Michael Prescott: Last Breath

The gun shifted position, and now the muzzle was under her chin, in the hollow of her jaw.

“Make one sound, I blow you away,” he whispered.

Click, and the phone’s keypad light came on, illuminating Adam’s face. She stared up at him. His eyes seemed to have sunk into deep hollows. His mouth was a ragged line.

But when he spoke into the phone, his voice was calm, almost normal. “Adam Nolan.”

He was close enough for her to hear the reply over the phone’s small speaker. “Mr. Nolan, this is Detective Walsh.”

Adam closed his eyes briefly, as if a headache was coming on. “Oh. Yes, Detective, I-I’ve been waiting for your call. How is she? Did you find her? Is she okay?”

C.J. wanted to scream. Wanted more than anything to incriminate him. But she couldn’t. She had fought so hard to live, and she still wanted to extend her life, even if for only another minute. A minute was a long time. Anything could happen in a minute. Anything.

“We’re not sure, Mr. Nolan,” Walsh was saying.

“What do you mean you’re not sure?” A good imitation of concern. It was all in his voice. His face remained blank, a mask. “Did you find her or not?”

“Oh, we’ve found her, all right. But as for her condition, I’m afraid you’ll have to fill us in on that.”

A beat of silence, Adam’s eyes shiny and faraway, and then she saw the heavy swallowing motion of his throat.

“Mr. Nolan?” Walsh asked, a tiny voice, like a buzzing insect.

“What is this,” Adam said finally, “some kind of sick joke?”

“No joke, sir. Your ex-wife is with you, in a warehouse in an unfinished business complex called, uh, Midvale Office Park, I believe. And I’m right outside-me, and some friends of mine.”

“You…” Adam’s face had gone slack. The light in his eyes was dead. “You couldn’t… you can’t…”

“We did. Come out, Mr. Nolan. Come out right now.”

Hesitation, and then she saw a new coldness in his eyes, a sudden resolve. “No way.”

“Be reasonable, Mr. Nolan.”

“Fuck reasonable. You want to know C.J.’s condition? She’s alive, with a gun to her head. I’ve got a hostage-you hear that? Anyone comes in here, and she fucking dies.”

Click, and Walsh’s voice was gone, and so was the light.

They were in darkness again, the two of them.

“You’re not getting out alive, C.J.,” Adam whispered. “That’s a promise. Till death do us part, remember?”

“You can survive this, Adam.”

“Sure I can.”

Her words and his, two voices floating in the dark.

“They’ll negotiate,” she said. “That’s why Walsh called you. They want to talk.”

“Talk me into surrendering-so I can spend the rest of my life in jail.”

“They can work something out. A deal.”

“Bullshit. He said he and his friends were outside. Tell me what that means, C.J. You’re a cop. What’s standard procedure here?”

“Standard procedure is to negotiate-”

“And if I won’t cooperate?”

“They’ll be patient. They won’t force anything.”

“Suppose I force something.”

“What do you mean?”

“A gunshot-that would get their attention, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“They hear a shot fired, they come in, right?”

“Yes.”

“How? Who are they?”

She swallowed. “SWAT, probably.”

She was thinking of another warehouse, another hostage situation. Harbor Division. Long Beach. Family killed in the cross fire. Mother, father, two kids, all dead. Casualties of urban war. The first civilian deaths she’d seen on the job. Now she might die the same way, killed by friendly fire.

“SWAT team’s outside?” Adam said, his voice ragged.

“I think so.”

His phone buzzed again. He ignored it. “How many cops would that be?”

“Five or seven, depending.”

“Depending on what?”

“Whether a sniper team’s attached.”

“Sniper team. Jesus. How will they get in? The window?”

“Or the doors.”

“Doors are padlocked.”

“They can breach the doors with Magnum slugs.”

“And they come in wearing body armor, helmets, all that crap?”

“All that crap. Yes.”

“Submachine guns?”

“Yes.”

“Grenades?”

“Flash-bangs. Diversion devices. Tear gas.”

“Fuck.”

The phone was still ringing. “You have to negotiate, Adam.”

“I don’t have to do any goddamned thing. Shut up.”

She could smell the reek of his sweat.

“So there’s no way I can outgun them,” he said finally.

It was not a question, but she answered it anyway. “No.”

“It’s surrender or die.”

“I guess it is.”

“Christ.” His voice broke, and she heard a stifled sob. “It was supposed to work out better than this.”

“Things don’t always work out the way we want.”

“You’re telling me, bitch. Our marriage is exhibit number one in that department.”

“It’s not worth dying for,” she said quietly, unsure whether she meant the marriage or its failure or the rage he carried with him.

“I don’t know.” Another sob, then a noise like laughter. “I thought it was worth killing for, didn’t I? Kill and die, two sides of the coin. Kill and die…”

The phone stopped ringing.

“Sounds like they’re not as patient as you thought,” Adam said.

“They’ll try again. Or they’ll use a bullhorn. They won’t do anything rash.”

“No? You told me at the coffee shop that a SWAT raid can turn into a bloodbath. That’s your word, C.J. Bloodbath. That’s why you went in to save that kid all alone. Didn’t want a bloodbath, you said.”

“I was just… talking.”

“Sure you were. So how about it, darling? How about a bloodbath right now?”

“Adam, no-”

She tasted metal.

The gun barrel, in her mouth.

“Suck hard, bitch. You’re good at that. I remember.”

She grabbed his arm, trying to push him away, but he only forced the gun in deeper.

“Don’t fight it. It’s over-for both of us. You go bang. Then your friends swarm in and take me out. Suicide by cop-isn’t that what it’s called? Appropriate, huh?”

She held on to his arm, waiting for the shot she would never feel.

“It’s come full circle. You wearing a uniform is what killed our marriage. Now some other uniforms get to kill me.”

She felt the muscles of his forearm tighten, knew he was applying pressure to the trigger.

“Good-bye, C.J.,” Adam whispered.

Gunshot.

Her head snapped back, thumping on the concrete floor.

Blood in her mouth. Bitter taste. Copper pennies.

He’d shot her-blown off the back of her skull-so why was she alive?

More blood. On her face, in her eyes. Blood everywhere, and the alarm again, shrieking Not the alarm.

Adam.

She was still holding his arm, and she felt wetness coating her hands and realized the gun was not in her mouth any longer, and not in his hand either.

His hand, which flapped limply on a stalk of pulverized bone. His hand shattered at the wrist and spurting blood.

From across the room, a booming fusillade. Parts of the walls fell away as dark figures streamed through.

Adam screaming.

Blood.

Hands on her face, her throat-“No!” she shouted, sure the hands were Adam’s. “Get off me, get off!”

“It’s okay, Killer.” A familiar voice in her ear. “You’re okay.”

Lights came on. The drifting beams of flashlights. Men in flak jackets toting rifles. They seized Adam and wrestled him away as his screams subsided into hiccupping sobs.

Beside her, kneeling, Rick Tanner. Touching her face.