Day of Reckoning
Chapter Seven
Thursday
Jim woke up, his heart pounding. He'd had that dream again, the one that always ended when he got shot, the one he'd come to think of as "the dream." But it was different this time. In the instant before the bullet slammed into his skull, he saw the masked gunman fall, revealing a faceless man standing behind him. He lay back on his pillow, breathing deeply in an effort to slow his racing heart. Next to him, Christie stirred but didn't say anything. He was pretty sure she hadn't awakened. He checked the time: almost six. Might as well get up, he thought wearily, and headed for the shower.
Jim arrived at work early, but Fisk was there before him. "Mornin', Jim," the lieutenant said when he saw Jim and Hank walking into the squad room.
"Mornin', boss," Jim replied. "What brings you here so early?"
"Bad news," Fisk informed him grimly. "Matt Fletcher's body was found in Central Park a couple hours ago. Looks like he was strangled."
"Damn," Jim said, grimacing. "It's gotta be McAllister. He had no further use for him, so he eliminated him."
"That's what it looks like," Fisk agreed.
"How'd McAllister get to him?"
"We're not sure," Fisk admitted. "He was still under surveillance, but he lost 'em a few blocks from his apartment. Apparently, he ducked into a bar, then slipped out the back before they could cover it."
"They didn't know he was gonna meet up with McAllister?"
"No. They weren't listening to his phone."
"Damn," Jim repeated, shaking his head.
"I already called the rest of the squad," Fisk continued. "They're on the way."
Twenty minutes later, Karen rushed into the squad – the last to arrive. She looked uncharacteristically frazzled. Marty looked at her quizzically. "What's the matter, kid?" he asked. "Boss's call interrupt something?"
"Mind your own business," she snapped. Undeterred, Marty grinned at her knowingly.
"All right, settle down," Fisk ordered as he walked out of his office. He sat on the desk opposite Jim's. "We need to decide whether to go ahead with the decoy, in light of Fletcher's murder."
"Sure, why not?" Tom asked.
Marty gave his partner an impatient look. "Because we're assuming McAllister killed him, right? Maybe he suspected we got to him."
"Could be," Jim said, "but I'm betting McAllister killed him because he was finished with him."
"How d'you figure that?" Marty asked.
"McAllister's smart. He knows he can't keep doing this. He thinks the next shipment – the decoy – is gonna be the big one. I think he's planning to do the job, then take his money and disappear. He doesn't need Fletcher any more. McAllister isn't gonna leave any loose ends. There's no way in hell he's gonna leave without taking care of Fletcher."
"Yeah," Karen agreed, "McAllister isn't going to pass up that kind of money. If he killed Fletcher, it must mean he's planning on this being his last job. Like Jim said, he doesn't need him anymore. I say we go."
"I guess," Marty conceded grudgingly.
"OK," Fisk said, "I'll call Special Ops and tell them to go ahead with the decoy armored truck run this afternoon."
"But we're still gonna be in on it, right, boss?" Jim asked.
"Yes, it's a joint operation."
Jim nodded, satisfied. "Good. Because we should be the ones to collar this bastard."
Fisk gave his blind detective a sharp look, wondering if Jim was taking this case too personally. It was personal, he supposed. He was pretty sure he could rely on Jim to maintain his objectivity. But he would keep an eye on him, just the same.
The squad spent the rest of the morning with the Special Ops team, completing the planning for the operation. Now Karen, Jim, and Hank were crowded into the back of the nondescript van the Special Ops technicians were using as their listening post. The van was following the same route as the decoy armored truck, keeping well back so as not to be spotted. As Jim listened to the terse reports coming over the radio, he imagined the others doing the same. For once, they were all equal, he thought wryly. None of the others could see what was happening, either.
Tom and Marty were in the armored truck, playing the roles of the driver and guard, while the Special Ops team rode in the back. Jim felt a sudden stab of resentment that he wasn't in the cab of that armored truck. He quickly suppressed the thought. Get over it, he told himself. All he could do now was wait and listen – and hope their plan worked.
The radio crackled again. "Detour sign comin' up," Tom reported. "We're goin' through." He left the channel open, and the listeners heard the revving of the truck's engine. A moment later, the sound of the engine changed subtly. It sounded to Jim as if the truck had stopped and was idling. Then he heard a scuffling sound and Tom's cryptic comment, "We're taking the bait." A few seconds later, the Special Ops team leader's shouted command of "Go! Go! Go!" came over the air, followed by the sounds of men running, then gunshots – too many to count. Then there was only silence.
After an interval which seemed interminable to the listeners in the van, Tom's voice came over the radio. "We got two subjects down – one DOA, one for the hospital – and a third subject in custody. No other casualties." Karen and Jim exhaled simultaneously. "The guy who's still standing is Frank McAllister," Tom added. "Marty and me are bringing him back to the precinct."
McAllister looked up as Karen and Jim entered the interview room an hour later. Jim stood next to the windows, rolling up his shirt sleeves, and Karen took a seat at the table opposite McAllister. He stared at Jim for a moment, then muttered, "Son of a bitch." Suddenly, he launched himself out of his chair, toward Jim.
Karen screamed a warning, "Jim!" She tried to grab McAllister's arm as he passed her, but he eluded her.
"You son of a bitch!" McAllister yelled as he lunged toward Jim, "you killed my brother!"
Jim raised his arms to block McAllister's blow, then landed a left uppercut. Blood began flowing from McAllister's nose. Jim grabbed the front of McAllister's shirt, turned to his left, took a couple of steps forward, and slammed McAllister into the wall. Momentarily dazed, McAllister slumped to the floor. Still holding on, Jim went with him. He straddled McAllister's body, holding him down with his weight. His hands quickly found McAllister's face. He pressed his thumbs into McAllister's eyes. McAllister screamed, "Oh, my God! My eyes!"
McAllister's screams only seemed to incite Jim. "How d'you like this, huh?" he growled. Karen grabbed Jim's arm and tried to pull him away from McAllister, but he wrenched his arm from her grasp. He seemed to have more than his usual strength.
McAllister writhed on the floor but was unable to escape the unrelenting pressure on his eyes. "Son of a bitch! Get him off me!" he howled.
In the observation room, Fisk nodded to Marty and Tom. "Go," he said.
Marty and Tom dashed into the interview room. Together, Karen and Tom pulled Jim off of McAllister. Marty hauled McAllister to his feet and manhandled him into a chair. He rubbed his eyes and blinked rapidly, then glared at Jim. Tears streamed down his cheeks.
Karen, Marty, and Tom stared at Jim, who was leaning on the windowsill, his head down, breathing hard. Finally Karen asked, "You OK, Jim?"
He raised his head. "Yeah, I'm fine – now." He turned and walked out of the interview room, leaving Karen, Tom, and Marty looking at each other in stunned silence.
