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  Fitzgibbons, off-balance and clawing for his gun in his shoulder-holster, tripped. Dawson swept the man’s feet out from under him and the marshal fell, hitting the low boy bureau as he went down. The blow opened up a nasty, but superficial, wound in the back of his head, giving Fitzgibbons a minor concussion, but left him unconscious and lying on the blood soaked brown carpet.

  On the far bed, Ali Aftab, wearing a tee shirt and shorts, scrambled up into a sitting position. He pulled the covers up to his chin. Fear widened his eyes.

  Standing over Fitzgibbons and holding Angel’s Glock, Dawson shouted, “You Ali Aftab?”

  Aftab blinked once, startled.

  “Answer me!”

  He nodded. “Yes. Yes.”

  Dawson said, “This is for Amy.”

  He shot Aftab twice in the chest with Angel’s gun.

  Aftab fell back and didn’t move again. Two red stains soaked through the covers and his grimy tee shirt. His open eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling overhead.

  No doubt fearing the same fate, Angel Retana remained rooted at the door—wide-eyed and trembling. Dawson grabbed the gangbanger by the shirt and pulled him into the room. Stunned and hobbling, he offered no resistance. Dawson flung him down into one of the two club chairs. “Don’t move.”

  Holding Retana in place with the unwavering Glock, Dawson crossed over to Aftab’s body. He checked for a pulse. There wasn’t one. He withdrew the unregistered, untraceable Sig 9mm from his pants pocket: the one he’d used to shoot Angel, Hector and Ernesto. He planted it in Aftab’s dead hand, carefully wrapped the dead fingers around the grip and inserted Aftab’s index finger through the trigger housing. Ballistics would match the bullet still in Angel’s leg to the Sig that Aftab now held.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Frank Breuer stood at the door, staring into the room.

  “What I have to.” Dawson crossed the small space and faced Breuer. “Like I said, there’s always another way.”

  He glanced down at Retana still in one of the club chairs, and looking pale. To Breuer, he said, “Here’s the story. Retana found out you were Aftab’s case officer. He kidnapped you down in Southie and tortured you, but you wouldn’t give up Aftab’s location. Not until he threatened your family.”

  Dawson handed him back his license and the picture of his family.

  Breuer took them. His hand shook.

  “Retana used you to get inside, planning to kill Aftab, retribution for ratting him out. There was an exchange of gunfire. Retana took one in the leg, and shot Aftab. During the altercation you broke free and managed to capture Retana.”

  “How the hell’d I do that?”

  Dawson shrugged. “Make something up.”

  “Yo, yo, no, man,” Angel sputtered. “I’m right here listening. Ain’t no way I’m going down for this. No way, homeboy. I’ll tell everyone what really happened here.”

  Breuer looked at Retana. “He’s right. He won’t keep quiet.”

  “So?” Dawson said. “Forensics doesn’t lie. He’s got gunshot residue on his hand from when he shot at me earlier tonight. Any prints on the gun will be his.” Dawson handed the Glock to Breuer. “Ballistics will confirm he shot two rounds into Aftab and Aftab returned fire, shooting him once in the leg. All the rest is up to you.”

  “What about Fitzgibbons?” Breuer asked.

  “He won’t remember a thing except Angel Retana standing at the door, posing as you.”

  “You’re la puta! You know that?” Angel Retana pummeled his arms like a kid having a tantrum. He was boxed in and he knew it.

  “You’re asking me to perjure myself,” Breuer said.

  “Aftab’s dead, getting what he deserved. Retana’s on the hook for the revenge murder. That’s a life sentence plus.” Dawson shook his head, not seeing the problem. “You wanted Retana. Now you’ve got him.”

  “Not like this.”

  “You’d let a savage rapist, a murderer, get off unpunished, but you won’t tell a lie?” Dawson shook his head. “You have to play by a set of the rules, Breuer. I get that.” Dawson looked at Aftab’s body. He looked at Retana with his head bowed, realizing his life as a gangsta-boss was over. “But they don’t. And neither do I. Not anymore.”

  He stepped around Breuer who made room to let him past.

  Breuer called out, “Hey.”

  Dawson stopped, half-turned.

  “My family. Would you have hurt them? If I hadn’t…”

  “Never said I would.”

  “But…” Breuer knotted his eyebrows, clearly confused.

  “I just showed you a picture. You drew your own conclusions.” Dawson turned to leave.

  “Wait. What about Hector and Ernesto? They’ll corroborate Angel’s story.”

  “No. They won’t.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve made arrangements. They’ve entered my version of a relocation program.” Dawson walked away.

  He knew Breuer would not pursue him. The lawman couldn’t risk letting Retana escape.

  At his van, Dawson made a single phone call. “Mrs. Seleski? This is Dawson. I’m sorry to call so late. I just wanted to let you know. It’s over. You and Amy…you can both rest easily tonight.”

  Even though Dawson would not.

  #

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  If you enjoyed Whose Greater Good

  you won’t want to miss David DeLee’s exciting series featuring

  Bounty Hunter, Grace deHaviland

  FATAL DESTINY

  Read on for a preview…

  CHAPTER ONE

  God must hate me.

  Here it was, just the second week of October and a cold snap had moved into the area, plunging the temperatures to near freezing already. Unseasonably cold, the TV weather people said. A stalled Canadian cold front, they explained. Yeah, right. I knew what was really going on. It was God. I could hear him up in heaven, telling the angels with a laugh: Grace deHaviland’s doing surveillance. Let’s make it cold as a cadaver’s crotch down there.

  I cupped my hands and blew into them. Damn.

  Parked in the Grandview Heights section of Columbus, I’d been sitting for hours in my beat-up cargo van in the shadows of an overhanging elm tree down the road from the only working lamp post, my full attention on a dilapidated old colonial across the street. The house was one on a block of rundown homes earmarked for demolition, something the city never seemed to get around to. In the meantime, they became havens for drug dealers, users, crack whores and the homeless.

  This one had a large front porch. The paint on the wide steps was worn to the wood and the once-white railing had so many spindles missing it looked like a boxer’s punch-drunk grin. A rusted glider was set off to one end and an old, moldy couch sat under the large front window. The cushions on it were so worn out, they sank. Broken crack vials, fast food wrappers and a busted up tricycle littered the yard. An old box spring and rusted iron headboard leaned against the peeling siding. Junked.

  I covered the light of my cell phone and checked the time: 6:30 a.m.

  The darkness before the dawn.

  A lone figure rounded the corner, coming from Avondale Avenue, and walking in my direction. His hands shoved in his pockets, he had his hoodie pulled up over his shaved head to ward off the chilly, pre-dawn breeze. I checked him against the mug shot I had of Tyrell Parks. It was my guy.

  I opened the well-oiled van door without a sound. The dome light remained off because I’d removed the bulb months ago. The van’s decrepit appearance—I’d picked it up at auction about a year ago—its dings, dents and splotches of matte-black primer paint were deliberate, all carefully applied so no one looked twice at it. Yet mechanically, its care and maintenance was
top shelf, as good as money could buy. The perfect decoy vehicle.

  Jogging across the street, I avoided the splash of piss-yellow streetlight, and carefully navigating my interception point, I jammed my hands into my jacket pockets too, returning the mug shot of Tyrell Parks to one pocket and wrapping my hand tightly the stun gun I carried in the other. My Colt .45 auto-loader sat snug and heavy in its holster, pressing into the small of my back. I didn’t have to check for my backup piece, either. The weight of the small .32 revolver strapped to my right ankle was hard to forget.

  I crossed in front of Parks, about an arm’s length away, blocking his path. “Tyrell Parks.”

  He snapped his head up. Dark, suspicious eyes stared at me. I grabbed for his arm but he bolted around me fast, dodging like a linebacker avoiding a tackle so that I ended up snatching air. He ran for the ramshackle old colonial.

  Shit.

  Up the worn steps two at a time and across the porch, he plunged through the front door, slamming it shut behind himself. Running close, two steps behind, I reached the decaying wood-and-glass door and paused, pressing my back against the clapboard frame. My heart pounded from the adrenaline surge, not the effort. I took a deep breath of cold, crisp air, drew my .45, spun and kicked in the old, weathered door.

  The latch splintered inward. The door banged against the far wall with a sharp thwack and a rattle of glass. I rushed inside. Low. In the entryway, an absence of light greeted me save for the pale glow from the outside streetlamp and what little moonlight managed to leak in through the door and broken windows. Dust particles danced in the pale, ghostly hue.

  I faced a center staircase. Beside it, down the left side, ran a hallway. Open archways dotted the left wall. What had once been a living room lay to my right, and opposite that, a den. Wind whistled through windows where panes were broken or missing. The walls were graffiti tagged. Broken boards, cinderblocks and other building debris littered the floor and chunks of sheetrock and gravel crunched under my feet as I moved inside.

  A skinny Hispanic teen stood frozen in the den, watching me. Shirtless, he had his fly open. I’d caught him urinating in the corner. He stared at me with wide, fearful eyes as his breath puffed out quick plumes of cold air.

  I shoved Tyrell’s mug shot into his startled face. “Where is he?”

  He shook his head, muttering something I didn’t catch. I jammed the picture into the pocket of my leather coat and pressed the .45 to the kid’s forehead. His wide eyes grew wider. I wrinkled my nose. Ewww. He’d started peeing again.

  “Where?” I repeated. “In English.”

  His answer came out as one long, fast word. “UpstairsIdidn’tdonothingpleasedon’thurtme.”

  “Gracias.” I took the stairs two at a time.

  At the top of the stairs, an open bathroom faced me, reeking of feces and vomit and urine. I cleared a small room to the right with a quick glance and sweep of my gun.

  Down the far end of the hall I heard a door slam.

  Moving quickly, I made my way forward. Darkness filled the hallway. The air was thick with cloying dust and odors too offensive to try and identify. Open doorways stood both to my right and left. From inside came the sounds of irritated druggies rousted out of self-induced comas by the commotion. They shifted and groaned. A few shouted curses. Others remained dead to the world. Those who woke, like rats sensing danger, sat upright, listening, afraid to move and afraid not to, their addled brains racing at the speed of glaciers to make a decision. Freeze, hide or run.

  At the end of the hall, I hit the one closed door I came to with my shoulder. It gave a little then bounced back. Not locked—someone holding it.

  “Tyrell Parks!” I shouted, shouldering the door again.

  Pain radiated down my arm, but this time it flew open.

  Inside, a soiled mattress lay on the floor. Around it were some grubby blankets, matches, candles and other drug paraphernalia. Dull light streamed in through a busted window. Tattered, once-white lace curtains billowed from the window frame. The sash was thrown open.

  Climbing out to the porch roof, Parks banged a knee on the sill and cursed.

  I darted fast across the room. Crack vials and who-knew-what-else crunched under my sturdy black sneakers. I grabbed Parks by the belt…and yanked.

  His hands scrambled to hold onto the sill as his baggy, oversized pants slipped down his hips, exposing even more of his purple boxers. He banged an elbow on something, cursed again and fell back into the room. At six-one, two-hundred-twenty pounds—all of it prison yard muscle—he was built like a bull on steroids. All of that came stumbling back at me.

  We hit the floor, hard.

  I grunted, worried I’d cracked a rib. Shoving him off, I gasped for air and rolled in the opposite direction. Things jabbed at me through my jacket, rusted nails, broken glass. I worried about needles, and my jacket.

  It’s a Piero Tucci, damn it. If it’s ruined…

  I scrambled to my feet, spun to face him, trying to control my breathing. If I appeared winded, Parks would see me as weak. I couldn’t allow that. Being a woman in this business caused me enough grief as it was.

  “Tyrell Parks,” I said. “You’re coming with me.”

  “Youse the cops?” On his feet too, he faced me.

  “Bail enforcement.”

  He cocked his head to the side like a confused puppy. “Say what?”

  “Bounty hunter, asshole.”

  “Shit. A sista like you? No fuckin’ way.”

  I brought up the .45, reluctant to shoot him. They don’t do dead or alive anymore. Too bad—it would make things a lot easier. “No sista, bro, a hot-blooded Latina with an Irish temper. Someone you don’t wanna mess with.”

  I planted my feet. Reading him, afraid he might lunge.

  “Sheeeet!” He charged.

  A knot formed in the pit of my stomach. For an instant I reconsidered shooting him, but I drew back my gun. I’d cold-cock the son of a bitch instead.

  But he was too fast. Like lightening on crack cocaine. He swept away my arm, clamping his hand on my wrist and stopping my swing dead. He squeezed.

  I gasped.

  With a sharp snap of my wrist he sent my gun flying. It landed a dozen feet away in a debris pile of studs, drywall and pipes. With his free hand he seized my throat and tightened his grip, lifting me off the ground. “Bitch come at me. Sheeet.”

  I gurgled. It was all I could do.

  “Tyrell’ll be learnin’ you a thing ‘bout manners now, bitch.” He slammed me into a wall. My head bounced off the plaster. The wall shook. I saw stars, and tears filled my eyes. I’d pounded the pooch on this one, hadn’t I?

  He grinned, revealing a grill full of gold-capped teeth. He pressed his body into me, pinning me to the wall with all his crushing weight. Sweat and aggression radiated from him, sour and hot. And some god-awful smelling breath. So bad, I’d’ve gagged if I weren’t being choked to death.

  I thrashed around, wanting to get my loose hand inside my coat pocket. I kicked out, trying to push off the wall. Hopeless efforts.

  Parks laughed at me.

  I wheezed like a tire losing air.

  I grew lightheaded. I was running out of oxygen and time. I tried to ignore the pain, the pressure against my chest, his smell, all of it, while I worked on getting my hand into my jacket pocket. I missed.

  Fear seized me, as tightly as Parks’ grip.

  “We’s gonna have some real fun now, bitch.” His face came in close to mine. I had no doubt about what he intended. Thoroughly disgusted, I turned my head. His mouth mashed wetly across my lips. His tongue raked my cheek. I vowed it wouldn’t happen. I’d kill him first. Somehow.

  I got my hand inside my pocket.

  “Fine. No foreplay.” He reached between our compressed bodies, began fumbling with his belt buckle. “We’s just go right to the main event then.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  My words were
raspy but I didn’t care. I had the stun gun in my hand.

  He got his belt unbuckled.

  I jabbed the stun gun into his side. It crackled, and his body convulsed. He stumbled back, shuddering like a short-circuiting robot. I dropped to the floor—incredibly, he didn’t. Though his eyes were wide and his teeth clattered like those joke dentures you see in novelty stores, he managed somehow to stay on his feet.

  Angry and scared, and thinking about what almost happened to me, I charged him. A second jolt from the stun gun dropped him to his knees. Spittle drooled out of his mouth as he sputtered while his body continued to quiver. Incapacitated now, still he didn’t go down.

  I zapped him a third time, panting and aiming to light up his nuts. I missed, hitting his rock-hard thigh instead. Too bad, but the jolt was enough to get the job done.

  His eyeballs rolled up into his head. He gurgled. Then he crashed to the floor. Down and out, but incredibly, still conscious.

  Face down and twitching, he murmured something unintelligible.

  I cuffed him behind his back, retrieved my .45, and coughing gave myself a minute to catch my breath before I hauled him up on his feet. After I did, I said, “You good to walk?”

  He muttered something and nodded.

  “Good.” His skin was slick with sweat and his knotted muscles still trembled. “You mess with me,” I went on, “and I’ll Taser you all the way down to the van. Understand?” His head lolled as if it was too heavy for his neck. I shook his arm. “Understand?”

  “Yeah…yeah.”

  “Good.”

  I led him into the hall, but stopped short.

  A dozen shadowy figures lined the gloom of the hallway. Strung-out hopheads. Emaciated drug-zombies. They wore soiled clothes that hung off them like rags on a scarecrow. Stringy hair curtained their skull-like faces in greasy, limp ropes. Dark circles rimmed their lifeless eyes. They truly were the living dead.