DAYBREAK: a gripping thriller full of suspense (Titan Trilogy Book 3) (13 page)

She felt herself seething. The shock was already wearing off, replaced by an anger she hadn’t known was possible to feel. Delaney had walked into the room and belittled her, blamed her, when he was as dirty and corrupt as they came.

She looked out the window. The puddles in the driveway boiled and snapped as the rain poured down. The doors to the back of the ambulance closed and she felt something drop in her chest. Her breath caught in her throat, she thought she saw points of light glittering around the edges of her vision, like she was going to pass out. Poor Morgan. She barely knew the man. She’d resented her security detail, and look what had happened to them.

She spun around as Delaney neared her again.

“Know why I’m here, Detective? I’m following the dollar. Black markets like XList are laundering money, which ends up as slush funds to bribe politicians. So, do your job. See that my men are given the best medical treatment, and get the hell out of my way.”

Delaney barreled over from the doorway, took a few large strides and was right next to Jennifer, breathing hot in her ear. “Listen to me, you cunt. I don’t care who you work for. What you’re fucking with here; you’ve got to get with the program. You’re on the wrong side.”

She turned and looked into his pasty face. He had dark eyes and a black mustache and sallow skin, there were sunflower seed casings stuck in his teeth. She decided then and there she would never eat a sunflower seed again. “I’ve heard that speech before,” she said quietly, her heart pounding. “Now, if I could just speak to your sheriff, Lawrence Taber. Is he around? I’m sure he’d like to hear what I have to say about you.”

“Everything okay in here?”

Jennifer looked past Delaney’s looming face at the earnest young trooper, watching them from the other side of the room with wide eyes. She could feel Delaney’s breath on her face. Her stomach rolled with nausea. Then Delaney slowly turned his head to the trooper.

“No,” he said, “everything is not okay here.”

And he pulled out his gun.

Oh God
, said that voice in her head, then one that sounded eerily like her mother.
You’ve gone too far, Jenny. This time you’ve gone too far.

Tony Laruso. Two hundred and fifty pounds of fat and muscle. Early thirties. Bronx bred, started out in gangs when he was eleven and grew up fast. At sixteen, hit a guy so hard he put him in a coma for a month. Brendan had done his research, in between the beatings.

Laruso would have served time in a juvenile facility for putting that guy down, but as he’d already committed other offenses — larceny, accessory to car theft, forging driver’s licenses — he was sent to Rikers and did six months. He’d been in and out of jail ever since.

One thing that was unusual about Tony Laruso was that he didn’t have a single prison tat. He believed the flesh was sacred, not to be desecrated. Six months ago he’d been on top of Brendan, pinning him to the ground — with a few other inmates helping out, although Laruso didn’t really need assistance. Laruso had been following Grimm’s orders, probably wrangling a deal of his own for special treatment of some kind. But he was un-inked, the granite muscles moving like plates beneath his thick skin.

Now, he stood in front of Brendan, chest heaving, ready for war. The corrections officers backed out of the room, closing the door and grinning like a couple of kids who’d just set a bag of shit aflame on some teacher’s porch. Brendan turned and scowled at them and tried to look tough. But when the door finally snapped shut, he faced Laruso, his heart thumping against his chest.

Laruso had seventy-five pounds on him. He’d been in hundreds of fistfights. Brendan had been in less than half a dozen. If you counted grabbing Russell Gide by his tracksuit in a fit of fright and anger while Gide sat helpless behind the steering wheel of his BMW, okay, that was one. If you counted Laruso jumping him in the commons area, tackling him to the ground, screwing up his already screwed-up face, that was another. And maybe hitting FBI Agent Harlan Doherty in the face with his forehead made the list. What was not debatable was that, pound for pound, Brendan was outmatched.

“You ready to do this?” Laruso clenched his fists and bared teeth so white and square they looked fake.

Laruso took a step forward, bringing his hands up. He didn’t raise them like a boxer, instead he held them near his hips, like a wrestler. Laruso shook his head. “You’re one crazy motherfucker,” he said, and lunged.

Brendan stepped back and batted Laruso’s groping hands away. “I know Grimm put you up to it.”

Laruso paused, scowled, and then lunged again. “Grimm didn’t put me up to nothing.”

Brendan leapt back, running out of room in the cramped space. His hip connected with one of the folding chairs, which ground across the concrete floor with a metal squawk. He kept backing away from Laruso, rounding the long table that had been the site of slightly more civilized interactions only recently. Laruso dove at Brendan, who jumped up onto the table.

“Oh, you think that’s going to save you?” Laruso said and kept coming, and dear God, he was smiling. Brendan kicked him in the chin. The blow snapped Laruso’s head back and spit flew from the inmate’s lips. Two fat pearly drops of it.

Laruso lowered his head and glowered up at Brendan from beneath a hooded brow. “I’m gonna fuck you up, bitch.”

“Stop,” Brendan was saying, waving his hand, palm out, and backing up along the rickety table. “I have a proposition.”

“Get down from there, you pussy,” Laruso growled, and he swiped at Brendan’s legs, his fingertips brushing one of Brendan’s legs.

“No,” said Brendan, his stomach dyspeptic, his skull throbbing in sync with his beating heart. “Listen.”

“Fuck you.” Laruso used a chair to climb onto the desk.

This was going to hurt.

The state trooper in the room was quick, but once he’d drawn his gun, he acted confused. He stood pointing the weapon in the general direction of Delaney and Jennifer, but he seemed unsure of which one of them was the target. “Detective?” he asked, his voice high and raw.

Delaney had his gun pointed at Jennifer’s shoulder, the barrel pressing into her. With his free hand he took the handcuffs from his belt and held them in the air. “This woman is under arrest for suspicion of murder. I have reason to believe she and her security detail tried to coerce and then murder Edward Stemp.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Jennifer said. Her pulse was racing, her thoughts jumbled, but she couldn’t help herself. Delany did not appreciate the remark and hit her in the side of the head with the handcuffs.

“Jesus!” the trooper called out. “What . . . .”

Getting hit with the cuffs was like a hot sting, with a thick, throbbing pain to follow. Silvery spots danced in her vision. At the same time, her clamoring thoughts settled, her mind calmed, and only one clear notion remained in the temporary stillness.

I’m not going through this again.

“Whoops,” said Delaney. “Slipped.”

He pulled the gun away from her shoulder and shoved her forward so she was bent over at the table just below her rib cage. “Cover her,” he said to the trooper. He then pulled the gun away so he could rack the cuffs on her. Meanwhile the trooper was pointing his handgun at her, clearly conflicted, but following instruction nevertheless. The coroner, Stanley Clark, appeared in the doorway and looked into the kitchen with his mouth open in a confused oval, as if he were about to ask a question.

“You’re going to arrest me?” said Jennifer. “I’m a prosecutor with the United States Department of Justice.”

“I don’t give a shit if you’re Queen Cleopatra of Egypt. You want to see Taber? Ok. I’ll bring you right to where he is.”

She couldn’t help but think of Brendan.
They’re all dead and buried somewhere.

Delaney slapped the cuffs home. Tight. Then he gripped her under her arm and yanked her painfully to her feet. She felt the business end of his firearm jab into her lower back. “Move,” he said. “Outside.”

He shoved her through the kitchen, past the coroner and the perplexed state trooper and out onto the porch. Petrichor and manure filled her nostrils. Everyone looked at her and Delaney, the other troopers and the paramedics sat in the ambulance with the doors open, tending to her bodyguard. Heads swiveled as Delaney marched her into the driveway.

“You really think this is going to work?” she asked.

The moment she said it, her security guard, Davis, broke away from the woman who was bandaging his arm in the back of the ambulance. He leapt to the ground, pulled his gun, and ran towards Jennifer and Delaney. As he did, the other troopers in the yard and the deputy, Bostrom, drew their weapons on him. Delaney pointed his own gun as the man charged.

Davis stopped in his tracks. Everyone froze, and the rain beat down on them. The air was dark and thundering.

“Let her go,” Davis called.

“Arrest him, too,” Delaney called out.

Bostrom started over to the security guard holding his pistol out, gripped in both hands. He took his cuffs out as he walked. Davis watched Jennifer through the downpour.

“Drop your weapon!” Bostrom shouted. Davis didn’t so much as look at the deputy, but did as he was told, leaning forward and tossing his gun into the muddy yard. Bostrom reached Davis and took out his cuffs. Jennifer saw his lips move as Bostrom said something to the bodyguard she couldn’t hear. As the cuffs were about to go on, a car slowed in the road and turned into the driveway, headlights shining and wipers whacking back and forth.

“Oh fuck,” said Delaney.

The troopers, three of them, all turned and pointed their weapons at the vehicle. Delaney called out to them. “Stand down, stand down a minute, that’s Stemp’s family.”

Jennifer could just see their faces through the windows, despite the rainwater streaking down the glass. Two pie-eyed children and one mortified-looking woman. Just back from church, coming home to this. All of the cops in the yard were looking at them, including Bostrom, who’d yet to wrap the cuffs around Davis. And Davis seized the moment. In one quick move he bent, scooped up his gun, and took off running, aiming to squeeze in between the ambulance and a trooper vehicle.

“Runner!” Delaney cried out. He aimed and fired his weapon. The explosion beside Jennifer’s head was deafening. Davis was just about to slip between the two vehicles when the bullet took him in the shoulder. It threw him forward, and Davis stumbled and almost pitched all the way down onto the ground. Somehow he stayed upright and kept running. A second later and he was on the other side of the driveway, concealed behind the ambulance. All the troopers took cover. They shielded themselves behind the cruiser and the ambulance on the yard side of the vehicles and threw cautious looks over the hoods.

Delaney shoved Jennifer forward to get her moving again. He was cursing under his breath. When the gun came back to gouge her in the side, the barrel burned her. She cried out and jumped away from it. As she stumbled through the silver rain she saw her life flashing forward. Delaney was going to shoot her. She was going to fall to her knees and die here in the middle of this farm, just like Eddie, his wife and kids looking on.

And then she felt arms grabbing her, and she looked up and saw Deputy Bostrom.

“I’ve got her, I’ve got her,” Bostrom said to Delaney. Her ears felt wadded with cotton, but she heard him. “I’ll take her in.”

Delaney hesitated for a moment. Then one of the troopers shouted. “There he is!”

Jennifer saw Davis, just a sketch of his shape, running into the corn near the barn. The troopers opened fire. The explosions sounded like depth charges. Davis disappeared into the corn stalks a second later. One of the troopers left the cruiser behind and started running after him. Delaney had edged in that direction too, and the last Jennifer saw of him was his back as he stood watching the corn, his trench coat dark with the rain, and then Bostrom grabbed her head and shoved her into the back of his vehicle.

Bostrom slid into the driver’s seat, sparked the ignition and backed out. Jennifer looked out the window as they reversed past Stemp’s family. The little girl had her face to the window, taking everything in as the mother got out of the car.

Jennifer saw Delaney turn his gun on Eddie Stemp’s wife.

“Oh my God,” Jennifer breathed.

Then they were on the road, and the tires spun on the oily asphalt as Bostrom threw it in drive and they sped away.

Tick. Tick-tock.

Tony Laruso jumped up onto the desk. The entire thing shook beneath Brendan’s feet. It was a desk meant for coercion and coffee mugs — for criminals to bargain with prosecutors; for lawyers to bullshit their clients into thinking there was light at the end of the tunnel, in order to stay on the payroll. It wasn’t meant for two-hundred-pound, convicted identity-thieves squaring shoulders with damaged ex-scientists/ex-cops.

“Tony, the only reason Grimm let you in here is because he knew you’d tear me apart. That’s what he wants.”

“That’s what he’s gonna get.”

“But I’m the one who suggested it.”

Laruso swiped at the air in front of Brendan with both hands — like a bear — and he smiled. He was enjoying himself now, and completely missing the irony. Brendan tried to drive it home. “Why would I ask for this, Tony?”

The convict shrugged, cocked his head and stuck out his lower lip. “Cuz you’re a freak, man. Anybody can see that. You probably get off on this shit. You probably liked it when I was on top of you. You probably wanted me to do more than give you that little spanking. Huh?”

“I’m not a terrorist. That was a rumor Grimm started to get me working for him. Because of what’s going on in this place.”

That got Laruso’s attention. He lowered his hands and his grin faltered. Brendan rushed on.

“I know you’re a part of it, Tony. I know how the liquor comes in with the cleaning supplies, so the dogs can’t smell it. I know how the drugs come in with the food, and with the COs. I know how the kitchen is the main distribution center. And I know how you’re one of the distributors.”

Now Tony Laruso’s face, which had been slack while he listened, built into a rictus of anger. “You’re fucking snitching to the cops?” He leaned close and the table trembled beneath them.

“Like it or not, there’s an investigation pending; a probe that’s going to come through here with a fine-toothed fucking comb, Tony, and take down every single person involved. And yeah, I made that happen.”

Laruso paused, considering this, his expression vacillating between anger and confusion. Maybe he was starting to get it. Brendan drove it home.

“I can either retract my statement, stay in here, branded a terrorist, look forward to monthly beatings, and go on trial for a murder I didn’t commit; or I can let Grimm and this whole place go down while I walk away.” He paused for effect. “Which one do you think I want, Tony?”

Laruso, for just a moment, looked like he was back in the fourth grade, put on the spot by his social-studies teacher about some historical event he knew nothing about. Brendan could almost see him sitting at his little desk back by the window, this kid from the Bronx with a few ounces of innocence still left in him, just a year or two away from the gangs that would initiate and corrupt him with their coarse mimicry of corporate structure. Then his forehead creased with a scowl and his eyes glinted fierce. “You want to see it burn,” he said.

“Tell the man what he’s won,” said Brendan softly, adrenaline corkscrewing through him.

Laruso, instead of backing down, as Brendan had hoped, finally launched himself into a full tackle. Brendan saw him coming, just a blur of teeth and slashing arms and open fingers ready to rip him apart, and at the last second as his hands closed around Brendan’s face and neck (
he’s going to pop my head off like a bottle cap
) their combined weight flipped the table.

The end where Brendan stood collapsed, the legs cracking and folding beneath them in a flat drop that made his stomach float for a fraction of a second before the hard, unforgiving ground shocked his legs. But for Laruso, the momentum of his lunge flung him past Brendan and catapulted him into the wall. Laruso hit the wall and fell to the ground after catching a handful of Brendan’s fatigues, pulling Brendan on top of him on the floor.

It was just possible for Brendan to get his leg up, to bring it in between himself and the raging convict. He brought his kneecap down squarely on Laruso’s neck, and as their two bodies fully impacted the floor together, Laruso expelled the air from his mashed throat in a wheeze, and his eyelids flew open.

Brendan wasted no time. He’d wanted to reason with the man. He’d wanted to hatch a deal with him, but Tony Laruso was either too stupid or too conditioned to not hear reason. And now, after this tumbling turn of events, he would be even more livid. He would be unstoppable. He’d been on top of Brendan in the middle of Motchan Center. He’d had his knee gouging into Brendan’s body just like Brendan now speared into his. He’d whispered death threats in Brendan’s ear, he’d ripped his pants down, for God’s sake. He’d been let into segregation with other cons who took turns taunting and cat-calling to Brendan in his isolated cell, pledging his destruction, pledging themselves to a lifetime of his torture. And then his door had been opened by unseen hands, and they’d entered his cell to carry out their threats.

Laruso had scraped him up, beaten him up, pulped his already ruined face, knocked out his tooth. But worse than any of the physical harm, he had made Brendan live in fear.

Brendan was tired of living in fear.

Striking Laruso was like hitting stone. The man’s skull a bowling ball, and there was, in fact, concrete just behind the round shape of it. There was no give, and pain crackled up through Brendan’s arm, the bones vibrating from the impact, the nerves like singed wires. His whole arm tingling and throbbed at the same time, he drew back to strike again. Laruso’s stricken eye was shut and the lid fluttering. His other eye somehow remained wide and staring and filled with enmity.

One more punch would do it.

Yes, beyond corruption and greed there was human frailty, addiction, at work, but as Brendan raised his fist in the air and brought it down again, he felt justified.

Tick, anyway, tick-tock.