Ridley Pearson - Chain of Evidence

“Better make it count,” the man said, grinning, “‘cause I’m going to take it away from you.’”

He faked to his right-Dart pivoting to follow-and then cut left so quickly that Dart never saw him coming. One second Dart was holding the gun, not wanting to fire it; the next, the weapon was skidding across the vinyl floor and Dart’s wrist felt extremely hot and limp.

Alverez body-punched Dart low and on the side, below the ribs, stinging a kidney and buckling the detective over in agony.

Dart swung his bad foot wildly and connected the instep with the side of Alverez’s knee, as if pushing a door shut. He heard something snap, and the thug’s eyes went wide, and Dart kicked the same spot again, and Alverez leaned away like a tree from the wind. And then he grimaced, showing off his brown, ugly teeth like a mean dog.

His arms were apelike, unexpectedly long for such a compact body. He punched out at Dart, ramming a ball of hard knuckles into the center of his chest, stunning his diaphragm and stealing his breath.

Dart staggered back and smacked into a desk, knowing instantly that to allow himself to be pinned by a gorilla like Alverez was the end-the man would pick him to pieces, breaking bones and taking him apart like a turkey carcass after the feast. Dart’s right hand wouldn’t respond-it flapped at the end of his arm like a rag; he couldn’t feel it at all. His left landed painfully on something cool and hard, and Dart seized it and lashed out at Alverez who, preparing to step closer and finish Dart, mistakenly anticipated Dart’s attempt to come from his right. The detective smashed the stapler into the man’s jaw like a set of brass knuckles, breaking the joint and leaving the man looking like a Halloween mask, his jaw grotesquely distorted.

Buying himself a moment, Dart flung himself off the desk and hobbled awkwardly around the bank of keyboards and monitors, and down the aisle. There, not ten feet away, its red lights flashing, was the exact box that Ginny had described.

A couple of minutes, he remembered Ginny saying.

Fat chance , Dart thought, wondering if he could even buy himself thirty seconds.

He placed his weight onto his bad ankle, fell down, and reached out with his broken wrist, crying out loudly with the impact.

They heard that , he thought.

Alverez spun around, his broken jaw preventing any perverse grin, his nose bleeding profusely, his eyes damp and seething with fury.

Dart had never seen that look, but it had been described dozens of times, and it registered into his core that Alverez would either kill him or change him forever. This was a hot spot, a defining moment.

Alverez charged like a wrecking ball-but the wrecking ball owned a switchblade.

The knife sank into Dart’s left shoulder. Alverez removed it just as quickly with a sickening sucking sound and lowered it again, but Dart rolled hard. The switchblade punched the floor, broke the springed hinge, and folded up on the man’s fingers, slicing all four to the bone. Alverez roared, released the knife, and had to shake his hand to break the blade from its grip. Blood flew like water from a hose.

Dart lunged for the communications box. A vertical row of red lights … The button marked MASTER was at the bottom of the device. Alverez growled. Dart punched the red button, and it immediately changed to green.

The system was on-line.

Alverez crawled across the floor.

The gun! Dart realized as Alverez reached for it.

Dart kicked out and caught the man’s jaw with the toe of his shoe. A loud crack filled the room, like a gunshot, and Alverez slumped to the floor, his wounded hand bleeding badly. He was down, but not finished.

Dart rolled painfully to his left; the button remained green. Perhaps twenty seconds had passed; it felt to Dart like half an hour. He fished for his handcuffs and got one end around the wrist of Alverez’s bleeding hand and, dragging the man across the floor, the other to the foot of a giant piece of computer machinery.

Dart heard the chaos out in the hall, reacting to it before he gave it any thought. He dove for the bloody gun and took hold of it just as the door swung open.

“Freeze!” one of the three uniformed guards shouted excitedly, training a weapon on Dart.

Dart, lying on his back, held his weapon with his left hand, aiming toward the man but knowing he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. “Police,” Dart said, attempting authority.

The look of surprise that swept over the man’s face convinced Dart that they had no idea who he was; his only hope now was to separate Proctor from his own employees.

“Bullshit,” the guard snapped, checking furtively over his shoulder. “Drop the fucking piece!”

Rent-a-cops were notorious for shooting widows, and dogs, and children. They had no excuse to carry loaded weapons with so little training. Dart didn’t like that barrel being aimed at him.

One minute , he estimated. He needed to stall for several more. He felt only a swelling pain in his right hand.

“You shoot a cop and you’re dead. The building is surrounded.”

“What a fucking windbag,” the blond man said. He looked about twenty-one. He, too, held a weapon on Dart. “I say we tap him right here.”

“No,” came a recognizable voice from behind. “You’re in a bad situation here, Officer Dartelli,” Proctor said, confirming to his subordinates that Dart was in fact a cop. It struck Dart as a curious move. “Don’t do anything stupid. Anything we’ll all regret.”

Proctor showed himself then, stepping past his uniformed guards, his hands in the air. “I’m unarmed and defenseless,” He took another tentative step forward. “Are you going to shoot me?” His eyes wandered over Dart’s shoulder, and he gave away that he had spotted the green button. He knew more about the computer system than Dart would have given him credit for.

“Back!” Dart challenged, waving the barrel of the weapon slightly.

Two minutes, he thought.

“Are you really going to shoot me?” Proctor asked, hands still out away from his body. His forehead was beaded with sweat, his suit pitted below the arms.

Dart felt a dizzying drain to his system as he paled and felt cold. His shoulder was losing blood badly.

“I’m not armed,” the man reminded. He smiled, as if to calm Dart. He kept walking, sliding one foot tentatively ahead of the other. He wasn’t interested in reaching Dart, he wanted the mainframe.

Dart’s dulled mind could barely think. The man took another step forward and Dart said overly loudly, “Yes, I copy,” into the room.

The words startled Proctor, who stopped in his tracks. His eyes swept over Dart, looking but not finding the microphone.

“Video and audio,” Dart lied, unsure if either was working any longer. He watched as the color drained from the man’s face. “Anything that you’d like to say to the command van?”

“If that were true,” Proctor said, taking another step forward, “they would have long since come to your help. Nice try.”

Dart couldn’t tell him why they couldn’t come, so instead he said, “I haven’t given them the signal.”

“I don’t think so,” Proctor said, taking yet another step.

“Don’t,” Dart warned.

“Put the gun down,” the unsteady guard cautioned. His arms were tiring from holding the weapon, Dart noted. His aim would be off because of this.

Three minutes … How much longer?

All the lights failed at once, leaving only the computer’s tiny lights ablaze.

Dart saw a white flash as the guard fired and missed. Through ringing ears he heard the unmistakable sound of glass breaking and metal ripping as the ERT team set off explosive charges at five entrances.