Now, she thought, blood in her throat. Fucking now.
She balanced on one leg, shot up with the lifted one to slam two rapid kicks into his jaw. As he stumbled back, she leaped up with the other, plowed it into his midsection.
Mouth bloody, he came at her, and with her muscles relaxed, she whipped kicks at his shins, knees. She heard feet pounding up the stairs, ignored them as she used stiffened fingers, clenched fists to punish soft tissue—ears, eyes, throat.
It rushed through her, the power, the pain, the punishment.
“Get the kid,” she called out to whoever rushed up behind her. “I’ve got this.”
As she coiled to finish it, Silverman made a desperate leap for the wall of the rooftop. Eve lunged forward, grabbed his wrist, slippery with sweat and blood, with both hands.
He dangled there while her muscles screamed in protest. Four stories up. It might not kill him, but she wasn’t going to risk it.
“You don’t get off this easy.”
“I’ll take you with me.” Throwing up a hand, he grabbed her arm, dragged.
She dug in as the toes of her boots slammed the wall. She wouldn’t go over, she would not, but she wouldn’t be able to hold him much longer.
Roarke reached down beside her, adding his weight, his muscle. When Silverman continued to pull, to fight, Roarke ended it with a vicious, short-armed punch.
As he went limp, they hauled Silverman back over the wall.
Adrenaline gone, pain blooming everywhere, she slid to sit, back to the wall. Her breath whistled harsh out of aching lungs.
Roarke knelt beside her.
“Ten minutes,” he said. “It couldn’t have been ten minutes before I got up here, and look at you.”
“Yeah, well.” She swiped at the blood dripping out of her nose. “Look at him.”
She did. He lay dazed, surrounded by a half dozen cops all with weapons drawn.
“The kid,” she said when Baxter crouched in front of her.
“Trueheart’s got him, taking him down to Mom and Dad. He’s fine. Got a scratch. Just a scratch, some bruises.”
“He caught the edge of my stream.”
“He’s fine, LT. Lucid, a little shocky, scared. But he’s fine. Now you? Ouch. Do you want to wrap him up?”
She shook her head, winced when it spun a little. “You take him. He’s going to need medical, then he’s in a cage until I’m ready for him. My weapon—”
Baxter handed it to her. “We’ll bag his knife. You cut any?”
“No. I don’t think. Wrap him up, Baxter.”
“You got it, boss.”
“Magic coat,” she murmured to Roarke as Baxter moved away. “I don’t think he even noticed the blade wasn’t getting through.”
He dropped his brow to hers a moment. She let him have the moment, took it for herself. But pushed back when he started to lift her.
“You’re not carrying me out of a scene loaded with cops.”
“Then you’re not arguing about a trip to the nearest health center.”
“Let’s just start with the on-scene medical. Okay?”
“We’ll start there.”
23
She suffered the exam, the treatment, the blockers, ice patches, healing wands. But drew the line at the pressure syringe and tranqs.
“I’ve got to finish this,” she argued. “I can’t finish it if I’m dopey.”
“You could do with the tranqs and sleep,” Roarke argued back. “You’ve got your men in cages. A few hours won’t change that.”
“I need to finish it while they’re on the ropes. If the father comes through—and he’s due to make contact within the hour—I need to push it, end it, close it. I don’t want them figuring out how to slither out of any of it.
“After,” she promised. “I won’t need a tranq to sleep. You drive, okay? You can fill me in on the way to Central. I’ve got cops taking statements from Chenowitz and his family. I can follow up there later.”
He studied her face, the mouth still raw and puffy, the eyes—both—with purpling bruises to match the marks on her jaw.
“I shouldn’t let you win this one.”
“I took everything but the tranq. That oughta count.”
“I suppose it does.” He slid an arm around her, took some of her weight as they walked to the car.
“When he pulled out the detonator, my heart stopped.” She eased carefully into the car. “My life stopped. I knew you’d have gone back for Chenowitz. No way you’d have left him in that vest.”
“She wouldn’t leave him,” Roarke replied. “Jolie, his wife. She’d have run out the moment I cut her loose—to get to her son. I convinced her she’d put the boy in more danger, that you’d protect him.”
“You had that right,” Eve agreed.
“But then she wouldn’t leave her husband. He begged her to, but she wouldn’t, so I had a choice. Knock her unconscious, carry her out, or deal with the explosives then and there. A bit tricky, but not as complicated as I’d feared,” Roarke explained.
“He never anticipated anyone attempting to diffuse. Especially this one. He was going to kill them all,” Eve stated as a fact.
“Now they’re safe. Salazar rushed in moments after I diffused, locked it in a bomb box, and that’s that,”Roarke concluded.
“Tuned them both up this time. Iler wasn’t there to cool him off. And he’d have sent Chenowitz out at dawn, down to the building Iler bought—in the Nordon name—where a crew of about six, maybe eight would be setting up for rehab. Five more charges set in there, Salazar said, for a chain reaction.”
“Buy a property, over insure it, destroy it, collect. Classic,” Roarke said. “Chenowitz—the successful builder devoted family man—blows up his own crew.”
“It didn’t matter he’d never be able to collect on this one. He’d have won, completed the mission, and that’s what counted. In his mind, the military let him down, betrayed him. His brothers, his family, all Blue Falcons.”
“Blue Falcons.”
“Military term,” she told him, closing her aching eyes for a moment. “Stands for buddy fuckers.”
“Ah. And in his mind, Silverman was the buddy who’d been fucked.”
“He and Iler fed off each other. Iler’s got the funds, the financial know-how, Silverman’s got the tactics, the explosives training. And they both used what they had to twist the memory of a hero, for fun and profit.”
She took a long breath. “I need to round up Reo, Mira, send an update to Whitney.”
“You should text Peabody, let her know you’ve got them both. It’s still shy of midnight on the coast.”
“I don’t want to hear about time zones.”
She made the tags, sent the update, wrote the text, then eased out of the car—as carefully as she’d eased in—when they reached Central.
“It’s going to take me a while,” she began. “I know you’ll want to observe when I have them in the box, but you should find a place to chill until then.”
“I’ll wander up to EDD.” He took her weight again as they crossed to the elevator and in. “I can let Feeney and Callendar know in more detail what I’ve pulled out of Iler’s e’s. I’d wager they’re back at it.”
“Good thinking.” She leaned against him. “You make a hell of a Peabody.”
“The highest of compliments.” He tipped her face up, kissed her bruises. “I should have punched him harder.”
“Just hard enough.” She stepped to the doors when they opened on her level. “Tell Feeney I still want whatever he can dig out.”
“Understood.”
She glanced in both directions, saw the all clear as the doors started to close. “I love you.”
He stopped the doors with a hand. “Come in here and say that.”
“Later.”
Since there was no one to see, she limped toward Homicide, and into her office. She got coffee, sat at her desk. Then laid her head on it, said, “Son of a bitch!”
She let herself have a couple of good moans, maybe a quiet whimper, then pushed herself up to drink the coffee, write up the report.
When her desk ’link signaled, she smiled at the readout. Reginald Iler. And here we go, she thought.
“Lieutenant Dallas. Thank you for contacting me, sir.”
He had a hard, handsome face, shrewd, dark eyes. “You look as if you’ve been in a brawl.”
“I have been. With Sergeant Oliver Silverman. He’s now being treated in our secure infirmary and booked as your son’s coconspirator on eighteen counts of murder, and related charges.”
“I’ve never heard of this man. This is—”
“Your surviving son has heard of him, and, in fact, knows him very well. As I explained through your attorney, Sergeant Silverman served under your younger son, Captain Terrance Iler. Mr. Iler, your son and Silverman will do eighteen life sentences, consecutive. I’m going to make absolutely sure of it. I no longer need your cooperation in this matter.”
“Now just a damn minute.”
Gave you too many minutes already, she thought.
“I don’t need it because I have the evidence, and very shortly I’ll have full confessions. However, if your cooperation, as I outlined through your attorney, saves the families of the victims more grief, saves the State of New York time and trouble, I’ll take your cooperation into consideration as regards where your son serves those eighteen consecutive life sentences. Your choice, sir. You’ll have to make it here and now, as I’m about to bring your son back into interview.”
* * *
Later, she sat in the conference room working out strategy with Baxter, Trueheart, Mira, Reo. She came a little painfully to attention when Whitney walked in. And—ah, Jesus—Anna Whitney beside him.