Disclaimer – Not mine. Just borrowed.
A/N – Last chapter of Breaking Bonds, although there are two rather glaring points where the story is not quite finished. This could mean an ambiguous reading, it could mean an epilogue (although I really would not count on that), and it could mean another story altogether (so the loose series would be 'Poison Pen', 'Breaking Bonds', and this third story). Not sure though. OK, please enjoy, please review. Thanks to those who have reviewed, especially if I have failed to message you personally – I'll get round to that eventually!
Stella's fingers drummed against her thigh, tapping out a tune she had already forgotten the lyrics to. It had woken her up that morning, blaring out from a neighbour's clock radio. They were new to the building; had taken over the vacant apartment. She shifted position in the uncomfortable plastic chair. Twenty-seven minutes after the time her meeting with the Chief was due to begin, she was still waiting outside his office. It irked her that Mac was supposed to be here, passing on their decision about the pay deal.
If she was truthful, Stella wished she had been working the Rossiter case. Mac and Sheldon had left in a hurry. Their suspect was being chased by a young officer – Stella didn't think she'd caught the name. It was only after Mac had left that it occurred to either of them that he would miss the Chief's hastily called meeting. Stella checked her watch. Twenty-eight minutes. She sighed heavily, and started tapping her fingers in earnest. The Chief's personal secretary glared over the top of her tortoiseshell rimmed glasses. Stella's hand froze.
The fall-out from the Ryan case would not help them. She hated to think what the lab could have done with the money that now had to be spent putting right the wrongs caused by their incompetent medical examiner. One thing's for sure, she thought grimly, Sid's gonna be swamped for the next few months. The CSI told herself to check on him every now and then – just to make sure the brass wasn't making his life too miserable.
Stella coughed. A dry tickle had built up at the back of her throat over the last ten minutes. There was a water cooler down the hall, but with her luck, Stella was sure she would be called in the instant that she left the waiting area.
"You can go in now."
Stella rolled her eyes. "Thanks." She glanced surreptitiously at the new secretary on her way in, and decided that anyone who worked that closely with the Chief could be forgiven for a bad mood.
She pushed open the door. The Chief didn't bother to stand. Instead, he waved a hand at the only spare seat. The others were filled with representatives from every CSI shift. At the back of the office, two of the more supportive cops were trying to appear inconspicuous. They acknowledged her with quiet gestures.
"Sit down, Ms. Bonasera." The Chief said dryly.
"Detective." She said. Her heart beat a little quicker – did that slip mean her job was on the line?
He made a conciliatory gesture as she took her seat. "Where is Detective Taylor?" he asked.
"Working." Her sharp reply sent a quiet ripple of nervous amusement through the room. "We won't take the deal."
A deathly silence took over. Stella shivered. A sharp look flashed across the Chief's eyes. The feeling that she had helped Mac commit career suicide came back, stronger than ever.
Flack stood over the body of the young officer. He shielded his eyes from the glare bouncing off the squad car window. Hadley's body was sprawled less than a meter from the door. He had been cut down by a bullet to the left temple. Flack leaned to one side for a better angle. He winced. The young man's mother would not be having an open casket. It was ugly. Blood, bone and brains were spilled out onto the dusty ground, staining it a dark, coppery red.
"Kid never had a chance."
"I know."
Flack shuffled his feet, and managed to look contrite. "What do you think happened?"
The older man stood up. A hand flew to his shoulder, rubbing it gingerly. Flack filed it for later discussion – now was not the time. He listened, instead, as Mac wove a tale that sounded all too likely.
Hadley's car screeched to a halt beside the beautiful red Chevy. He wondered for a split second how much it would cost to buy one. A noise over Hadley's should caught his attention. He cursed himself for daydreaming. Even as a child, it had always been his biggest vice. He twisted in his seat to take a look. Part of him wanted to drive away, and wait for back-up.
The windshield exploded. Tiny shards of glass shot towards him, slicing tiny cuts into his hands; his neck and head; through his uniform. Blood trickled down his skin. Hadley ignored the itching sensation. His hands shook as he forced the key back into the ignition. Another shot hit the car. He started the engine. A third shot hit, lurching the car forwards.
"Shit!" Hadley swore. He ripped the keys out, and yanked the door handle open.
Just as a fourth shot pinged off the roof, Hadley rolled out of the car, onto the ground. The car door served as cover – not that there was any choice. The only other safe point was meters away, across open ground. The young officer steeled himself. He leant round the side of the door, gun in hand, and tried to spot Rossiter. A bullet flew past his face. It was so close Hadley could feel its movement. He hurled himself backwards. His heart was beating so fast, it felt like he could hardly keep it in his chest.
"Where – the hell – are you?" he panted under his breath. The back-up was taking too long.
Beads of sweat started to roll down his forehead. A combination of stress and a warm day, he supposed. Hadley shut his eyes. He wished he had listened to his mother, and applied for college – she had wanted him to become a science teacher, like his father.
"Rossiter picked him off, like a sniper." Mac theorized. "He really didn't have a chance."
Flack shook his head. "Poor kid."
They both knew, instinctively, that a more experienced officer might have survived.
"Yeah. Chevy's gone."
"So stopping here was what, tactics?"
"Just trying to shake Hadley any way he could." Mac said. "We'll get him, Flack."
The two men stood over the body of one of their own, watching as their fellow officers secure the scene. The stakes had been raised. Wherever Rossiter had gone, Flack knew that he could not stay hidden forever.