Page 59 of Fatal Strike
“I was outside pulling weeds around the church when a bullet flew past my head, and someone yelled, ‘You’re a dead man.’”
Jon started hustling Leah toward his truck before Father Gabriel could say more.
“Where are you now?”
“In my office. I’d been warned enough. I ducked and rushed inside. From my window, I saw two men across the street with guns. That’s when I called you.”
“We’re on our way. Lock the church doors. Call 911.”
Jon veered the truck onto Thirty-Second Street and sped to St. Peter’s. The shriek of sirens indicated police were also approaching the church.
“If they wanted Father Gabriel as their fourth victim, he’d be dead.” He swung into the church parking lot, braked, and exited the truck. Two patrol cars pulled in beside him. He and Leah drew their Glocks and raced up the church back steps. The door flung open and Father Gabriel stood on the other side—pale, shaking.
“Thank you. If I hadn’t moved to avoid a wasp, I’d be dead.” He leaned against the side of the wooden door. “Two men ran toward the old Falstaff Brewery.” He pointed toward Thirty-Third.
Jon raced toward the partially demolished building, Leah keeping pace. As Jon approached the massive, crumbling structure, it started to look more and more like something out of a horror movie, the perfect setting for drug deals, illegal parties, and the homeless. A figure was climbing up a pile of brick and debris, and Jon put on an extra burst of speed to leave Leah behind. His running days from high school to Quantico spun through his mind. The person disappeared inside a black window.
Jon leaped onto a fifty-foot hill of brick and plaster. He shouted back at Leah. “Look for an entrance seaside.” He scrambled up, like he used to climb trees as a kid in Oklahoma, keeping his body close to the wall for cover.
His attention zeroed in on the window where the man had disappeared. The short steel barrel of a handgun jutted out from the side. He counted to three and whirled around thewindowsill to fire into the open space. A grunt rose, and running footsteps sounded, quickly growing faint.
He fired again, then stepped inside the window and blinked several times to adjust his eyes to the shadows. Bending, he walked behind his Glock, moving toward a dim hallway. Footprints on the dusty concrete floor guided him farther into the structure.
He stole along graffiti-covered walls, past corroded doorways and even the rusted frame of an old Toyota stripped of its dignity.
A glimpse of light from the open roof picked up drops of blood on the floor. The groan heard earlier and now the blood indicated a wounded shooter.
Jon picked up his speed, moving swiftly past partially covered insulated pipes and up rusty metal stairs leading to the next level. At the landing, he listened before taking off after faint footsteps.
Darkness and trash made it difficult to trace the blood trail. Still he raced through a doorway and across a catwalk lined on one side with a metal railing. The other side would send him plunging to his death.
The corridor ended in a Y that led into darkness with no clear path. He bolted right. Tripped on something and fell face-first. So much for being sure-footed.
He shook off the stun and continued until the patchy roof splashed light onto a brick wall showing obscenities in red and blue spray paint. No blood drops.
He rushed back the way he’d come, being careful to avoid whatever he’d tripped over the first time, and followed the other path to a window leading out onto a metal bridge, missing a few rungs and weaving in the faint breeze.
Leah ... No shots had been fired. She must be okay. Father Gabriel claimed there were two men who’d headed toward the building. What happened to the second man?
No time to text or risk a ring signaling her location. He’d been guilty of sending partners to their death before. Never again.
He sprinted across the metal bridge and into a roofless, light-filled area. Signs that a segment of the homeless population in Galveston lived here—worn Army blankets hung for privacy, slashed mattresses, used syringes, and cigarette butts littered the space. He stepped down metal stairs to fallen pipes. These would stop a wounded man.
Then Jon saw a man dragging his leg, one hand on his thigh and the other wrapped around his gun. “Stop. FBI.” His words echoed around him.
The man moved faster and disappeared around a corner with Jon closing the distance between them. An opening with a narrow beam for a bridge separated one part of the floor from the other. The man started across. He wobbled.
Could the metal beam hold both their weights?
If Jon chose to fire, he’d send the man to his death. The FBI never threatened. Besides, being able to question the shooter meant more. “Surrender now or I’ll be forced to shoot.”
The man stood midway on the rusty support. He straightened and stared at Jon.
“You don’t have to jump.” Jon stepped onto the beam. “Let’s talk. Make it easy on yourself.”
The man shook his head and glanced down. “I’ll be a dead man.”
“We can protect you. Someone has to end what’s going on.”
