Authors: Simon Wood
Brannon flailed for him, catching his pant leg and tripping him. Scott came down hard on his hands and knees, but picked himself up and broke into a run again. Brannon attempted to follow, but Scott had winded him enough to slow his pursuit. He’d reach the barn now.
Sheils shouted and Scott turned in time to see Givens shoving him aside. Sheils lunged to restrain Givens, but Givens jerked out a gun from his waistband at the small of his back. As Sheils went to grab him, he pistol-whipped the agent across the cheek. Sheils fell to his knees, and Givens bolted after Scott.
Elation ripped through Scott. The Piper had unmasked himself. His reign ended today.
Givens raised his gun. Scott felt its aim settle on his back.
Not now
, he thought. He couldn’t die before he got to see Sammy and Peter. It wouldn’t be fair.
Calls to freeze came one after another from Sheils and Brannon. Both agents had their weapons out and trained on Givens.
Scott was almost there.
Sheils yelled, “Givens, put the weapon down!”
Givens squeezed off a shot at Scott, then dived to the ground. The bullet missed Scott and struck the barn, but felt damn close.
Sheils and Brannon opened
fire. They each fired twice before finding cover. Sheils took refuge in the doorway to the house. Brannon had nowhere to go in the open and lay flat on the ground to reduce his target area. Sheils opened fire again, two bursts of two shots. Brannon took the covering shots as an opportunity to take cover behind his vehicle, but Givens fired and hit Brannon low in the back, the vest stopping the bullet. Brannon went down on his face and crawled to safety behind the vehicles.
The gunfire drew the sheriffs’ limited might. Three cruisers roared onto the property and stopped short to prevent Givens’s escape by road and provide a second line of defense for Sheils and Brannon, if the need arose. No doubt the sheriff’s other men were closing in from other directions, with more on the way. Givens wouldn’t escape. It was over for him, but there was still plenty of time for him to take others down with him.
Scott slammed into the barn’s double doors. The doors bowed against his weight but held fast against their chain and padlock. He peered inside and made out two cars inside before another shot struck the barn to the right of his head. He hit the ground and scurried around the side of the barn.
Scott yelled his sons’ names through the gaps in the siding. A faint cry came from within the barn, interrupted by the crack of gunshots.
“Boys, are you there? It’s Daddy. It’s okay! Make noise for me!”
More muffled cries came from inside, but he saw no movement. They had to be in the cellar.
Scott jogged around the edge of the barn. The windows had been boarded from the inside. The only way in was through the double doors in Givens’s line of fire. Scott snatched up a rake propped up against the barn and ran out into the open again toward the main doors.
“Have my back, Sheils,” Scott murmured over and over.
He jammed the rake handle through the loop of chain held in place by the padlock and yanked down on it. Its wooden handle cracked and split under the load. A third bullet
struck the door. The next one would surely hit him. Scott put all his weight on the rake, jamming his foot against one of the barn doors. The chain and padlock remained intact, but the screws holding the latch didn’t. They sheared off in the rotted wood. The door swung outward and knocked Scott to the ground.
Two more shots hit the barn in quick succession before cover fire pinned Givens down again.
Scott scurried inside the barn on his hands and knees before collapsing on his face. He yelled Sammy and Peter’s names again. He heard muffled voices coming from the ground. He made out the trapdoor in the dirt, but a Buick covered it.
He slid behind the wheel. The keys were in the ignition. He gunned the engine and reversed out into daylight before skidding to a halt. Bullets struck the car and shouts continued. He leapt from the car, raced back inside the barn, and yanked up the trapdoor. The stink of stale air wafted up at him. Two forms, too big to be children, moved in the gloom.
“Sammy? Peter?”
“No,” Jones replied. “They’re not here.”
They have to be here! Givens is the Piper. The Piper put his kids in the cellar. That’s how it worked
. But not this time. Fear knifed through him. Givens had stashed Sammy and Peter somewhere new. Givens couldn’t die in the shootout. If he died, so did Sammy and Peter. Scott charged out of the barn with his hands up.
“Don’t shoot! They aren’t there. We need him alive.”
“Get down, Scott,” Sheils barked. “Get down!”
Givens swung his aim at Scott.
Scott stood in the open. Givens’s arm stopped its arc. The weapon’s muzzle was in direct line with Scott’s chest.
“Don’t shoot,” Scott said more to the law enforcement officers than to Givens.
No one listened.
Sheils fired a fraction of a second before Givens did. The bullet struck Givens in the neck. An explosion of red mist erupted from the wound. Givens fired, but his shot struck the ground.
A new nightmare began for Scott. He ran
to where Givens lay, ignoring Sheils’s order not to approach. Scott fell to his knees at Givens’s side. Sheils’s shot had torn through the artery. Blood jetted from the ragged wound. Givens raised his arm to shoot at Scott. Scott slapped the weapon from his hand and clamped his hands over the hole in Givens’s neck to staunch the bleeding. Blood pulsed between his fingers. Givens didn’t have long left. Neither did Scott’s sons if he didn’t get answers.
“You’re the Piper?”
“Yes,” Givens croaked.
Sheils, Brannon, and the sheriff’s people arrived in time to hear the confession. Sheils gathered up Givens’s discarded weapon.
“I found you,” Scott said. “I did as you told me. Now, where are my boys?”
Givens didn’t speak. He just shook his head.
“Tell me,” Scott demanded.
Givens shook his head again.
Blood didn’t seem to be exiting Givens as fast as before. His pallor had changed from white to gray. He had seconds.
“Don’t do this to me. Don’t take it out on my kids. I did everything you told me to do. It’s not fair. It wasn’t my fault. Tell me. Please.”
“It wasn’t me,” Givens managed to whisper. “I kidnapped those other children, but I never took,” he gasped, “your kids.”
“You’re lying!”
A bomb went off in Scott’s head.
This can’t be happening.
“If you don’t tell me, I’ll let you bleed out, you son of a bitch!”
But Givens was already dead.
W
hile the piers around
Fisherman’s Wharf and the Ferry Building were the hub of tourist activity, others, like Pier 25, were abandoned. Friedkin turned off the Embarcadero and pulled up to the entrance. He expected it to be locked, but the large double doors hung ajar. He pushed the doors inward and drove his Mercedes through.
A series of arrows spray-painted on the ground directed him through the warehouse and out onto the pier itself. He parked at the end of the pier and went to honk his horn twice as instructed. Before he got the chance, a black Ford Fusion reversed out of the warehouse and skidded to a halt across the back of his car. Alex leapt from the Ford with a pistol aimed at him.
Friedkin had hoped this meeting would be less adversarial, but under the circumstances, he wasn’t surprised. Alex was up to his neck in the Fleetwood kidnappings. He was looking at a lifetime in prison, even if he surrendered. Friedkin slipped from his car with his hands raised.
“There’s no need for the gun, Alex,” he said.
“Maybe not, but I’m just taking precautions. Hands on the roof.”
Friedkin put his hands on the roof and spread his legs.
Alex came behind Friedkin, pressed the pistol’s muzzle against the back of his head, and frisked him. He left Friedkin’s wallet in place but took his work cell phone, pocketing it.
“I don’t want you phoning a friend.” Alex stepped back, pushed the pistol hard against Friedkin’s skull, and tossed a pair of handcuffs on the car’s roof. “Put those on.”
Friedkin cuffed his hands in front of himself
and took a step toward Alex.
“That’s close enough,” Alex said.
Friedkin froze. Alex was afraid of him. He raised his cuffed hands in compliance. “Whatever you say, Alex.”
“You’ve got a minute. Make your case.”
“I don’t have a case to make. You’re mixed up with the Piper. You know you’re screwed. Come with me. We’ll go to Sheils, and you can tell them where the Fleetwood kids are and cut a deal.”
“That’s it?”
Alex’s contemptuous tone pissed Friedkin off. He marched over to Alex, ignoring his repeated warnings not to come any closer. He walked into the gun aimed at his stomach and continued walking. Alex put up no resistance and his arm buckled, pinning the weapon between them and forcing Alex against his car.
“Alex, you changed sides. You’ve thrown in with the worst kidnapper in California history. Your future is fucked. If that weren’t bad enough, you’ve screwed up Kerry and Jack’s futures too, and you don’t seem to give a shit.”
“Back off, John. I’m warning you.”
“Screw your warning. You owe me an explanation.”
“Get off me!”
Alex shoved Friedkin hard. With his hands cuffed, Friedkin struggled with his balance and lost. He staggered back before toppling and striking the asphalt hard on his tailbone.
Alex rushed over, with the pistol outstretched. He jammed the muzzle into Friedkin’s cheek. “Don’t make me shoot you. I don’t want to kill anyone else.”
Friedkin’s breath caught. His brain seized, jamming
on Alex’s admission. He dreaded the answer, but he had to ask, “Who did you kill, Alex?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Alex snapped.
“It does. You’re not a killer.”
“I am now.” The enormity of his claim seemed to drain his energy. He lowered the gun until it hung slack at his side. “That’s why there’s no going back.”
Friedkin’s stomach clenched at his next thought. “The Fleetwood kids. Please tell me you didn’t kill them.”
“Children? John, you know me better than that.”
Friedkin rolled over and struggled to his feet.
Alex turned his back on Friedkin to get behind the wheel.
Friedkin charged at him. He covered the short distance before Alex could circle around, aim, and shoot. He slammed into him, driving him into the side of the car. The impact knocked the pistol from Alex’s grasp, and it bounced across the ground, stopping under his Fusion.
Friedkin looped his cuffed wrists over Alex’s neck. He jerked the short chain connecting the cuffs against his windpipe. Alex let out a strangled gurgle. He pulled back harder, gripping Alex’s neck for greater leverage. Alex exhaled in nasty, ragged breaths. He elbowed Friedkin in the gut to dislodge him. The impact winded him and his legs buckled, but his deadweight around Alex’s neck pulled the cuffs tighter.
Alex elbowed him again and again, taking turns with each elbow. Friedkin’s cuffed wrists exposed him to the attack. He clenched his stomach muscles and tried to twist out of the way, but Alex’s elbows found their mark every time. He struggled to breathe with each successive blow, and he staggered back.
Alex tangled a leg between Friedkin’s and tripped him. Both men fell, and Alex’s compressive weight broke at least one of Friedkin’s ribs. Friedkin yelled out in pain, but scrabbled over to Alex’s pistol underneath the Ford. He grabbed the weapon, but
Alex grabbed him by the waistband and yanked him back. He whirled around, ready to shoot. Alex snapped out a foot, kicking the weapon from Friedkin’s hands. The weapon skittered across the asphalt, off the pier, and into the water.
Alex stamped down on Friedkin’s stomach, and all the fight went out of him. He hoisted Friedkin to his feet and put him in a headlock. Friedkin struggled to free himself, and Alex tightened his chokehold.
“Stop, or I’ll keep squeezing,” Alex said.
Friedkin stopped, and Alex loosened his grip. Friedkin panted hard to get air into his lungs.
“You’re not going to let this go, are you, John?” Alex asked.
“You know I can’t.”
“Then I’m going to have to let you go.”
Alex released his hold and shoved Friedkin in the back. He tottered toward the edge of the pier, struggling to regain his balance, his cuffed hands throwing him off. His momentum carried him forward, pitching him over the side. The water swallowed him up.
The impact forced his mouth open, sending water gushing in. He kicked with his legs to stabilize his body, but he needed his hands free for that. He used his cuffed hands for an awkward doggy paddle and his natural buoyancy carried him upward.
He broke the surface, coughing and spluttering. He drew in jagged breaths, his broken ribs knifing him. He tried to tread water while he caught his breath, but he couldn’t maintain his balance.
The sound of squealing tires echoed off the buildings surrounding the pier. He glimpsed the streaking profile of Alex’s Ford Fusion racing toward the street.
Alex wouldn’t get far. Not if he had anything to do with it. He powered toward the pilings, driving himself forward with his legs and steering with his hands. It wasn’t pretty, but he made it.
He grabbed a piling. It was slick with algae,
seaweed, and pollution. His hands slipped, but after several attempts, he got a firm purchase. He secured his position by jamming his feet onto the crossties jutting from the pilings.
The cat’s cradle of pilings and crossties proved to be a helpful climbing frame. He developed a slow but effective climbing system, using his hands for purchase and his legs to power him up. He even used the cuffs to hang himself off any hook or protrusion he could find. It took him at least twenty minutes to make the fifteen-foot ascent, but he made it and clambered back onto the pier.
He gathered himself up and raced over to his car. He fumbled inside the console between the two seats and yanked out his personal cell phone. He punched in the office number. Rebecca answered.
“Where the hell are you? The place is crawling with cops.”
“Let them crawl. Trace my cell.”
“Don’t you have it?”
“No, it’s in a vehicle. I want to know where that vehicle is heading.”
“What’s going on?”
“Just do it, Rebecca. Please. It’s important.”
“Okay. Hold on.”
Alex had unwittingly placed a bug on himself when he took Friedkin’s phone. Friedkin had signed up with a cell phone tracking service for all the cell phones registered to his business. At any time, he could log into a secure website and enter the cell number, and a GPS tracking map told him where the phone was transmitting from. It provided secondary backup for his investigators in the field and improvised tracking in a clinch. As long as Alex hadn’t remembered to power it off, Friedkin would know his destination.
Rebecca came back on the
line. “Your phone is at a fixed location.”
Friedkin cursed. Knowing his luck, Alex had thrown the phone out the window. “Where?”
The address Rebecca read off left him sick to his stomach.