Jackson 05 - The Immortals (31 page)

Quantico
November 3
7:10 a.m.

“S
o what do you want to do?” Garrett asked.

They were having breakfast in a little diner they liked. Baldwin hadn't slept. His beard was growing in, itching his cheeks. Reliving the Arlen case was torturous. Having to remember the worst time in his life, his biggest mea culpa, was wearing on him.

And the bastards on the disciplinary committee had suspended him. Possibly permanently.

“Honestly? I want to go to North Carolina and see if I can't help with the Pete Fitzgerald case. I know that the Pretender is behind it. We have no idea how long they're going to play this suspension game.”

“Until Tucker is satisfied that you've learned your lesson and won't be going off the reservation ever again. Which is exactly what you're telling me you want to do.”

“Garrett, this case is going to explode. I can feel it. And if we're not on top of things, we'll have even more egg on our face. The Bureau doesn't need to have any more bad press.”

Garrett raised an eyebrow at him.

“I know, I know. I'm the one generating the bad press right now. Which makes an even better case for me to get out of town and help untarnish my reputation.”

“You're suspended, Baldwin. You need to go back to Nashville and quietly play house until they recall you.”

He set his fork down, his eggs untouched. “Is that what you would do?”

Garrett gave him a familiar sideways smile. “Of course not. But I'm not you. I can't promise that I can keep you safe if you continue to piss Tucker off. He's got it in for you.”

“I know. Thank goodness for Reever. If he hadn't started spouting off they might have actually fired me.”

Garrett finished his coffee.

“Go to North Carolina. See what you can dig up. But do it quietly. I'll run interference from here.”

“You're the best, Garrett.”

“What are you going to tell Taylor?”

He toyed with his coffee cup.

“As little as possible. She's compromised already. She has a serial killer stalking her, her father figure is missing, she's just gotten her command back. The last thing she needs is to hear smut about me and Charlotte.”

“I gotta tell you, Baldwin, I think you'd be smart to tell her the truth. All of it.”

“She'd never forgive me.”

“Baldwin. You've been carrying this load for five years. No one will blame you.”

“I don't think so. Not now. The timing isn't right.”

“There's never going to be a good time. You know that. Charlotte is dead. The boy isn't. Be careful, man. You don't want to lose her.”

“I know. Thanks, Garrett.” He stood and tossed a twenty on the table, trying to force the image of his smiling, green-eyed, red-haired son out of his head.

“I'll see you soon.”

Nashville
November 3
7:10 a.m.

T
raffic was at a dead stop. She put the flasher on the roof of her Lumina—she'd kept it overnight, knowing that if something went down in the morning, she wouldn't have the time to go to headquarters and trade her personal vehicle for an official one. And now that she was back at the rank of Lieutenant, that was her right. There weren't enough cars to go around all the plainclothes staff, so they shared. And part of being a good leader, in her mind, was never putting her own comfort above her troops'. They appreciated the gesture, and she didn't feel guilty when she did.

Hillsboro High School was ahead on her right. She eased her way onto the shoulder, scooted around the edge of a black BMW 6 coupe, not even taking the time to covet the magnificent vehicle, and weaved into the parking lot.

The school's parking lot looked like a war zone.

All officers on duty were in attendance, plus the tactical response team. Shit. SWAT, that was never a good sign. The department's hostage negotiator, Joe Keller, was standing next to their mobile command unit in a suit and tie,
buffed and polished, gray hair cut in a military flattop that bristled with authority, looking appropriately somber and excited. No one liked a hostage situation, but they did serve to get the blood pumping.

She went directly to Keller, thankful it was him. They'd always gotten along, been in the academy together.

“Keller,” she said, coming up on his right. He was staring at the school like it was a bomb ready to go off. “Quite a response you've got here.”

“Jackson,” he exclaimed, giving her a hug. “Damn good to see you, it's been a while. Yeah, some fool kid's got himself locked in a classroom with thirty kids, a teacher and a teacher's aide. Looks like he broke in last night. Janitor found him, but he's down. The safety officer is down, too.”

“What kind of weaponry does he have? I think I know who it is, by the way. His name is Schuyler Merritt, also known as Raven. He's behind the murders Friday night.”

“Small-caliber arms. We heard a couple of shots a while back, and an undetermined amount of ammo.”

“What were the shots?”

“Dunno. We don't have any more reports of bodies. They might have been warning shots. This boy, you say his name is Merritt? He doesn't seem inclined to talk. Smart kid, though. He took all the cell phones and dropped them out the window, then locked it. We think he's still in that room, but we don't know for sure.”

“We gonna make entry?”

“That's your call. Your case, your suspect. I'd certainly like to talk him out first, but I've got a contingency plan in place—the boys and girls know what to do. We can't have him shooting anyone else, either, so we need to plan this out now.”

“Agreed. Are any of my boys here?”

“Yeah, I saw Ross and Wade a few minutes ago. Don't know about McKenzie.”

“Great, Keller, thanks. I'll be back to you in a minute.”
She pulled out her cell and called Lincoln—he directed her to a vehicle ten yards away.

“Sorry, LT, didn't see you come up. We were checking the gun registrations for Merritt Senior. He had a rifle registered, a Browning X-Bolt, and a couple of .22 handguns, a Smith & Wesson and a Bersa Thunder Conceal Carry, and a Smith & Wesson M&P 9-mil.”

“That's enough to get the job done.”

“Right. The weapons seemed to be for home protection. He wasn't a hunter or else we'd have seen shotguns and semiautos on the list.”

“He seem like the type to register everything?”

“Definitely. The paperwork was all in order, he bought them all legally. Four guns listed on the inventory, the rifle, the two .22s and a 9. Got receipts for the ammo too—three boxes of .22 cartridges and a box of 9s.”

“So relatively limited shooting abilities, say, one hundred shots between all four guns?”

They looked at her bleakly. “Enough to take out everyone left in that building, that's for sure.”

“Okay, I'll let Keller know. Keep tracking stuff down. We don't know what's going to be relevant. Where's McKenzie?”

Marcus rubbed his eyes. “They were transferring Juri Edvin this morning, so he came to take over for me. I was there all night. Not a peep.”

“Thanks, man, I appreciate it. Lincoln, anything on the video?”

“The file-sharing sites have it down permanently. They built a block against the video's signature. So we're good there. But
The Tennessean
ran the letter this morning.”

“Son of a bitch, you're kidding? I asked Dave Greenleaf not to.”

“He gave you more than a day's grace—that's a lot to ask for a reporter.”

“It's going to end up as the kid's manifesto at this point.” She waved a hand at the grounds of the school, bristling with
cops and guns. “We've got Custer's last stand here. Excellent work, guys.”

She went back to Keller, filled him in on what they thought the kid had in the way of weapons and ammunition. He told her there was still no word from the suspect, so they were going in. They'd be ready in thirty minutes. She went back to her car to retrieve her vest—damn if she was going to let them have all the fun. She'd make entry with SWAT. Behind them, obviously, but with them nonetheless. Maybe there was a chance of talking this kid off the ledge.

Though as she fastened her Kevlar, she knew that would never be the case. She pulled her hair up high on her head and anchored the mass with a black ponytail holder. She checked her weapons, loaded herself a few extra magazines for the Glock and a speed loader for the pistol she carried around her ankle. It fit perfectly within her boot and was designed for moments of sheer duress. She'd never had to use it, hoped today wouldn't be the first time.

Keller hadn't had any luck breaking through to the boy. He wasn't answering, but at least the shooting had stopped.

She walked up to Keller, loaded for bear. He took one look at her and said, “Whoa. What do you think you're doing?”

“I'm making entry with you.”

“Lieutenant, you know I can't let you do that. We've got our assigned roles, our designated fields of fire, all of our contingency plans have been rehearsed over and over. You don't fit into those plans.”

“I trained for SWAT, Keller, you know that. I know what to do. I'll stay in the back, but I am going in.”

Happily, she outranked him, so she was going to get her way whether he wanted her to go in or not.

“Suit yourself,” he said finally. She smiled and walked off to join the column of heavily armed men getting ready to enter the building.

It was time. She felt her focus pinpoint, shuffled into her place behind the initial entry team. Her earwig was itching;
she reached up and adjusted it. The sun broke out, creating a glare on the cement, but that was okay, they were moving now. “Go, go, go!” rang in her ear, and she hustled behind them, weapon drawn in a two-handed grip.

The first body was the safety officer, life's blood glistening on the linoleum. He'd been taken in the throat, a ragged wound, and was dead. The human body carried over five and one half liters of blood in its veins and arteries. Taylor felt sure at least seventy percent of his was spreading across the floor under his inert form.

She felt the pressure building in her chest.

There was chatter in her ear, a sniper was in place, ready to take the shot if necessary. They drew closer to the classroom, listening for sounds. There was nothing. Taylor heard the crashing glass of the windows, the flash grenades were in. The door to the room was open now, there were screams and shouts, the rush of bodies stank with the cold, tangy scent of fear.

There was no shooting, no screaming. She watched as the team cleared the room, saw no one with weapons pointing at them in threatening ways.

Merritt wasn't in the room.

There were a few moments of controlled chaos as the SWAT team took advantage of the situation, brought the hostages out of the room, hustling them down the hall and out into the bright fall morning. She recognized a few faces in the panic, Theo Howell, wild-eyed, and a couple others from his party, all herded together for safety and comfort. Thank God no more were hurt.

The room was clear now. Taylor leaned back against the wall, out of the way. He was here, somewhere. This was his school. He'd know places to hide. She grabbed the two closest SWAT boys that she knew and said, “Follow me.”

They stalked along the halls, one foot in front of the other in perfect unison, silent, careful. Each darkened corner held the promise of the afterlife, and Taylor wasn't in the mood to get herself or any of these boys killed. They crept
through the school, finding nothing. Taylor started to relax, though how could the boy have gotten away? The school was surrounded.

She heard shouting from the parking lot, panicked screams, and it hit her. She felt the horror well up in her chest.

“He's outside,” she yelled, tearing off down the hall, the clanging SWAT members hot on her heels. They flew out the doors and toward the group of evacuated hostages. They had their backs to her, were moving away as quickly as possible.

There. There he was.

She hadn't seen him inside because he was wearing an ill-fitting baseball cap. He must have walked right past her. Goddamn it.

The dyed black hair peeked out from under the edge of the ball cap, she knew this was him. She drew closer, careful not to alert him. The boy had several people cowering in front of him. He had his arms outstretched, a gun in each hand, pointed at the crowd.

She yelled, “Stop right there, Schuyler!”

People scattered, running, crying, but she held her ground, and so did the boy. Sensing this was their moment, the people around him cleared in an instant, and he was alone.

“Turn around! Get on the ground. Put your hands on the top of your head and get down on the fucking ground now!”

He put his hands up and turned, slowly, pirouetting on his right foot. Face to face with him, Taylor was shocked at just how young he really was. She could hear noises in the distance, weapons being readied, knew they were in fact right beside her, but she felt captivated, drawn in by the boy's stare, a mongoose faced with a cobra.

“It's finished, Schuyler,” she said. “Drop the weapon and get on the ground.”

He continued to look at her, his coal-black eyes flashing.
Their eyes locked together in a battle of wills. He finally blinked.

“My name is Raven!” he screamed at her.

She felt the movement before she saw it. His hand was coming up, the glint of steel, the sunlight flashing off the gun. She didn't think, didn't hesitate, pulled the trigger three times in quick succession. Blood bloomed on the boy's chest and forehead—three kill shots, clean, perfect. Time stopped.

He looked vaguely surprised for a moment, then crumpled in a bloody heap.

“Get the paramedics,” she screamed, advancing on him. She kicked the guns out of the way, quickly ran her hands over the rest of his body. He was clean. He looked her right in the eye and she felt a cold slithering down her spine. Blood bubbled over his lip as he died.

Hands were pulling her away now. Her gun was taken from her, standard operating procedure. The blood was roaring in her ears, she felt like she might faint. Cold water was pressed to her lips, Lincoln, rubbing her on the back. She started to come back to herself, realized that the deafening roar of the shots was making everything sound tinny. No ear defenders, she thought to herself, fighting down hysterical laughter.

The boy was lying on the hard ground, eyes vacant, waiting for the ME to declare him. Officer-involved shootings were a nightmare for everyone.

Taylor was segregated, talked to, debriefed, but didn't hear the words leaving her mouth. The roar of the gun, the startled look on the boy's face, the blood blooming in a spurt from the head-shot, replayed itself over and over and over.

Her day was only just beginning. She'd be investigated, cleared of wrongdoing, but saddled with yet another mark on her record.

Dear God, what have I done? He was just a boy. Just a boy. What have I done?

She managed to tear herself away, fumbled open her cell
phone. She needed to talk to Baldwin. He would understand. He would forgive her.

Baldwin answered on the first ring. Her voice sounded foreign, not her own, echoing in her mind as she told him what had happened.

“Taylor, are you all right?”

She wasn't all right. She'd never be all right again. She'd just killed a boy. Not a man, not a leering criminal, but a boy.

It was justified, she knew that. It was what had happened in the brief moment of clarity that she'd experienced before she shot him that was upsetting her.

She'd seen the boy's soul, a dark mass of hatred and fire, at the very moment her finger squeezed the trigger. She'd seen a man before, in her dreams, who glowed with the same sense of righteous hatred, directed exactly at her. She might not have let her finger move otherwise.

When she shot Raven, she'd seen the ghost of the Pretender staring from the boy's black eyes.