through the door, and charged up the stairs.