Page 60 of Fatal Strike
A shot fired from below knocked the man off the beam.
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LEAH SEARCHED THROUGHone dirt-infested hole after another. Once she saw a man scrambling up a flight of rickety metal stairs. Perspiration dripped salty into her eyes, and she swiped with her hand while hurrying up the stairs into an open area of birds and humans inhabiting the same filth of rust and mold.
Gunfire echoed through the massive building. She stopped to listen. The sound originated behind and to the right. Dare she text Jon? Risk putting him in danger? She hid in the shadows beneath metal steps and typed—OK?
Yes. U?
K. Call me.
Minutes later, her phone vibrated and she leaned against foul-worded graffiti and a gang tag. “I heard gunfire.”
“A shooter killed my man before he turned himself in.”
“Did he offer any info?”
“No. Hoping his identity will give us a lead.”
“I haven’t found any signs of the second man,” she whispered.
“Where are you?”
“East.”
“Officers are inside and moving toward my location. Once I talk to them, they’ll search the rest of the building.”
“That will take hours.”
“Head toward the seaside entrance.”
“When I finish this area.” She slipped the phone back into her pocket. She despised the apparent lack of value for human life. Had the man she’d been chasing killed his partner?
The building reminded her of a few spots in New York where the same type of crowd attempted survival. Through rubble and a scurrying of rats, she climbed to the top floor. Below, police officers threaded in and out of the building. If the bad guy was hiding inside, he could squirrel away for hours. She made her way to the farthest eastern point and peered out. Officers swarmed this section, too. One of them used a K-9.
Leah climbed down another level, always looking for obscure places, pockets beneath beams, under fallen pipes, and in dark corners. Evidence of those who’d roamed and used the building emerged like pop-ups on a website.
On the next lower level, she made her way to an open wall and walked carefully to the edge. A man raced down the street and disappeared between houses.
Jon learned the dead man’s name was Brad Dixon. He had a record for burglaries. No gang affiliations or distinguishing tats.Dixon carried a new burner phone, the same brand as the ones used by Aaron Michaels and Landon Shaw. Activated but no incoming or outgoing calls or texts.
Jon stopped in a grassy area midway between St. Peter’s and the Falstaff building and watched Father Gabriel praying over Dixon’s body. Did the priest realize he could have been the one receiving last rites? A puzzle, a commitment Jon failed to understand.
He shook his head and weighed what little they’d uncovered about the perpetrators. Who and what was behind all this? Dylan Ortega twisted in his mind like a key ready to unlock the who and why the gang existed.
Father Gabriel joined Jon and Leah and sighed. “Thanks for allowing me to finish my prayers. I recognize the deceased.”
Jon’s senses went on alert. “How do you know the man?”
“Mr. Dixon came to see me Monday afternoon. I’d never met him before. He asked to make confession.”
“The day before Judge Mendez’s death?” Jon said.
“Right. The confession never happened. We were interrupted. Chief Everson barged into my office without knocking and startled us. He demanded we talk immediately. I excused myself and left Mr. Dixon alone in my office. When I returned, he was gone.” He paused. “Now he’s dead. Perhaps I could have prevented this.”
Questions bombarded Jon’s mind, beginning with Father Gabriel and heading back to Everson. “I don’t see how you could have prevented this. Did Dixon recognize Chief Everson?”
“I have no idea.”
