CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN
Sheila burst out of the farmhouse into blinding light. The Explorer sat behind the building, its engine still warm. She threw herself behind the wheel, jamming the key into the ignition. The engine roared to life.
Gravel sprayed as she accelerated toward the access road. Dust still hung in the air from the Irishman's escape, marking his trail like bread crumbs. He had maybe a two-minute head start.
The Explorer's suspension protested as she hit the main road at speed, tires fighting for grip on the turn. She spotted his vehicle far ahead—a black SUV cresting a rise before disappearing.
Her hands tightened on the wheel. This man had ordered her mother's death.
Had nearly killed her father. Had spent decades protecting a system of corruption that had let drug traffickers walk free, sent innocent people to prison, and lined the pockets of corrupt officials with millions in seized assets—destroying countless lives in the process.
He wasn't getting away. Not this time.
The road unwound before her like a serpent, all blind curves and sudden rises. The Explorer's engine screamed as she pushed it harder, eating up the distance between them. Her pursuit training kicked in—anticipating his moves, watching for opportunities.
There—his SUV appeared again, closer now. She'd gained ground on that series of curves, her competition driving giving her an edge. He was good, but she was better.
The Irishman's vehicle swerved suddenly, taking a forestry road that cut up into the mountains. Sheila followed. Trees closed in on both sides, branches scraping against metal as the road narrowed.
Her quarry was getting desperate. These roads were a maze, easy to get lost in. But they also had fewer escape routes. If she could just stay with him...
The SUV fishtailed on a sharp turn, kicking up a cloud of dust and pine needles. Sheila pressed the accelerator harder, closing the gap. She could see him now through the rear window, his face in the mirror as he realized she was gaining.
The road grew steeper, rougher. The chase had become a game of skill and nerve, each curve a test of who would break first.
Sheila didn't intend to break at all.
The chase wound higher into the mountains, each turn bringing them closer to disaster. The Irishman took a curve too fast, his SUV's back end sliding toward the drop-off. Rocks clattered into the void, but somehow he maintained control.
Sheila stayed with him. She knew these roads—had driven them countless times during searches and pursuits. The Irishman might be professional, but this was her territory.
Up ahead, the road split. One branch continued climbing while the other curved back toward the valley. The Irishman's brake lights flashed as he approached the fork, trying to decide.
Sheila saw her chance.
She accelerated hard, closing the final distance between them. The Irishman started to take the higher road, then changed his mind at the last second. The maneuver cost him speed and stability.
Their vehicles touched—just a tap, metal kissing metal at forty miles per hour. The Irishman's SUV shuddered, its tires losing purchase on loose gravel. He overcorrected, fighting for control.
The guard rail never stood a chance.
Metal screamed as his vehicle broke through, but instead of plunging into the void, it rolled down a steep embankment. The SUV tumbled once, twice, before coming to rest against a stand of pines thirty feet below the road.
Sheila slammed the Explorer into the park and drew her recovered weapon. Steam rose from the Irishman's crumpled vehicle, its windows shattered. No movement inside.
She worked her way down the slope carefully, boots sliding on screen. The SUV's frame had buckled from the impact, its doors crushed. But the driver's side window was completely gone.
Blood marked the shattered steering wheel. The Irishman was nowhere to be seen.
A broken trail through the underbrush showed where he'd dragged himself away from the wreck. More blood stained leaves and rocks—he was hurt, but still mobile.
And still dangerous.
Sheila followed the trail, weapon ready. The ground grew steeper, forcing her to pick her way between granite outcroppings. The Irishman was heading for a box canyon—either he didn't know the terrain, or he was setting up an ambush.
Either way, this would end here.
A twig snapped somewhere ahead. She pressed herself against a boulder, listening. Nothing but wind through pine needles and the distant cry of a hawk.
The blood trail ended at a jumble of fallen rocks. Perfect cover for an ambush. Sheila studied the terrain, looking for another approach. There—a game trail that would let her circle behind his position.
She began picking her way along the narrow path, every sense straining for signs of movement. The Irishman was injured, probably desperate. That made him unpredictable.
A pebble clattered down the slope behind her.
She spun, but too late.
The Irishman hit her like a freight train, sending them both tumbling down the rocky incline. Her weapon went flying as they grappled. Despite his injuries, his grip was like iron as they rolled to a stop on a narrow ledge.
Blood ran down his face from a gash in his forehead. His mask was gone, revealing features sharp as broken glass. One arm hung useless, probably broken in the crash.
But his good hand held a knife, which she was desperately holding at bay as he leaned down on her.
"Should've let it go, Sheriff," he gasped, using all his weight to force the knife down, closer and closer to her throat.
The ledge crumbled slightly beneath them, distracting the Irishman for just a moment. Harley kicked him, pushing him away. She crawled back, and they both rose to their feet.
Then the Irishman came at her again.
Despite his wounds, he knew how to fight. His strikes were precise, economical, the clear results of many hours of training. But Sheila was no slouch herself. She had spent her life in rings and dojos, learning the language of combat from masters like her father.
She caught his knife hand in a joint lock, just as she had with his man in the farmhouse. This time, she didn't let go. Bone and tendon reached their limits. The knife fell, clattering into the abyss below.
A headbutt caught her by surprise, sending her stumbling backward. The ledge crumbled at her heel, rocks tumbling into empty space. The Irishman pressed his advantage as he tried to shove her over the edge.
Sheila was ready, however. She ducked, driving her fist into his ribs. As he staggered, she followed with a combination that would have made her father proud. The Irishman went down hard, blood spraying from his nose.
She pinned him against the rock face, forearm across his throat.
"Carlton Vance," she growled. "Who is he?"
The Irishman laughed, blood staining his teeth. "After all this, that's what you want to know?"
"Tell me."
"Vance was Internal Affairs, back when the system was first being built.
He saw what was happening—judges taking bribes, evidence disappearing, drug money vanishing between seizure and processing.
But instead of fighting it..." He coughed, spitting blood.
"He decided to manage it. Make it efficient. Professional."
"He was dirty from the start?"
"He was smart . Created Meridian Holdings as a shell company to move the money. Set up the whole structure." Another wet laugh. "Your father, that old pitbull, worked under him in IA. He realized your mother was asking the wrong people the wrong questions, so he sent Eddie Mills to keep her quiet."
"And Tommy? Vance sent him to kill me?"
"Had to tie up loose ends. You were getting too close, asking too many questions. Just like Thompson did. Just like your mother."
"Where's Vance now?"
"Gone. Retired to some island with no extradition. But the system he built?" The Irishman's eyes gleamed with something like pride. "That lives on. Too big to fall now. Too many powerful people involved."
"We'll see about that." She shifted her grip, preparing to drag him back to the road. "Come on. There's a prison jumpsuit with your name on it."
His good hand suddenly caught a loose rock. "Like hell there is," he said. He swung the rock at her head. But Sheila had been ready for one last attempt. She caught his wrist, using his own momentum to slam his hand against the cliff face. The rock fell from nerveless fingers.
He lay back and laughed mirthlessly. "Just kill me, why don't you? Tell them we fought, and I took a little tumble over the cliff. My life's over anyway."
She studied him, her eyes narrowing. "You never told me your name."
He stared back at her, saying nothing.
She thought of something he'd said earlier: Your father, that old pitbull. Hadn't that been Gabriel's nickname in I.A.? The Pitbull?
" You're Carlton Vance, aren't you?" she asked.
The pieces were clicking into place—his intimate knowledge of the department's history, the way he spoke about building the system, even his tactical training.
He wasn't just enforcing Vance's will; he was Vance himself, the architect of decades of corruption.
His Irish accent was probably as fake as his current identity.
Had Gabriel recognized him? He must have—he'd worked with Vance for years. Perhaps it hadn't crossed his mind to tell Sheila, though—he'd been trying not to go into shock, after all.
The Irishman grinned. "I don't know what you're talking about. Like I said, Carlton Vance retired to some island. My name's Toby Fitzgerald."
"Sure you are," she murmured.
He stirred, groaning. "Come on, then. Just finish this. I've had a good run. Don't tell me you don't want to see dead."
"This might come as a surprise to you," she said, "but I'm not like you." She rolled him over onto his stomach, despite his protests, and cuffed him.
"You're going to face justice," she said. "Tell a jury exactly what you did. Every murder, every cover-up."
"The other will never let that happen." He didn't resist as she pulled him to his feet. "The system protects its own."
"Maybe." She started guiding him carefully back up the slope. "But the system's never dealt with someone like me before."