Calculated in Death (In Death #36)(112)

“Understood. And you understand I’ll be coming in after him.”

“Just don’t rush it.”

“Baxter, take Alexander—quietly—into custody as soon as I’m through the theater doors. McNab, send the green to the feds re the operatives. Clean Sweep starts now.”

She gave Roarke a smile, strolled off toward the theater doors. Now when someone called her name, she ignored it or tossed a careless wave. She could feel his eyes on her, tracking her. Had to get closer, she knew. Couldn’t risk another miss like before, so he had to get close.

A stunner, a knife. Maybe both.

Calculating, she slipped through the doors and into the gilded palace of the theater.

She’d never stepped foot in it before, but she knew every inch, every exit, every corner.

She drew her weapon as she eased away from the doors, moved carefully to the left. She needed him to come through, all the way, move beyond a chance to duck out again.

Two of her men would, as soon as possible, move over to those doors to block them. They’d have him in a box.

She walked a few more steps, deliberately turned her back to the doors.

Other eyes were on him now, eyes she trusted. And she’d hear him. She’d feel him.

She did both as the door quietly opened.

Closer, she thought, listening to the voices in her ear, listening to her own gut. Just a little closer.

She turned, weapon drawn. His face didn’t change, but the hand holding the stunner jerked in shock.

“You may be able to get off a stream before I do, but believe me, if I miss, the other four cops in here won’t. You’re going to want to lower that weapon, Frye, or you’re going to get hit by multiple streams. It’ll hurt like a bitch.”

She saw his eyes dart left, right, saw his body shift, roll onto his toes.

“Nowhere to run,” she began. “It’s over.”

Even as she spoke, the door swung open. “Eve Dallas!” Candida, obviously drunk, stumbled in. “I’ve got something to say to you, bitch.”

Frye had fast hands to go with his fast feet. He grabbed Candida, swung her around, effectively blocking any shots, then launched her at Eve with the spin velocity.

A flailing fist slammed into her eye as the now screaming woman landed on her.

“You bitch!” Candida shrieked it, slapping, kicking. “You ripped my dress!”

Cursing, Eve shoved, pushed Candida into a heap then gained her feet. Streams blasted as Frye dodged and weaved through the theater. On another curse, Eve kicked off the damn shoes and sprinted after him.

Fast, she thought, but goddamn it, she’d be faster. Her right eye watered freely, blurring her vision and throbbing like a bad tooth.

He veered off from the exit as she or one of the others glanced a stream off his shoulder. He returned fire, wildly, leaped onto the stage like a receiver leaping for a long pass. She leaped right after him, set, fired.

This one hit him square in the back. He didn’t stumble so much as sway, didn’t jitter so much as shudder.

He swung around, weapon up, fear and fury on his face. Shouts of “Drop your weapon” rang out, her own joining them. But those angry eyes never left her face.

He couldn’t miss at this range, she thought. Neither could she. She thought: What the hell, prepared to fire, braced for the return hit.

Roarke flew across the stage, a panther on the spring. He hit Frye low, at the knees, sent them both shooting through the air, across the floor.

“Restraints!” Eve shouted, dashed toward Roarke. Before she could get to him, he’d pulled back, plowed in, slamming a fist into Frye’s face.

Twice.

“Okay, okay, okay. He’s done. Suspect is down.”

“LT.” Jenkinson tossed her restraints, wincing as he climbed onto the stage.

“You hurt? You hit?”

“Nah, just burned me some. I’m wearing gear. It still gives you a jolt.”

“I know. Sit down, get your breath. You, too,” she said to Roarke, but he was already sitting beside the dazed Frye.

When Frye tried to rise, Eve stuck her stunner in his face. “You’re done,” she repeated. “On your face. Roll over on your face, hands behind your back.”

When he groped at his pocket, Roarke jabbed him, not so lightly, in the side. “Looking for this, boy-o?” He held up a knife, let the light catch the blade. “I had it out of your pocket before you hit the bleeding ground. Put another hand on my wife, and it may find its way into you.”

The best Eve could spare was a warning stare and shake of her head.

“Jenkinson, bag the knife, will you? The rest of you help me roll this big bastard over.”

He bucked, drummed his feet, reminding Eve of the kid with the cold and his tantrum. “Jesus, you’re done!” She had to expand the restraints to fit, and was fully, sincerely grateful she hadn’t gone head-to-head with him. “Clinton Rosco Frye, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to murder and murder for hire of Marta Dickenson, Chaz Parzarri, Jake Ingersol, human beings. Additional charges to come, including, you dick, assault with intent on police officers. Twice. Get him up, get him out—back door. Book him. I’ll be in shortly.”

She sat back on her heels, looked at Roarke while they dragged Frye to his feet. He’d yet to make a sound, but it took four cops to contain him and perp-walk him out the door.