Chapter 7 - THE SERGEANT BEHIND THE MASK
Sergeant Malcolm Reed had worked in Marion County law enforcement for thirty-two years.
He had comforted victims.
Trained officers.
Testified in court.
He had also been at the police station the night my father called for help.
He had recognized me immediately.
Not because of the Harland trafficking case.
Because he had been watching my career for years.
Reed continued speaking through the phone.
“You were always the dangerous one, Avery.”
“How long have you been working for the Hales?”
“Working for them?”
He laughed.
“The Hales worked for me.”
The call disconnected.
The tactical supervisor issued an immediate alert.
Reed had left the station nearly an hour earlier, claiming he was coordinating roadblocks.
His patrol vehicle was found abandoned near my father’s neighborhood.
We drove there under emergency lights.
Dad had been placed in a protected residence outside town.
His house was supposed to be empty.
The front door stood open.
Inside, furniture had been overturned.
Reed had searched the property.
The piano lay broken in the living room.
Its wooden panels had been ripped away.
Near the keyboard, I found a photograph of my mother.
It showed her standing beside Dad at the quarry shortly before it closed.
A third person had been cut from the picture.
On the back, my mother had written:
Malcolm knows where they are buried.
Reed had been involved from the beginning.
A floorboard creaked upstairs.
I signaled the officers.
We moved toward the staircase.
A shadow crossed the landing.
An officer shouted.
A man jumped from the upper railing.
He landed on the officer, knocking both of them down the stairs.
It was Reed.
He wore plain clothes and carried a backpack.
I pursued him through the kitchen.
He kicked open the rear door and ran into the yard.
Rain had begun falling.
Reed climbed into my father’s old pickup truck.
I grabbed the driver’s door before he could close it.
He accelerated.
I was dragged alongside the vehicle, boots scraping across the wet driveway.
Reed struck my hands, trying to break my grip.
The truck swerved toward a parked car.
I pulled myself onto the running board.
Reed punched through the open window.
His fist struck my cheek.
I reached inside and turned the steering wheel.
The truck slammed into a hedge.
Branches shattered across the windshield.
I opened the door and grabbed Reed’s shoulder.
He drove his elbow backward into my ribs.
I lost my grip and fell into the grass.
The truck sped away.
A responding patrol car pursued.
I climbed into another vehicle with two agents.
The chase moved through residential streets toward the industrial district.
Reed ran red lights and forced cars onto sidewalks.
Near the river, he turned onto an unfinished bridge.
Concrete barriers blocked the far end.
He was trapped.
Reed stopped the truck and stepped out holding a rifle.
We exited behind our engine block.
“Put it down!” an agent ordered.
Reed fired at the patrol car.
The windshield shattered.
Officers returned fire, striking the truck’s hood.
Reed moved behind the concrete barrier.
“I have the photographs!” he shouted. “And the only evidence tying your mother’s death to us.”
“Then you have no reason to die here,” I called.
“I’m not dying.”
He pulled a remote-control device from his pocket.
Red lights began blinking beneath the bridge.
Explosives.
“Everyone back!” I shouted.
Reed climbed over the side railing.
A maintenance platform ran beneath the bridge.
He planned to escape by boat.
Agents retreated while a bomb squad was requested.
I moved along the opposite side, using the concrete structure for cover.
Below, Reed descended a ladder.
I followed.
Rain made the metal slippery.
The river churned thirty feet beneath us.
Reed reached the maintenance platform and ran toward a waiting inflatable boat.
I jumped the final few feet.
We collided against the platform railing.
The rifle slid away.
Reed grabbed my jacket and tried to throw me into the river.
I hooked my arm around the railing.
He struck my injured forearm.
Pain nearly forced me to release it.
“You should have let your father disappear,” he said.
“You should have left my mother alive.”
His expression changed.
“So Daniel told you.”
“He told me enough.”
“Your mother was brave. Bravery is simply another word for poor judgment.”
I drove my knee into his thigh.
His grip loosened.
I pulled him forward and struck his shoulder against the railing.
He grabbed a wrench from the platform floor and swung.
I ducked.
The wrench smashed a light fixture.
He swung again.
I blocked with both forearms and drove him backward.
The platform shook.
Above us, the remote device slipped from Reed’s pocket and landed near the edge.
He lunged for it.
I caught his ankle.
He kicked free and pressed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
Reed stared at the device.
A bomb technician’s voice echoed from above.
“Signal jammer active!”
Reed screamed and tackled me.
We crashed through a weak section of railing.
For one terrifying second, half my body hung above the river.
Reed clung to my jacket.
He was slipping too.
“Help me!” he shouted.
I could have let go.
Part of me wanted to.
I saw my father’s bruises.
My mother’s photograph.
The shattered station windows.
But justice was not revenge.
I caught Reed’s wrist.
Agents lowered ropes from above and pulled us onto the platform.
The moment Reed was secured, he began laughing.
“You still don’t understand.”
An agent opened his backpack.
The quarry photographs were inside.
So was a list of protected witnesses.
My name appeared at the top.
Dad’s name was second.
At the bottom, beneath several others, was a scheduled time.
3:00 A.M.
A security alert came through.
The protected residence where Dad was staying had lost power.
Exactly as the station had.
May you like
A second message followed.
Shots fired.
