James Grippando - Blood Money

“He’s headed straight for a fence.”

Just as the words crossed Andie’s lips, the Chevy crashed through a chain-link fence at the end of the parking lot and careened to the right. Broken metal fence posts and an entire section of chain link lay strewn across the asphalt, and the van bumped and rolled over it as they drove through the hole in the fence. They were suddenly on brick pavers, not asphalt, speeding down an empty pedestrian-only walkway in the heart of the urban campus. The FBI van was quickly gaining ground.

“I think he’s got a flat,” said Andie.

They’d closed the gap to less than a half block when the Chevy stopped so short that the orange taillights rose another foot from the ground. Merselus had reached a dead end: the three-foot-high, in-ground security posts that normally stopped vehicles from coming the other way, from the street to the pedestrian walkway. The driver’s-side door flew open, and Merselus fired at the van as he ran from his vehicle. There was a loud pop and starburst crack in the windshield as a bullet whizzed through the space between Andie and her driver, and the van screeched to a halt.

“Are you hit?” Andie shouted to the tech agent in the back.

“No.”

“Check on the hostage!” Andie shouted to her partner as they hopped out of the van.

With weapon drawn Andie ran past the school auditorium, past the half-block-long lecture hall, and down a narrow side street, pursuing Merselus on foot. She was closing in on him and had him in sight as he ran across the street. He stopped to try the door to the McDonald’s, and for a brief instant Andie feared a hostage situation, but the restaurant was closed and the doors were locked. He turned and ran up the block, then disappeared into an alley across from the campus. Andie’s legs were pumping at full speed, but she came to a quick stop at the alley’s entrance. It was a narrow opening, barely wide enough for a single vehicle to pass between the five-story buildings on either side. She stood to one side, her back to the wall. Winded from the all-out sprint, Andie had no choice but to breathe in the stench of an overloaded Dumpster that filled the warm night air. She was still wired for communication with the van, and as she caught her breath, she whispered an update on Merselus.

“Subject entered alley east side of First Avenue, twenty yards south of McDonald’s restaurant.”

With her back still pressed to the wall, she turned her head just enough to peer cautiously into the dark alley. It stretched less than fifty yards from end to end, with only two street openings-the entrance Merselus had taken, and the exit at the opposite end, which fed into a Metromover station. Andie spotted just one streetlight about halfway down, but it was burned out. The moonlight did little more than create confusing shadows in what seemed like a black tunnel. Slowly, Andie’s eyes adjusted, and the alley’s transformation from mere shadows to recognizable objects began. Keeping close to the wall and her gun at the ready, Andie entered with caution. She was ten feet into the darkness when she stopped and listened.

A siren wailed in the distance. Multiple sirens. Backup was on the way. But by the time they arrived, Merselus might be long gone.

Leading with her gun, crouched in the marksman pose, she stepped deeper into the darkness, one tentative step at a time. Bars covered the windows and doors that faced the alley, blocking off escape routes, telling her that Merselus was still somewhere in the alley. She heard a noise from behind the Dumpster. Quickly, without making a sound, she moved to the wall, took cover behind a telephone pole, and waited. Her heart pounded. The sirens in the distance grew louder. Suddenly, a squad car pulled up and blocked the opposite end of the alley. Flashes of amber from the police beacon bathed the dark alley, and Andie could hear the MDPD officer key the loudspeaker.

“Police! Put your hands up and-”

A barrage of gunfire echoed in the alley-Merselus’ response to the police command. With his intended escape route blocked by a squad car, his only way out was to turn around and exit the way both he and Andie had entered. Merselus continued firing at the police as he pivoted and ran down the alley-away from the squad car and toward Andie.

“FBI, freeze!” Andie shouted.

Merselus was squarely in her sights until, suddenly, she couldn’t see anything-not for the darkness, but for the burst of brightness from a police spotlight. It was from the same squad car that had sealed off the end of the alley and had sent Merselus running toward her. He was still coming at her, and the blinding beam of white light stretched like a laser all the way down the alley from the squad car, hitting him in the back and Andie squarely in the face. On the run, Merselus turned his fire in Andie’s direction. Andie had some protection behind the telephone pole, but the spotlight robbed her of any serious ability to hide. Chunks of the wood pole splintered off as Merselus fired without pause at the only law enforcement officer between him and his escape.

Andie wanted to return fire, but she couldn’t see well enough to take a shot at a moving target. Staring into the spotlight, she was more likely to miss Merselus and hit the police at the other end of the alley with a stray bullet.

Merselus was approaching hard and fast, so close now that Andie could hear the pounding of his footfalls on the pavement. The alley was ablaze with the high-powered spotlight, and Andie was within twenty feet of an armed serial killer, unable to see her target. In another moment he’d be on her, and if Andie didn’t act fast she knew she’d be his hostage or dead. Two more of his bullets grazed the wooden pole she was hiding behind. When a third round cracked the brick wall beside her, Andie dived from behind her cover and logrolled to the center of the alley, coming to a stop on her stomach. In one continuous motion, she raised her Sig Sauer and took aim from a worm’s-eye view-a completely different angle that took the blinding spotlight out of her line of sight-and squeezed off a single round. She heard one last gunshot, followed by an unmistakable thud on the pavement.

She was eye to eye with Merselus as the alley went eerily silent.

Jack’s front lawn was aglow with the flash and swirl of blue and amber beacons. An MDPD squad car was behind Jack’s car in the driveway. An assistant deputy sheriff opened the rear door, and Ellen Bennett climbed into the backseat without resistance, her head down and her hands cuffed behind her back.

Parked on the street in front of Jack’s house was an ambulance, though it wasn’t needed. This was a job for the medical examiner’s office, and the ME’s team was already on the scene. A white sheet covered Geoffrey Bennett’s body on the lawn, and the ME’s gurney was on the walkway, ready to receive the so-called victim.

Jack avoided using that word- victim -in his witness statement to the police. He was standing on his front porch with the first officer on the scene, recounting the worst night of his life. Or at least one of them.

“Just to be clear,” said the officer, “you’re not Mrs. Bennett’s attorney, are you?”

“No. Definitely not.”

Jack’s cell rang. It was from Sydney’s iPhone-the same number that had started his run from Bayfront Park to the Metromover, and that had transmitted that final text message: Check the bench. Jack stepped away from the officer and took the call, bracing himself to hear Merselus’ voice. It was Sydney.

“Jack, where are you?” she asked, her voice filled with urgency.

“At home. Are you okay?”

“Yeah, pretty much. I’m with the FBI.”