Chapter 41 #2
“You failed, Audrey.”
She tensed; her eyes flared. “I don’t know why you’re being so mean.”
“They didn’t die in the cannery, and they didn’t die in the farmhouse. Everyone lived. And they’re coming for you.”
“What do you know? You can’t possibly know that!”
“I know more than you think. You put a bomb on our boat. You think I didn’t find it?”
She stared at him, then a slow smile came across her face. “A bomb? Never underestimate me, Garrett. Everyone has always underestimated me.”
For a second he wondered if he missed something.
“You killed Becca. For what?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said in a lofty tone that convinced him that the feds were right; his gut was
right.
“You’ll pay for that.”
“What time is it, Garrett?” she asked, sounding innocent.
His heart pounded in his chest. Dammit, she had something up her sleeve.
“Six in the morning.”
“Is it really?”
It was 5:57.
“Game over,” she said. “I won.”
An explosion far out in the ocean made Kara jump. “What was that?”
“A distraction?” Matt said. He pulled out his phone, started texting people on the team.
“Garrett,” she muttered. “Dammit, it had to have been Garrett coming for her. Zack found that she owned two boats, right? Want to bet that she sabotaged the one Garrett had access to?”
“I won’t take that bet,” Matt muttered, waiting for answers.
Catherine said, “Security system is completely down, teams A and B are going in.”
Michael heard the explosion, glanced out at the horizon. Smoke rose at least a mile out. Was that Clara Dolan? Had she slipped
through their net again?
Or was that Garrett Reid coming to meet her?
Michael had moved seamlessly with the SWAT team that had been put together. He’d been a part of FBI SWAT in Detroit before
Matt recruited him to the Mobile Response Team. He missed it.
The FBI was team B, coming from the beach. The local sheriff’s was team A, and the sheriff’s water patrol was team C, monitoring
activity in the boathouse.
The Coast Guard was holding with two boats; one was now being sent to investigate the explosion.
“System down, on three,” the team leader, Grant Cole, said.
Three. Two. One.
Michael followed the leader’s signal and moved with the group toward the rear of the house.
The property was a nightmare with too many exits. His team split into three pairs to cover each one. Michael was with Cole.
The garage door opened to a narrow side path, shielded by thick ivy and shoulder-high hedges. Movement—quick, almost imperceptible—flashed
through the green. Michael and Cole froze a moment to assess, then moved in.
No one was there. But the door hung open, swaying slightly.
Cole pointed toward a dark trail that wound through neatly trimmed man-sized hedges. Michael saw a figure darting out of sight
through the foliage. Female, agile. They were in pursuit.
Cole whispered into the comm. “We’ve got an unidentified suspect, likely Dolan, fleeing through the garden between the house and boathouse. Pursuing on foot.”
The distance between the house and boathouse was at least a hundred yards, but it wasn’t a straight shot as decorative hedges,
flowering bushes, and trees filled the area.
Michael ran just behind Cole. They glimpsed her again—black clothes, but the telltale blond hair bounced behind her like a
flag.
She was fast, running parallel to the boathouse. Where the hell was she going?
Cole updated the team. In Michael’s earpiece, chatter crackled: the sheriff’s men had breached the main house and were clearing
rooms.
Please don’t let her have rigged it, Michael thought. Clara Dolan was smart enough to turn the whole place into a deadly trap.
Then team C reported, “Boat motor just engaged.”
“Negative,” Cole snapped. “We’ve got eyes on the suspect—she’s not near the boathouse. I repeat, she’s running southeast of
the boathouse.”
“We’re checking it out,” team C leader replied.
“Use extreme caution,” Cole warned. “She may have an accomplice.”
They pressed forward through the hedges. The faint light from the rising sun and tall hedges made visibility poor, making
every step a risk. Ten minutes from now they’d be able to see better; they didn’t have ten minutes.
A metallic clank.
Then Cole screamed and went down.
“Man down! Man down!” Michael shouted into the comm. He dropped to his knees beside him. “Are you shot? Where are you hit?”
“My foot,” Cole growled, jaw clenched.
Michael looked and nearly recoiled from the sight. A steel trap had snapped around Cole’s ankle just above the top of his boots, blood darkening the fabric of his khakis.
“Don’t move,” Michael ordered. Into the comm he said, “Man down, I need a medic at my location. Roughly fifty yards southeast
of the house. Watch your step, there are ground traps. I repeat: watch the ground.”
“Medic en route,” came the reply.
“Go,” Cole gasped. “Go get her.”
“I’m not leaving you.”
“She’s escaping. Go! My men are on their way.”
Michael hesitated, then ran. Cole was right—the traps were cover for her escape.
“Boathouse clear,” team C reported. “Boat was started by remote.”
“She’s using it as a distraction,” Michael replied. “Maintain distance. It could be rigged, or she could attempt to circle
back to access it.”
He slowed, wary now. Another animal trap nearly caught him—he sprang it with a stick so no one else would get hurt. Too close.
Ahead, the path curved toward the river. Multiple boats lined the water—not just Dolan’s. He hadn’t regained visual after
Cole had been hurt, and he wondered if she’d changed direction.
He felt helpless, chasing echoes.
A whisper of movement caught his attention.
Instinct kicked in—he dropped just as a thick tree branch whipped through the air where his head had been. A cut rope swung
beside it.
It had been meant to knock me out.
Then he heard running, fast, through the bushes. She was close.
“Suspect heading toward the waterway behind address 11250,” a deputy called out. “Two boats docked. Multiple escape routes.”
Michael had studied the maps and knew that property. Big lot, access to the channel that led to the ocean, just like this
one.
“I’m in pursuit,” he said. Team C confirmed backup was on the way.
“Extreme caution,” he warned them.
Through the trees, he saw Clara sprinting toward the dock.
“Clara Dolan!” he shouted. “FBI! Freeze! Hands where I can see them!”
She didn’t stop.
Michael sprinted after her. Two deputies were cutting across from the east. Clara veered left, raced down the dock, and dove
cleanly into the river.
“Shit,” Michael muttered. “Suspect in the water,” he told the team. “Visibility low.”
He dropped his gear with a quick release of his tactical belt. One deputy shouted, “Harris, wait!”
No time. Clara was almost gone. He saw her surface—then slip back under.
Big mistake, Clara. Michael was a former Navy SEAL. The water was his domain.
“I’m going in,” he said. He yanked out his earpiece and dove.
Silence enveloped him. He swam hard, reading the current, feeling for movement, sensing her trail.
She surfaced—and he was right there.
She screamed. “Agent Harris? Oh my God—someone was chasing me! I think Garrett’s trying to kill me!”
“Save it,” he snapped, grabbing her arm.
She kicked out, aiming for his groin. He twisted just in time to avoid the worst of the pain, but her heel hit the sensitive
area between his groin and leg. Pain flared, but he grunted and held tight.
She struggled like a wildcat, trying to break free while also trying to drag him under. “You’re drowning me!” she shrieked.
“Let me go!”
He held fast, even as she dove again, slippery and vicious. Her nails raked his face, then his shoulder, her hands pushing him down with surprising strength.
He broke the surface, gasping.
Then—she went limp. A dead weight.
It was almost comical. Like a toddler pretending to faint to avoid bedtime.
She was easier to tow that way. He hauled her onto the bank, soaked and silent. The two deputies arrived just as he dropped
her onto the grass.
She lay still, eyes closed.
“No one believes the act, Clara,” Michael said. “You’re under arrest.”
She bolted up and tried to dive back into the channel.
Michael lunged, caught her mid-motion. The deputies handcuffed her as she screamed, “I want a lawyer! You can’t do this! I
want a lawyer!”
Michael stared at her, wet, bleeding, and breathing hard. He felt a grim sense of satisfaction knowing the killer was finally
in custody. But beneath that, anger simmered, a deep ache for the lives she had taken.
He read Clara Dolan her rights.