The Salvation Shark, Chapter 34

Agent Martin

Anton’s fire fades quickly, leaving me and my clothing unmarred. I drag myself to my feet, brush myself off and collect my gun. I can't believe I missed.

The police station is a mess. Bodies are strewn about, broken and bleeding. The acrid smell of gun smoke permeates the air and burns my nose.

“John? Holy shit, that is you! Man, I thought you were dead!”

I barely have my faculties, so at first it's hard to recognize Stringer under the black cap with a SpectraCom Security badge.

“My God, John, where have you been?” Stringer shakes my hand and puts his other and on the back of my elbow, like he’s going to pull me in for a hug, but I set my feet against him. “Where have you been, man?”

“I’ve been laying low,” I say, my voice barely more than a whisper. Eleazar's fire must have damaged my throat. That always heals slow.

“No shit,” he says, still shaking my hand. “We figured you got bumped. I left the Bureau about a year later. You working again?”

"Yeah," I say. I can see he’s going to cut me off before I even start speaking. “Are you here by yourse...”

“Are there any living... survivors here?” He recoils at a thought and reaches for his gun. “Are you Anton Lazarus?”

I can't stay here with Stringer. That girl could be dead by now. “You’re SpectraCom now?” I ask, walking down the hall I think will take me to the front door.

Stringer follows. “Yeah! Benefits are better, we see more action, and I get to carry a bigger gun. What’s going on here, man? What happened?”

“It’s not over, Pete,” I say.

“I know! Staties just joined with local sheriff on the old State highway. The sonofabitch off-roaded a Porsche to avoid road blocks. That ought to be a life-sentence right there.”

I stop and face him. “They know where he is?”

“Yeah, my squad is preparing our equipment while I secure this scene for the State Troopers. I’ll wait to hear they’ve got this guy cornered and I’ll come in to blow is teeth out the back of his neck, or even let the Staties do the job for me. The girl is getting canned for this anyway.” Stringer doesn’t seem bothered by the carnage around us. “They don’t want to continue spending funds on a clearly disgruntled employee. Bodyguard said she tricked him into leaving so she could escape.”

“Those cops are dead,” I say, going for the front door.

“Hey stop!” Stringer shouts, but I’m already outside. He follows and sees the last second of murdered silence before the first news van screeches to a halt before the station. Two white station wagons with sharp, boldly-colored numbers are following, and a red van arrives from the opposite direction. Reporters are jumping before their vehicles are stopped and cameramen are scrambling to follow. Around the corner, parking spots on both side of the road are filling with the first vultures to the kill. Others are screaming about spots stolen on either side of the road. Local traffic is impossible in less than a minute. Police will need to drive on the sidewalk, but even those are blocked by broadcast motorhomes with banks of satellite dishes mounted on top. I dodge between running people and slip through the proper channels, but Stringer is consumed by the angry ants. I reach my car and get clear of the zone before the last avenue is blocked by a van with a 15-foot satellite dish on top.

Go to Chapter 35