Let the Devil Out (Maureen Coughlin #4)(94)

“Do not f*cking move,” she shouted. “Gun down, hands in the air.”

Gage turned to face her. The gun he held to the back of Heath’s head did not move. “Why are you here?” he asked Maureen. “This is business between men. Old, old business.”

“I’m making it my business,” Maureen said. “Back away from Mr. Heath and set that gun in the grass.” She took two steps closer. She had a good shot if she wanted it. Gage wore his Carhartt jacket. There was no telling what he had in his pockets. She thought about grenades. “I want both your hands where I can see them, Gage. Now. Right now.”

“I raised an army for him,” Gage said, “and he left me in the wilderness. He destroyed my only son. He owes me.”

“I don’t care,” Maureen said. “Put down the gun and get on your knees with your hands behind your head. Nobody wants to hear you talk.”

If there was anyone she’d get a medal for gunning down, Maureen thought, here he was. But was that the kind of hero she wanted to be? Because, she thought, here also was the head of the Watchmen, wanted by the FBI, by the NOPD. He knew the Watchmen’s plans. Shit, he made their plans. He knew what they had planned next. Taking him alive would save lives. Many lives. And she had him caught. He had nowhere to go. She’d held her fire earlier that day. She could do it again. Then his gun hand whipped right at her.

Maureen squeezed off two rounds, and blew Leon Gage off his feet.

Heath ran screaming into the water.

Bird Island erupted into a deafening, squawking riot. Shrieks and beating wings filled the night sky. Maureen marched toward Gage, who rolled around in the grass, moaning in pain. He rose to one knee, drooping, fighting for breath. He still held his gun.

Maureen knew she’d hit him, put two rounds right in his ribs. She raised her weapon, sighted his chest. Center mass this time. He needed convincing, this one. She was right on top of him now. “Gage, drop that f*cking gun.”

His elbow bent, his gun hand moved again. But Gage wasn’t raising the weapon at her this time, Maureen realized. He was going for his own head. Oh, f*ck no.

She jumped forward and stomped on his arm at the elbow, knocking Gage onto his back, the joint breaking under her boot. His gun tumbled from his hand and into the lagoon. Maureen held her balance as Gage squirmed in rage and pain under her foot. She tested his ribs with her other foot. He wore body armor, which was why her first two shots hadn’t killed him. Which was exactly what she’d hoped for when she’d shot him in the chest and not the head. She moved her right foot from his elbow to his throat, applying pressure until he quit moving. He grabbed at her ankle, but he had no strength left in him.

“You know what I decided?” Maureen asked him. “No one else dies today.”

In his flailing, Gage had lost his glasses. His blue eyes blazed up at Maureen, enraged. She saw in them all that fierce, undying hate that Heath had talked about. She never wanted her eyes to look like that.

Hey, she thought, speaking of Heath …

Maureen looked across the lagoon and saw Solomon Heath sitting on a big gray rock on the banks of Bird Island, his right shoulder and hair covered in streaks of white egret shit.

“You can come back now, Mr. Heath. I’ve got things under control.” Smiling, she looked down at Gage. She lowered her gun so it pointed at the spot right between those fierce blue eyes.

“Don’t I, Mr. Gage?”





36

At nine the next night, standing outside the late Clayton Gage’s Harmony Oaks apartment, Maureen watched as the door opened and Atkinson walked out, ducking her tall frame under the yellow crime-scene tape guarding the doorway.

“Anything? Maureen asked.

Atkinson locked the door behind her. She shoved her hands deep in her coat pockets, and shrugged. “Nope. Not that I expected there to be.”

They walked away from the brick building, heading for Maureen’s police cruiser, parked on Louisiana Avenue. While Atkinson searched the apartment, Maureen had made a coffee run. Two large, hot dark roasts awaited them in the cruiser. On the passenger seat sat three Hubig’s pies that she’d have to smuggle to Preacher around Anthony’s vigilant watch.

Atkinson looked over her shoulder. “Couldn’t let it go without checking it out one more time. Thought maybe, with no one else around, I might see things differently. Changing the way you look at things, and I don’t mean that in some deep philosophical way, I mean stand on a chair and look around, change the light, can make a bigger difference than you’d think. You never know. Having the place to myself didn’t make a difference this time, but now I can forget about that apartment as part of the case.”

“Detillier and his guys took everything, huh?” Maureen said. She tucked loose strands of hair up under her NOPD knit cap.

“He let me in with his team this afternoon,” Atkinson said, “once the bomb squad gave us the all clear. He let me get a good look around. He did right by me.”

“He gonna let you have a run at Gage?” Maureen asked.

“Oh, I doubt that,” Atkinson said. “That’s all right.”

“Seriously?”

They’d reached the car. Maureen opened the door, leaned into the front seat for the coffees. She handed one to Atkinson, who winced and spat as soon as she sipped.