He manipulated his scope, and drew his sightline.
He made sure to keep to the shadows as he pointed his weapon at the window opposite his position. In his mind he envisioned the space behind the closed blinds and worked some numbers into his shot calculations.
He recalibrated his scope and then took aim once more. His trajectory calculations complete, his finger slid to the trigger. He would fire three shots, in rapid succession.
He settled down his respiration and with it his heart rate. In truth, the distance was not a problem. However, he was, in some ways, firing blind. Yet he should still be able to hit his target.
His eye and grip as steady as humanly possible, he squeezed the trigger slowly three times, moving his barrel in a precise pattern as he did so.
Then he dropped his rifle and sprinted to the back of the building. From there, he quickly made his way down the stairs and out the exit. He rushed down the street to where a car was waiting for him.
He jerked open the door and climbed in.
“Hit it,” he said.
When the car didn’t move, he looked over.
Four guns were pointed at his head.
Special Agent Alex Jamison, who held one of those guns, said, “You’re under arrest.”
* * *
Decker looked at the shards of glass strewn around the hospital room—the empty hospital room, although earlier that day it had housed both Rachel Katz and Mitzi Gardiner. They had been moved to another room well away from here, at Decker’s request.
He brushed the floor with his foot where the three shots had hit. They lined up with Katz’s bed. The woman, had she still been in the room, would have been dead.
But there had been no shots aimed at Gardiner.
Lancaster stood in the doorway watching Decker. When he glanced over at her, she shook her head, her lips in a straight line. It was as disapproving a look as Decker had ever seen on his old partner.
“Old sins cast long shadows,” murmured Decker.
Lancaster nodded as Special Agent Bogart appeared beside her. “It’s still a bitter pill to swallow,” she said.
“I feel the same,” replied Decker. He glanced at Bogart and then returned his gaze to Lancaster. “You ready?”
“I’m ready.”
They climbed into Bogart’s rental and drove over to the police station. They took the elevator to the homicide detectives’ office. Lancaster opened the door and poked her head in. Natty was the only one in there, reading over a file at his desk.
Lancaster said, “Blake, you got a minute?”
He glanced over at her. “Sure, what’s up?”
“You’ll see. But you need to come with us. Now.”
Natty looked puzzled and apprehensive. He slipped on his jacket, which had been hanging on the back of his chair, and walked out into the hall, where he saw Decker and Bogart.
“What’s going on?” he said, looking at Lancaster.
“Like I said, you’ll see,” she replied.
“One thing, Natty,” said Decker.
“What?”
“I need your gun.”
“What?” said Natty, drawing back and looking stunned.
Decker put out his hand. “Your gun?”
“I’m not—”
“Yes, you are,” said Bogart. He had drawn his weapon and was pointing it at Natty.
“What the hell is going on?” barked Natty. “You’re breaking the law pointing your weapon at me.”
“The price of admission to the party is your gun, Natty,” said Decker. “No exceptions.”
Natty slowly pulled his Glock from his shoulder holster and handed it, butt first, over to Decker, who made sure the safety was engaged and then pocketed it.
“I don’t know what the hell you guys are accusing me of,” began Natty.
“Shut up, Blake,” snapped Lancaster. “And follow us.”
Along the way they picked up Captain Miller, who was also looking as stern as Decker had ever seen him.
“Captain?” began a worried-looking Natty.
But Miller held up his hand. “Not now, Natty.”
They walked up one more flight of stairs and headed down the hallway to the end. Decker didn’t knock. He just walked in.
Peter Childress looked up from his massive desk. Behind him on the wall were an array of photos of him with local politicians and at public events, together with a shelf full of citations and awards bestowed upon him over the years.
His brow furrowed as the group walked into his office. “What are you all doing here? Is there a development?”
“Yes, there is,” said Decker. “Would you please stand up?”
“Excuse me?” said Childress.
“You know the drill, Pete,” said Miller. “You have to stand up.”
“What the hell for?”
Lancaster came forward and took out a pair of handcuffs. “Peter Childress, stand up. Now!”
“Where the fuck do you get off—”
Lancaster grabbed him by the suspenders and yanked him out of his chair.
“I’ll have your badge, Lancaster!” he roared.
“I think you got that backwards,” said Decker.
Lancaster roughly cuffed Childress’s hands behind his back. “Peter Childress, you’re under arrest for conspiracy to commit murder, conspiracy to commit espionage, conspiracy to commit money laundering, and about a hundred other charges, but those will do.”
Childress froze.
Natty stood there staring at his boss, his jaw hanging open.
Childress roared, “You all are going to prison over this shit!”
Decker stood a step forward. “We’ve got the guy who tried to kill Rachel Katz.”
“Tried!” said Childress before catching himself. “Wh-what are you talking about?”
“I had them transferred into another room, right after we met there this morning,” said Decker. “They’re safe.”
“Transferred? Nobody asked for my approval on that.”
“Well, there was obviously a good reason for that.”
“Look, I don’t know what you’re getting—”
He stopped when Decker started pacing around the room.
Decker counted his steps as he went. “We’re about the same height, you and me, Pete. Same length of stride. Six paces over from the wall to the end of Katz’s bed. Then two paces more to reach her chest.”
Decker glanced at Natty, who was watching him, spellbound. “You remember him pacing like that this morning, Natty?”
The detective slowly nodded.
“He was measuring the distance from the wall to the bed, so he could feed it to the shooter. Otherwise, he’d have been shooting truly blind into that room.”
“Bullshit! Prove it!” roared Childress.
In answer, Decker looked at Bogart.
The FBI agent took out his phone. “We got a warrant to tap your phone.” He held up his phone. “You sent this text out thirty minutes after you left the hospital. It gives out the measurements to target the woman.”
“And your guy was good,” said Decker. “All three shots hit where they were supposed to.”
“I don’t know what ‘guy’ you’re talking about.”
Bogart said, “Well, that’s funny, because the guy we just arrested for the attempted murders had your text on his phone. He’s already talked to us, Childress, and he’s already fingered you. Your ass is cooked.”