Wild Justice (40 page)

“Go with her,” Jack said. “I’m fine.”

I would like to think that my request held more weight with Quinn, but he didn’t even hesitate. He nodded and motioned for me to take backup position as he started down the hall. I took one last look at Jack. Then I followed.

There was, as Jack said, no place for Koss to go except that back door, which he had to find first. I knew exactly where it was, and I could tell from the GPS that Koss was nowhere close.

Before I presumed anything, I asked Quinn if there was any way for Koss to “lose” the GPS transmitter. Presumably, he hadn’t known he had one, but he may have figured it out by now. Quinn said no, which I guessed meant they implanted them, unbeknownst to the agents. Kind of scary, though Quinn didn’t seem bothered by it.

That GPS signal meant that what could have been a long game of hide-and-seek was not. The only thing we had to do was be careful. I couldn’t think of Jack. I couldn’t rush. I had to plot out a trajectory that would keep Koss away from Jack, should he bolt, and keep us between Koss and the rear exit.

We also had to stay quiet. That was the harder part. Walking softly was easier indoors, on wood and old carpet, but it was still tough going. For one thing, it was dark. For another, the building construction meant trip hazards everywhere. We both had penlights but, to avoid Koss seeing the glow, we had to block the beams, so they gave off a diffuse light instead.

Koss hadn’t moved since we started our trek. He was holed up. Waiting for us to drag our wounded comrade off to get medical attention.

The building was three stories, which could be a problem—the GPS only showed Koss’s horizontal location. But Quinn pointed out a strength meter on the signal. When we found the stairwell and ascended to the second story, the signal decreased. Koss was on the main floor.

When we finally neared the area where Koss was hiding, we hit a snag. The building was absolutely silent. Which meant that even the scuff of a shoe was going to be heard. Taking off our shoes wouldn’t help creaks and whispering fabric.

On the plus side, we were in an area where the walls still stood. So Koss was in an enclosed room. And the door to the room where he seemed to be was closed.

We stopped and conferred. The number of ways of doing this were limited to one, really, given that there was only a single entrance. We had to employ standard procedure for entering a door with an armed fugitive on the other side.

Guns out, we moved as quietly as we could to the door, each taking a side. If Koss heard us, he gave no sign of it. When we were in position, Quinn banged on the door, as hard as he could.

“Sebastian Koss?”

That’s all he said. That’s all he needed to say, because the noise had the desired effect. It startled Koss, and he scrambled to the left back corner of the room. Staying to the side, Quinn reached over and twisted the door handle. As expected, it was locked or otherwise barricaded.

Quinn kicked it open, one swift kick before twisting out of the way—a split-second ahead of the bullet that responded. Another followed. Completely unnecessary—Quinn and I were both plastered to the wall, out of the doorway.

“Koss?” I said. “You’re trapped in there. You know you are.”

Two more bullets in quick succession. The wall behind me reverberated.

“Seriously?” I said. “You’re trying to shoot through the wall with a twenty-two? Word of advice, Koss? Next time? Pack a real gun.”

“Ask your lover if he thinks it’s real enough. He’s not with you, is he?”

“No, but I’m not sobbing over his dead body either, am I? A twenty-two is for pros. People who know what they’re doing. You’re an amateur. And a piss-poor marksman.”

Another shot, this one through the door, angled my way.

“Not even close,” I said.

I expected him to fire again. He didn’t, meaning he was keeping track of his ammo. Damn it.

“You know how you could shoot me?” I said. “Come on out of there.”

Koss laughed. Down the hall, a floorboard creaked and I swung my gun that way just as Jack’s hand waved around a corner. He moved into the hall. He’d bound his chest by ripping up his shirt into strips. His face was pale and he was moving slowly, but he was moving.

He motioned he’d stay out of the way. He wasn’t here to help; just to let me know he was fine so I could relax.

“Thinking up a new strategy?” Koss said. “Hard work, isn’t it. Thinking, I mean. Not your natural state. I suspect it’s not your partner’s, either. Another hitman, I presume?”

“How about a game?” I said.

“A game?”

“You like them. At least, you’ll like this one. It’s called ‘give Sebastian Koss a fighting chance.’ You were right earlier. I can’t kill you while I have questions. Not while I know you had other victims. Their families deserve to know the truth.”

“How touching.” His voice dripped scorn.

“So here’s the deal. You give us all the details, and we let you leave.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will. I’m afraid I have to decline that offer, as would anyone whose IQ reaches triple digits.”

“Let me explain how it will work. As you spill your guts, my partner and I will begin backing away from the door. We’ll go down the side hall here. When you finish, we’ll step into another room. You’ll hear the door close. You’ll hear us call to you from inside. That’s when you run.”

He didn’t answer. He was thinking it through.

“It’s not flawless,” I said. “Whether you get away depends on how fast you are—and how fast we are. Clearly, I’m betting we’ll be faster. And even if you escape tonight, I have every intention of hunting you down and killing you later. But I really do want that information. So I’ll give you a fighting chance. The only one you’ll get.”

Koss stayed silent. Working through all the angles we could screw him over. Because he knew we planned to. It had to be a dangerous proposal. He’d see through anything else.

He made his demands next. He wanted us to test the doors along the side hall, and he’d tell us which to go in—presumably the one with the nosiest hinges. Also he wanted us both in the same room. Minor concessions. None would really improve his chances much. He knew that. He just needed to make demands to feel as if he was in control.

Finally, he agreed. He’d tell us about his crimes. I’d lead the conversation while Quinn took notes. We didn’t tell Koss about the note-taking. I’m sure he figured we were stupid enough to rely on our memories.

So Koss began to talk. After every “confession,” Quinn and I would retreat farther down the hall. Before we started, I’d closed Koss’s door partway so we wouldn’t move into his line of sight. That had pissed him off—I’m sure he’d been counting on getting a better shot—and it had temporarily delayed the interrogation, but he’d recovered and kept talking.

He could have made things up. Changed names and dates and places. But I was listening for any hesitation and there was none. He was too arrogant for that. And, maybe, too desperate.

He’d killed Amy, as I knew. But she wasn’t the last. She wasn’t even the first. He’d been a teen when he took his first victim, just a girl, no connection to him. He raped and murdered her, and he got away with it. In the next three decades, he’d killed six more girls, including Amy.

He would go years between them, pacing himself and plotting each one meticulously—no more partners after the failed experiment with Drew Aldrich. He constructed his entire life around those murders, building his reputation as a lawyer and an activist and joining the Contrapasso Fellowship, all to conceal his crimes and teach himself how to avoid detection. Or so he said. I suspect part of it was pure ego. He got off on playing the role, laughing behind everyone’s back, feeling superior.

By the time he finished his story, we were at the adjoining hall.

“Now, Ms. Stafford,” he called, before Quinn and I started down it. “I’ve conveyed my crimes, and we’ll be parting soon, but before we do, I’d like you to give some serious thought to your plan. Do you really want to tell the world what I am?”

“Absolutely.”

“Really? Think about it. You know my reputation. You know what I’ve done for victims’ rights, a subject which seems very important to you. Do you want the world knowing that the man who made those inroads was actually a killer? What impact would that have? Not a positive one, I’m sure.”

“True. There will be fallout. But none of the advances you lobbied for will be reversed simply because you’re exactly the kind of monster they were meant to thwart. In the end, you may have even done one last great service for victims’ rights. You are living proof that not all monsters appear monstrous. That decent-seeming people can be as dangerous as any thug lurking in a dark alley. That’s an important message, don’t you think?”

He only laughed. “It’s a pointless one. Think on it some more, Ms. Stafford. And think on this too: no one will reward you for unmasking me. No one wants to see a hero fall. The families of those girls don’t need to know who killed them. Now, let’s finish this.”

Quinn and I did exactly as promised. We retreated into the office Koss had selected. We closed the door. Koss heard it shut and asked us both to recite the first few lines of our respective national anthems, just so he could be sure our voices sounded suitably distant and muffled.

Then we heard his feet pounding and the door of his room fly open. We heard him skid into the hall, sliding on something in his haste. I could picture him there, eyes wild, heart thumping, gun raised, sprinting down the hall, knowing we’d burst out of our room and come after him.

Except we didn’t. We simply stepped out and—

One shot. Koss gasped in pain and shock. A second shot. A thud as he hit the floor.

I broke into a jog and wheeled around the end of the hall to see Jack kicking Koss’s gun out of the way.

“Huh,” I said as I walked over to Koss. “Seems you forgot someone.”

I crouched beside Koss. His face was pale with shock. Blood gushed from his thigh. The femoral artery, I was guessing. More blood seeped out around him from a shot to the back. Neither was immediately fatal.

It took a moment before he realized that. He wasn’t dead. He’d been shot by a professional killer, at point-blank range, and he was still alive. Hope flashed in his eyes. Then they narrowed, as his brain whirred. We’d kept him alive. We still wanted something. He could use that.

“Quinn?” Jack said. “Could you guard the front?”

Quinn nodded and headed off. I waited until he was gone. Then I flipped Koss onto his back. He let out a squeal of agony as fresh blood surged.

“Hurts, huh?” I said.

I crouched beside him, staying out of the blood.

“The crime-scene report from Amy’s murder said she was found on her back,” I said. “Just like this. Is that right?”

Koss’s eyes rolled with pain. “I need—”

“You
need
to answer the question. Was she like this?”

“Yes. Is that what you want? An apology?” He gritted his teeth. “Fine. I’m very, very sorry—”

“Don’t bother. I was just checking.” I put my hands around his neck. “This is how you did it. right?”

His eyes widened then, panic sparking. “N-no.”

He tried to buck me off, but he’d lost too much blood, was too far into shock, too far into death, his body shutting down.

“This is how you killed her,” I said. “And this is how you’ll die.”

We spent Friday in Chicago. Not much choice there. Jack was in no shape to leave, and we had the mess with Contrapasso to clean up.

The latter wasn’t nearly as big a deal as I’d feared. They’d screwed us over, and we’d retaliated. They were shockingly fair about the whole thing. We hadn’t injured their people. We hadn’t caused the car accident. They might have wanted to interrogate Koss, but they’d lost that right when they double-crossed us.

They even offered medical care for Jack. He refused. He had someone in the area so that’s where we took him. The bullet hadn’t done any serious damage. One nicked rib and torn tissue. He wouldn’t be work-ready for weeks, but he’d be fine.

As for Koss, we let Contrapasso handle that—both the immediate cleanup and the long-term repercussions. They’d make sure the families of his victims got closure and that their daughters’ remains would be found wherever possible. Investigations would be reopened. Koss would be fingered as the culprit, apparently having left his confession and fled for parts unknown.

Would those investigations find him guilty? Or would people say his enemies framed and murdered him? Impossible to predict. He was dead. The families would know their daughters’ fates. That was all that mattered to me.

We left Chicago Saturday morning. Though Emma and Owen didn’t expect me back for the weekend, Jack knew it was best if I missed as little of it as possible. I’d drive us while he rested. Or that was my plan, though I knew sedation might be required to actually get him to rest.

Quinn was still with us, dealing with Contrapasso. What happened hadn’t soured him on them—or vice versa. If anything, his loyalty to his comrades seemed to solidify their initial interest and they’d moved from flirting to making plans for a first date.

Contrapasso was also interested in Jack and me. While I knew Jack was a “hell no,” he wasn’t actually saying that. They knew more about us than we liked. It behooved us to play coy, rather than reject their overtures outright.

When Quinn came to see me before we left, it was the first time we’d talked since Koss’s death. He helped me carry the bags to the rental car while Jack rested in the hotel room.

“I want to thank you again,” I said. “For coming back.”

“I shouldn’t have left,” he said as we got on the elevator. “Jack was right. I lost my temper. I said things I didn’t mean. I stormed out when you needed me.”