Page 6

"Keep it low, Donovan," Wilkinson warned. "We need a clean take down."

"On it, Sir."

"Brody and Roderick, flank her to the left." Wilkinson pointed East along the grubby planks of the rundown portion of the harbor. "These containers block our view and our tech. Jenson, you take West."

"Yes, Sir."

I glanced to Nora as the crew of us crouched beside the filthy shipping container. Seagulls screamed above us, swooping for whatever loot they could find along the way. Droppings hit the pavement every so often and Roderick frowned as if it targeted his shoe on purpose.

"Go," called Wilkinson, and we parted in a hurry.

We chased Jacob Cooper Klein all over the Pacific Northwest. From the pile of burned bodies he left in Tacoma, to the purposefully ignited infernos that engulfed two different libraries, he left behind a trail as liquid as the kerosine used in his signature. Twelve bodies, mostly belonging to women and two young boys, mounted by the time we reached Waldport. Across three state lines, from Idaho, to Washington, to Oregon, the race only intensified. Between the FBI and the U.S. Marshals, manpower shifted into the hundreds. How one man could elude so many remained a mystery, and the only worthy comparison, in my opinion, belonged to the infamously vile serial, the Four Point Killer. Now cold, that case hung out in the basement office of some virile detectives connected with the Seattle Police Department. I wanted nothing more than to bring that bastard down, but we had to move on to active threats.

"Why do showdowns always end up in shipyards?" complained Roderick. "Or warehouses."

"To keep your probationary ass in line, Roderick. If you're bitching, you're not watching anyone's six. Get your fucking head in the game," I spat, nodding ahead as we approached our mark.

Nora stayed behind me with her weapon drawn. She never made a sound when she moved, like her feet belonged to the graceful pads of a nimble feline. A leopard, or perhaps an Egyptian Mau leaping from branch to branch without disturbing a single leaf. Despite the main job duties belonging to that of a criminal psychologist, interviewing victims, piecing together motives, and everything else that usually kept her in the office, Wilkinson always urged field experience. Nora was no exception, despite her hesitance.

Agents shuffled ahead of us, the tip-tap of their cautious boots flooding the rows of containers. Whispers accompanied a few and glimpses of hand signals complemented others. We waited until it was our turn, and I bolted ahead, leading our small team along with the sea of our colleagues.

Wet pavement clapped around our feet, muddling up my auditory acuity more than it should.

The pop-whizz of a projectile soaring past us halted our departure. I tossed my arm out, stopping the duo behind me from proceeding.

"Shh. Back. Get back." We huddled against a bright orange container, our protective vests creaking under the strain of our contortion.

"What was that?" whispered Nora, her head an inch from mine.

"They have silencers," I said on the tails of bated breath. "We have to move."

Shouts reverberated around us, and gunfire followed. At first, it sounded mostly one-sided until the whizzing ambushed us again.

"Go!" I swung back around and shoved Roderick and Nora ahead of me in the opposite direction of the shots.

They bolted, their fear and my reaction adding to their race. Roderick escaped around the wrong corner of the container with Nora on his heels. I shouted for them, skidding to a halt when the three of us faced the angry eyes of two people wearing ski masks. Two automatic weapons with silencers stared us down. Roderick scampered away in time, but Nora froze in front of me.

Everything moved slowly, like the frame-by-frame of an old-time movie. One man clenched his teeth before pulling the trigger. I grabbed Nora by the back of her vest and dragged her down with me when I dove back behind the container. She shrieked when I landed on top of her. The gunfire blasted into the metal around us, raining down sparks in between hits. I gathered myself on top of her, tucking her under me, then turned back, my weapon at the ready.

The second the suspect stepped into view, I squeezed the trigger, taking him right in the side of the head. Blood and tissue splattered the opposing container, and his body hit the pavement in a crunching heap.

"Oh my God," Nora cried.

"Stay down," I said, firing wildly at the second man who swung around the corner.

Only this time, my bullets didn't take him out. Roderick appeared, firing half a clip into the back of the perp. He collapsed to his knees, a slow dramatic descent, until he fell forward, his face smacking into the boot of his dead comrade.

"You good?" Roderick asked, his eyes wide under his messed up mane of black.

"Good." I sat up, grabbing at Nora as if to inspect her.

"I'm fine," she said, heaving for breath as she tore at her vest. "I'm fine."

"Easy. You're okay. Leave it on." I inspected the front of her and found no evidence of a strike.

"We're clear!" I heard Wilkinson shout, his stomping feet slamming the ground as he raced toward us with the other half of our team on his heels. "Brody. Is she down?" He panicked, his eyes widening at the sight of us.

"She's good." I stood, dragging Nora up with me. She followed, gripping her weapon in one hand and my sleeve with the other. "You good?"