And for the first time since she’d found Chelsea Hart, so was Ellie.
CHAPTER 32
ELLIE COULD HEAR Rogan yelling behind her, using all the major cuss words, but she wasn’t thinking about her partner. She was focused on the back of Leon Symanski’s head, bouncing on top of his plaid flannel robe, hauling ass a full block ahead of her. He apparently had found the time to pull on a pair of running shoes before slipping out the front door.
She didn’t have to process the words coming out of Rogan’s mouth to know why he was screaming at her. They had stopped by for a knock-and-talk. They weren’t wearing vests. They didn’t have backup. And they hadn’t searched either Symanski or his living room for a weapon.
Rogan was telling her it wasn’t worth it. They would set up a periphery. They’d bring out the dogs. They would find him within blocks.
But, at that moment-as she felt the rubber soles of her Paul Green boots slamming against the concrete of the street, the force of the impact shooting up through her knees and quads-all she could think about were the faces of four young women who had nothing in common in life but were perhaps all tied together in death by the man in front of her. She had let his frail appearance and meek mannerisms fool her. They had left a killer sitting alone in his living room.
She pumped her arms harder at her sides as she picked up her pace. No way was a gaunt, gray-haired janitor in a bathrobe going to outrun her.
Symanski took a right on Thirty-first Street, then a quick left into the Astoria Boulevard subway station, taking the steps two at a time. He pushed his way through a crowd of commuters heading down the stairs, throwing two of them to the ground.
Ellie held out her shield, yelling, “Get down! Get down!” She had to assume Symanski had a gun. He could open fire on the platform.
Terrified bystanders fell to all fours. Others slammed their bodies flat against walls and railings. Ellie dodged and weaved around them, surprised at Symanski’s speed.
Inside the station, she came to a stop. She could feel her heart pounding like fists against her breastbone. No Symanski.
Separate sets of turnstiles stood on each side of her for the east and west sides of the tracks. He could have taken either one. This was the end of the N/R line. There were no northbound tracks. Nowhere to go on the east side of the platform.
She placed her right hand on the butt of her Glock. Twist, then up, she pulled the gun from her holster. She was about to hop the southbound turnstiles when she heard screams from a stairway behind her, on the opposite side of the station.
She followed the sounds of panic, sprinting down the stairs so quickly that she nearly tumbled from the momentum of her own weight. She hit street level and was wondering if she’d lost him when she saw a flash of Symanski’s robe move into an alley past a four-story brick apartment building on the other side of Thirty-first Street.
She ran after him, drawing horn blasts from oncoming traffic. When she reached the alley’s entrance, she pressed her back against the wall of the apartment complex, feeling her fingers wrapped firmly around the Glock, thumbs pressed together near the safety.
She needed to know if the alley cut through or was a dead end. Were there fire escapes that Symanski could reach from the ground? Businesses with unlocked back doors? She had no idea if she could even spare the seconds she was using to think through all of the unknowns. And where in the hell was Rogan and the backup?
She peeked her head around the corner-once quickly, then a more cautious look, two full seconds.
In two seconds, this is what she learned: no gunshots. That was good for the obvious reason, but it might also mean Symanski was gone. Two Dumpsters on opposite sides of the alley. A black Ford Explorer on the left. No accessible fire escapes. No signs of loading or unloading, so any back doors to businesses were probably locked. No visible exits, but the chain link fence at the end of the alley was easily scalable.
And no sign of Symanski.
Where was Rogan?
Ellie took a deep breath and swung her body around the corner.
“You’re trapped, Symanski.” A false statement if he’d already jumped the fence, but true if he could hear her. She heard nothing but the hum of traffic on the BQE and a Poland Spring water bottle rolling on the concrete with the wind.
She crouched low and jogged to the Dumpster on the right, squatting against the end of it for cover. In her mind, she created a blueprint of the alley and pictured Symanski’s available hiding places. Not behind the high-riding SUV. His legs would be visible. Inside, perhaps, but everyone in New York locked their cars. That left four spots: on the north side of each of the two Dumpsters, or inside the two recessed doorways on the ground floor of the apartment building to the east.
She mapped out her route.
Still squatting, she made her way like a crab around the side of the Dumpster, then sprang into an Isosceles shooting stance. Nothing but two black garbage bags.
She stepped sideways to her right, to the first doorway. It was clear. She checked the door. Locked.
From the safety of the doorway, she surveyed the alley again. Two spots remaining: the Dumpster or the last doorway. They were almost directly across from each other on opposite sides of the alley. There was no way to check them sequentially and still be covered.
Fifty-fifty odds.
She stretched farther, struggling to see inside the next doorway. Nothing but darkness.
If it were her, she would choose the Dumpster. It was deeper, invulnerable to angles. Behind a barrier of that size, her adversary would not have to expose himself to get to her. And a Dumpster wouldn’t block her in. She could still bolt around her adversary. In the doorway, it was close combat. No escape.
She would definitely pick the Dumpster. Better than fifty-fifty. Where the hell was Rogan?
Crouching low again, she ran to the second Dumpster. She turned the corner, keeping a tight stance. It was clear.
She immediately rotated clockwise to get a look inside the final doorway. Also clear.
Damn it. She felt her shoulders drop as the stress fell from her deltoids. She reholstered the Glock. Her mistake had been pausing at the alley’s entrance. Symanski had used the opportunity to jump the fence. She unclipped her cell phone from her waist to call Rogan.
She had flipped the phone open and was scrolling for Rogan’s number when she saw a blur moving next to her. She turned toward it.
Symanski had pushed open the metal lid of the Dumpster with his left hand and was reaching toward her with his right. She caught only a quick glimpse of the blade of his knife before her Glock tumbled to the ground and she felt a searing pain on the back of her right hand.