Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(72)

My scream tore through my guts. “No!”

A bullet puffed into the drywall above Fadden’s head. Sarge taking a shot.

“Out!” I shouted at Clyde. “Out!”

With a furious growl, Clyde released Fadden. Fadden found his knees and brought up the gun, jerking it toward me.

“Out of the way, Parnell!” Sarge yelled.

But I’d gotten to my feet and was already stepping in. I used the cord to swing the burner in an arc, putting everything I had into the blow. It slammed into the side of Fadden’s head with a meaty crunch just as the room exploded with gunfire and the top of Fadden’s skull vanished.

He dropped. His gun slid away, and I snatched it up in my left hand.

The bottom half of Fadden’s face was white and empty. Most of the rest was gone.

Clyde pressed against me.

“Sydney.” Sarge’s voice. “Hey, you okay?”

I ignored him, edging closer to Fadden, my chest heaving, gun up and ready should he twitch a muscle. His remaining eye glared at the ceiling while blood pooled beneath him.

I nudged him with my foot.

“He’s dead, Sydney. It’s okay. He’s about as dead as it’s possible to get.”

I looked at the burner still dangling from my hand, my fingers in a death grip around the cord. The heating element was matted with hair and blood.

I dropped it. It exploded when it hit the floor, springs and screws and shards of metal flying out. The sound echoed through the room like a cannon shot. Pieces rolled or bounced across the floor and eventually came to rest. All went quiet. The only sound was that of my heart, slamming blood through my ears like a jackhammer.

Sarge gripped my shoulder.

“We needed him,” I said. “Why did you shoot him? We needed him.”

“Seemed like it was him or you. Although I have to say, I never seen anyone so handy with small appliances.”

As I stood over Fadden, chest heaving, the images that rose in my mind, slotting into my brain like pinballs slamming home, were of Sherri Kane. And Haley, and the baby, Megan.

And Jeremy Kane, walking his beat. Standing on the wall for all of us.

“Let’s move,” Sarge said.

I backed away from the corpse. I blinked and looked around the room. My brain stuttered, then connected a few wires.

“Cohen,” I said.

Sarge stopped. “Who?”

Clyde was trotting back and forth near the doorway, agitated. I called his name, and as soon as his eyes were on mine, I raised an arm, then thrust it out.

“Find him, boy. Seek!”

Clyde thrust his nose into the air, taking scent. He raised his tail like a flag, and raced out of the room. His barks came back to us, echoing off the walls until it sounded like an entire pack of Belgian Malinois baying on the hunt.

I grabbed the lantern and ran after him.





CHAPTER 20

Marines don’t cry.

—Sydney Parnell. Personal journal.

Clyde disappeared down the stairs.

Sarge and I plunged down the stairwell after him. No need for silence. If there was anyone else in the building, they must already figure World War III had just played out over their heads. Either they’d been smart and run . . .

Or they would go the way of Mark Fadden.

Sarge said, “What friend of yours are we looking for?”

My feet slipped. I grabbed the banister, which gave beneath my hand.

Sarge grabbed me.

“Cohen.” I got my balance.

“The cop?” He whistled between his teeth. “Christ on a sandwich.”

Ahead of us, Clyde reached the bottom. He paused to sample the air, then his back paws skittered on the tiles before he righted himself and sped left, toward the rear of the building. The lantern flared over walls scabrous with flaking paint and wires hanging in clots from the ceiling.

Clyde disappeared. The stairs went on forever.

Images clicked through my head with the speed of a shutter snapping.

Angelo gasping out his last in a Mexican alley.

Kane disappearing beneath the train.

Haley’s shy smile as I pushed the muffin toward her.

Cohen propped on his hands above me, his eyes languorous, afternoon sun spreading golden bars across our skin.

I skipped the last few stairs, landed badly, and felt blood seep from the reopened wound in my side.

“Mike!” I shouted.

I raced down the hallway past closed doors and followed Clyde, who darted through a doorway. I set down the lantern so that the light spilled out ahead of us, and Sarge and I went in with shooter’s stances.

No one waited for us.

The room had been a kitchen. The countertops were pulling away from the walls; pale squares on greasy paint showed where appliances had been. An industrial-size double sink overflowed with empty food cans. A door directly across from us led to the outside.

At the far end of the kitchen was another door. This one was closed and secured with a steel drop bar.

Clyde trotted back and forth in front of this door, whining.

“Mike!”

My gaze fixed on the countertop next to the barricaded door, where someone had spread a white towel. Carefully arranged on the clean white space was a bottle, a syringe, and a bloody rag, neatly folded.

Adrenaline hurled me across the room. I lifted the drop bar from its brackets, tossed it aside. The handle turned easily, and I yanked open the door.