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azombiewritesTitle: A Murder Hunt
- Sequel to ‘A Murder Mystery’
Rating: PG Bad Language
Fandom: The Magnificent Seven
Category: Four Corners Detectives AU
Main Characters: Ezra and JD
Disclaimers: The guys are owned by CBS, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment Group, and The Mirisch Corp.
Notes: The April 2005 Challenge (the Mystery Challenge) - offered by Jesfrealo. Write a story where a mystery plays a key role in the story. Have one or any combination of the guys be the detective(s). It can be funny or serious and in any open universe. Extra points if you make an unusual pair of the guys work together to figure out the mystery (so not Chris and Vin or Buck and JD...). Have fun!!
Summary: Detectives Standish and Dunne hunt for a killer
Spoilers: None
Author's note: A BIG thank you and a bear hug to the person who nominated this story for a 2008 & 2009 MoM award!
Warning: Josiah Sanchez is the bad guy in this story!
Part Nine
When Sanchez began to drag him away from the bed, Standish felt an overwhelming need to see Krinkly before they left the bedroom. Where the need came from he didn’t know, but it was a need so strong it caused him to open his eyes and look back over his right shoulder. Two browned stained pillows covered Krinkly’s head, explaining the sound of the gunshot, but they couldn’t hide the smorgasbord of blood and brain matter that had snuck out from beneath the pillows for all to see . . . and Standish wanted to see.
His stomach, repulsed by the view, caused him to regret his decision; it erupted with a sudden brutality that forced Standish to his knees, almost dragging Sanchez down with him. With each painful bout, Sanchez’s previous words came back to haunt him. If you throw up I’ll force it back down your throat. The words repeated themselves like an irritating song, forcing him to see an image that he didn’t want to see – an image that encouraged his stomach. He continued to throw up until there was nothing left. Everything he’d eaten during the last twenty-four hours now lay in a puddle on the carpet and he couldn’t turn his eyes away from it. He coughed when he began to gag on the saliva and blood that filled his mouth. After spitting the mixture out onto the floor, he wiped his mouth, first on the left side of his coat, then on the right; the pain the movement caused to his split lip went unnoticed.
Sanchez felt his own nausea grow at the sight before him and he grimaced in disgust when the Detective’s lips scraped against the hand he was using to hold the smaller man in place. Keeping his body behind Standish’s, Sanchez placed his left knee on the floor next to Standish’s hip and pressed his right knee into the Detective’s back. He then leaned forward, his lips close enough to touch the chilled flesh of Standish’s cheek and said, “I remember saying that I was going to force you to eat that.” He increased the pressure on Standish’s shoulder and back, forcing him toward the floor.
Standish groaned and closed his eyes when he felt Sanchez pushing him closer to the floor. The smell of his own vomit grew stronger, blending with the smell of Krinkly’s death. Each smell on its own was bad enough, but together . . . they were nauseating. Thankfully, his stomach had nothing left to give.
It took a few seconds for Standish to realize that Sanchez was no longer pushing him down. He opened his eyes, thanked God, and the Devil that he was still a few inches off the floor; now, if only God or the Devil would save his miserable life. His breath caught in his throat when he felt the Glock press painfully against the back of his neck. He continued to feel the barrel of his own gun as it began to travel upward, stopping only when it reached the back of his head. In his mind, Standish could see the bullet exiting the barrel and entering his skull, leaving a hole the size of a fist when it came out the other side.
“I’ve wanted to kill you since the moment you walked into Duncans Bar,” Sanchez said.
Standish closed his eyes.
Sanchez could feel his victim trembling beneath him. Standish was scared; the fear flowed through the man’s body. This was what the killer enjoyed: the fear. It was what he lived for. The feeling he got from taking a person’s life was better than an orgasm.
“How do you think they’re going to react when they find you lying face down in your own vomit?”
Standish refused to answer. For a fleeting moment, he considered begging his way out of it, but begging wasn’t in his nature and it wouldn’t get him anywhere, not with a killer like Sanchez. Fighting back was also out of the question. Not only did he lack the strength, the position Sanchez now had him in made it impossible.
What he needed was a miracle.
“I want to know what your final thoughts are, Detective Standish.”
The only thought running through Standish’s panicked mind was, I don’t want to die like this, but he wasn’t going to say the words the killer wanted to hear. Standish gathered his remaining courage and said, “Go fuck yourself, your sister and your fucking dog.”
“Brave words for a man who’s scared of dying,” Sanchez smiled.
The killer, so caught up in the moment, didn’t hear or see the two men move through the open doorway into the bedroom, each man taking up a position on either side of him. When he heard Larabee’s voice, “Four Corners Sheriff’s department. Put the gun down and step away from him,” Sanchez knew he might have lost the game.
Standish’s body jerked in surprise at the sound of Larabee’s confident and steady voice. He expected Sanchez to pull him back up onto his feet and use him as a human shield. It didn’t happen. Instead, the killer imbedded his fingers even further into his shoulder, causing him to groan in pain.
Sanchez looked up with an expression of stunned disbelief written all over his features. Chris Larabee, wearing a bulletproof vest over his uniform, stood five feet away from him. He quickly looked to the right to find Vin Tanner, also wearing a vest, and then looked back at Larabee. Both men were close, too close. They stood with their guns raised, ready to take him out of the game as soon as he gave them an opportunity. He wasn’t going to give them one.
With a hint of admiration in his voice Sanchez said, “Larabee, I didn’t think you’d find us . . . at least not before I had a chance to kill Standish.”
It only took a moment for Chris Larabee to realize that this was going to be the third worst day of his life. In front of him, Ezra Standish was on his knees with a killer practically lying on his back, holding a gun to his head. Larabee was going to have to use every negotiating skill he possessed to keep Standish alive, but if it were necessary, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill Sanchez. It also helped to know that there was a trained sharpshooter standing a few feet away from him.
Larabee took control of the growing hatred he felt for Sanchez and said, “You made it easy for us to find you.”
“Really,” Sanchez returned Larabee’s stare. “How?”
Larabee ignored the question. “Put the gun on the ground and step away from him. I will shoot you, if you don’t.”
Wanting to see Larabee, Standish opened his eyes but all he could see was the floor; it wasn’t enough. He needed to take a more positive role in what was about to occur, instead of feeling as if he were standing on the sideline, blind to everything that surrounded him. Pushing up against the weight on his back and getting nowhere, almost caused him to whimper with despair. When his eyes began to water he closed them again, telling himself that it was the strong odor of vomit that caused the tears, and not the surprising arrival of Chris Larabee.
“Go ahead, shoot me.”
Standish agreeing with Sanchez whispered, “Yes . . . please . . . shoot him.”
Sanchez, in a voice so low that only Standish could hear said, “Shut your fucking mouth.”
“Put the gun on the floor and step away from him,” Larabee repeated.
“Just shoot him, Chris,” Tanner said.
Standish couldn’t help but smile at the sound of Tanner’s voice. If Larabee didn’t talk their way out of this, Tanner would simply shoot and kill Sanchez.
“You won’t shoot me,” Sanchez said.
“Why not?” Larabee asked.
“You’re not stupid, Larabee. You won’t take the chance that I’ll develop a death grip and pull the trigger as a result.”
Only Sanchez’s hold on him stopped Standish from falling closer to the ground with the weight of those words. He hoped that neither of his friends would take that chance. If he was still going to die today, he wanted it to be because Sanchez pulled the trigger by choice.
Larabee’s response to those words was to lower his weapon, directing his aim toward Sanchez’s left knee.
Sanchez ignored the move and said, “I want to make a deal.”
Larabee’s reply was succinct, “No.”
“I’ll kill him!”
“No deals.”
“We are going to make a deal, Larabee. You’ll agree to it and I’ll let Standish live.”
“No.”
“Chris . . .” Standish had the sudden urge to bitch slap the stubbornness out of his boss.
Sanchez could feel the pain as some of the muscles in his body began to cramp up; he’d been in the same position for too long. Understanding that he was beginning to feel desperate, he took a deep breath to calm himself. He wasn’t going to let Larabee win.
“Here’s the deal . . . you bring me my--”
“If you ask for your fucking dog, I’ll shoot you right now,” Larabee warned him.
“It’s a one for one deal, Larabee,” Sanchez said. “It’s not like I’m asking for a helicopter and a million dollars.”
“No, you’re asking for a fucking dog,” Larabee shook his head then continued, “It’s over, Sanchez. Put the gun on the floor and step away from him.”
Larabee, not prepared for Sanchez’s next move, stepped back when the killer removed his hand from Standish’s shoulder and grabbed the smaller man’s forehead in the palm of his hand. Sanchez then pulled Standish’s head up and back, revealing his friend’s battered face to the room. Larabee swallowed his shock and knowing how Tanner would react to the sight of their friend, said, “Vin, stay where you are.”
“I’m gonna kill him, Chris.” Tanner had taken the back seat during the negotiation, allowing his boss do all the talking, but after seeing what Sanchez had done, he wanted to take control.
“Vin,” Larabee could see Tanner taking a step closer to Sanchez.
“No more talking . . . we kill him, now.”
“Kill me and you kill Standish,” Sanchez said.
After the sudden change of position, it took Standish a few seconds to get his bearings and once he did, he blinked a number of times to clear his vision. When it finally cleared, he could see Larabee and Tanner. The expressions of tenacity on their faces told Standish that the two men were willing to do anything to protect him.
“Vin . . . don’t.”
At the sound of Standish’s voice, Tanner relaxed his posture and stepped back into his original position, indicating to Larabee that he was now in control of his emotions.
“Can we get back to it now?” Sanchez knew that Standish wasn’t going to last much longer. Even with Standish on his knees, he still had to support most of the man’s weight.
“I’m not agreeing to a deal.”
“If you don’t agree to a deal, you’ll watch him die just like he watched Krinkly die.”
Larabee refused to look at the cadaver on the bed. Jefferson Krinkly would get the attention he deserved once this situation was under control.
“Listen to me, Sanchez, because I am not going to continue to repeat myself to you,” Larabee spoke with a calmness that was well known to both Standish and Tanner. “We are not going to make a deal. Do you understand me?”
The smile returned to Sanchez’s face. “Then get your boss down here. He made a deal with me earlier, I’m sure he’ll be willing to make another one.”
Larabee, thinking that two could play the same game, allowed his own smile to grow. “Not going to happen this time, Sanchez. This is between you and me.”
“You’re willing to let Standish die?”
“He won’t die.”
“You want to play with this man’s life? You’re worse than I am.” Sanchez was beginning to think he was dealing with an idiot. Did this man not take part in any of the Police Department’s Negotiation Seminars? Did he even know what the word negotiation meant?
“You’re wrong about that.”
“Wrong about what, Larabee?” Sanchez asked.
“I’m not playing,” Larabee said.
“Neither am I,” Sanchez moved his hand up over Standish’s head, and after taking a handful of the man’s hair, pulled the Detective’s head back. The back of Standish’s head now rested on Sanchez’s shoulder, his eyes staring up at the high ceiling. Sanchez rubbed his jaw along the side of the Detective’s face and said, “I made my first kill when I was fourteen, Larabee, and I enjoyed it. Taking a person’s life . . . it’s easy for me. When I look into your eyes, I see a man who struggles with the thought of killing another person. You won’t kill me. You can’t kill me. Walk away now, Larabee. Give me an hour to leave town, and I’ll let Standish go. If you don’t, I will kill him.”
Standish could feel the tension building within Sanchez’s body and knew without a doubt that the man was about to pull the trigger. “Chris . . .”
Larabee reacted to the fear in Standish’s voice and took a step closer to Sanchez.
“Take another look, Sanchez, and I guarantee you that you’ll see a man who is prepared to kill to protect a friend. So believe me when I tell you, that I will kill you to save him.”
Standish, realizing what Larabee was about to do said, “Then shoot him.”
The bullet struck Sanchez’s left knee and the man’s body reacted to the pain that tore through his leg. The fingers of both hands opened, dropping the Glock and releasing Standish. In a desperate need to stop the pain, his hands wrapped themselves around the injured knee and drew the leg closer to his chest as he fell to the floor.
Standish fell with him and as soon as his back hit the floor, the Detective began to push himself backwards away from Sanchez, only stopping when his back hit a small stack of newspapers.
Keeping his gun aimed at the man on the floor, Larabee moved quickly forward, kicking the gun out of Sanchez’s reach. “Place your hands on the back of your head and roll onto your stomach.”
“Fuck you, Larabee!” Sanchez snapped. “You’ll regret this, believe me. I’ll make you pay!”
“You had your chance already,” Larabee looked into the killer’s eyes and smiled. “It’s over.”
Saliva flew from between Sanchez’s lips as he spoke, “That’s what you think. I’m not going to make this easy for you. You want me on my stomach . . . you put me on my stomach!”
Larabee kicked the hands that were attempting to protect Sanchez’s injured knee from any more pain; the hands failed miserably.
“Fuck!” Sanchez pulled his leg even closer to his chest.
“Place your hands on the back of your head and roll onto your stomach.”
“I’d do as he says, Sanchez,” Tanner had moved to a position next to Larabee, his own gun covering the man on the floor. “He’ll keep kicking you until you do and we’re in a hurry . . . we want to go and take care of our friend.”
Sanchez looked over at Standish and said, “Should have fucked you over when I had the chance, Standish.”
Larabee kicked Sanchez’s knee with a lot more force, this time dislocating one of the man’s fingers.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Sanchez glared at Tanner, then at Larabee and made a decision. Lifting his blood-covered hands to the back of his head and carefully lowering his leg, he rolled over onto his stomach. Another obscenity escaped his mouth when his damaged knee made contact with the floor. He then grunted in pain when Tanner dug a knee into the small of his back. When the handcuffs closed around his wrists, he knew he had lost. The game was over.
As soon as Tanner had secured Sanchez's hands, Larabee lowered his gun, turned to face Standish and said, “Hey, Ezra, it’s alright, we’ve got you now.”
Pulling his knees to his chest, Standish tried to steady his breathing. Now was not the time to panic. Chris and Vin were here with him. He was safe. It was over. Pain made itself known to him and he grimaced, forcing it to the back of his mind.
Larabee frowned at Standish’s silence and moved to kneel in front of him, blocking his view of Sanchez. “You’re okay, Ezra.”
Standish blinked and saw the concern on Larabee’s face. “Can you take these cuffs off?”
“Sorry, Ezra.” Larabee put his gun on the floor, pulled a key from his belt and pulled Standish forward until the Detective’s forehead rested against his shoulder. Ignoring the tremors that ran through Standish’s body, Larabee reached behind the smaller man and removed the cuffs. Larabee dragged his right hand over the back of Standish’s head before pushing his friend back against the stack of newspapers.
The caring touch that had come from Larabee, gave Standish the strength he needed to pull himself back together. Taking a deep breath against the pain he knew was coming, Standish brought his arms forward and rubbed each wrist in turn. “Shit, that hurt.”
“Any other injuries that I can’t see?”
“No.” Standish used his fingers to explore the injury on his forehead, feeling the dry blood that covered the area. It didn’t feel bad enough to warrant too much attention. He rubbed his tired and sore eyes with the palm of his other hand. Standish looked down at his knees and said, “I’m sorry about JD . . . I couldn’t . . . it’s my fault he’s dead.”
“What?” Larabee frowned, his expression falling from his face when he realized what Sanchez had done. “JD’s fine, Ezra. He’s not dead. He took a knock to the head in the accident, that’s all. According to Jackson, he didn’t even get a concussion. He’ll have a headache for while . . .” Larabee stopped talking when he realized Standish was staring at him. The man’s eyes had widened in both shock and relief.
“He told me that--”
“Sanchez was messing with your head,” Larabee looked over his shoulder and when his eyes rested on the killer, he began to rise from his crouched position in front of Standish.
“Chris,” Tanner had seen the same look in Larabee’s eyes once before and knew what it meant. “Take Ezra outside, get him checked over by the medic. You can send Hollman in to back me up.”
Larabee stared at Sanchez for a moment longer before turning back to Standish. He picked up his gun and placed it back in its holster before reaching down for Standish. “Come on, Ezra, let’s go.”
With Larabee’s help, Standish made it to his feet and without looking at Krinkly or Sanchez, he walked away from what was almost his own crime scene. He made it all the way into the other room before his knees buckled. A strength he didn’t know he had kept him from falling flat on his face.
Larabee strengthened his grip on Standish’s arm and said, “There’s an ambulance outside, we’ll go to the hospital and get you checked out.”
Standish pulled his arm out of Larabee’s grip, losing his precious balance as a result. Only Larabee’s quick reflex’s stopped him from falling. “I’m not going to the hospital!”
“Ezra, don’t start with me!” Larabee growled.
“I’m starting anything, Chris. I’m not going to the hospital.”
“You’re hurt. You need to be checked out by a Doctor,” Larabee took Standish's arm in a firm grip and began to pull him out of the main room of Krinkly’s apartment and into the corridor that led to the front door. “Look, if you don’t want to go in the ambulance, I’ll take you. Hollman can help--”
Ezra snorted. “It’s his fault that Sanchez was able to get to me. If he hadn’t--”
“Don’t worry about Hollman,” Larabee smiled as he pulled Standish out through the open front door. “Apparently . . . JD is going to take care of him.”
When Standish stepped out into the late afternoon light, he closed his eyes against the sharp pain that coursed through his brain. He could feel the weakening sun’s warmth on his cool flesh and took comfort in the fact that he was still alive. Taking a deep breath, he relished the smell of the flowers flourishing on the Maple bushes that were growing at the side of the house.
“You okay?”
“No.” Standish opened his eyes and looked down at the cars parked in the street. He began to make his way down the steps, only making it half way before sitting down. “I’m not going to the hospital.”
“Ezra . . .”
Standish looked up and when the movement caused his head to spin, he began to massage his temples in an attempt to ease the pain. He gave up on the right side when he remembered the injury on his forehead. He wondered if Sanchez or the accident had caused it. At the memory of the accident, Standish lowered his head but continued to massage his left temple. He spoke his next words so softly that Larabee struggled to hear them, “I’m not getting into a car.”
“Ezra, you need to--”
“What I need . . . right now . . . is a drink.”
Larabee, understanding the man’s need for alcohol, sat down next to Standish and said, “The last thing you need is a drink.”
“After what I went through in there . . . after what I saw . . . Chris, he wanted me to watch, but I wouldn’t open my eyes. He made me kneel on the floor, put my face against Krinkly’s back . . . I couldn’t fight him, couldn’t do anything to stop him . . . he killed Krinkly in front of me. I felt his life leave his . . . aw hell,” Standish covered his face with his hands to stop the tears from falling. He didn’t want to embarrass himself or Larabee.
“I’m sorry, Ezra.”
Standish nodded and removed his hands from his face, the tears still glistening in his eyes. “I was scared, Chris . . . for the first time in my life, I was really scared. Not of dying, but of the way I was going to die.” He stood up so he didn’t have to look at Larabee. “I don’t want to get into a car. I don’t want to go to the hospital. I want to get a drink.”
“How are you going to get home if you won’t get in a car?”
“Walk.”
“Ezra.”
“And I’m not going home. I’m going to Inez’s. I am going to get so fucking drunk that I won’t be able to think for a week.”
“Ezra--”
“Chris . . . please . . . I can’t deal with this right now.”
Larabee watched as his friend began to walk away from him. “Ezra, wait. Give me a few minutes to get things organized and I’ll walk with you.”
“I want some time to myself, Chris,” Standish stopped, looked over his shoulder at Larabee and lowered his eyes. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Ezra!” Larabee sprung to his feet and ran down the last few steps. “You can’t go anywhere in your condition . . . you can barely stand up on your own.” He grabbed Standish’s elbow and pulled him around to face him. The emotion in Standish’s eyes made him pause in his attempt to get his friend to a hospital.
“Chris . . . please, let me go.”
“Shit!” Larabee reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Handing it to Standish, he said, “Call me if you need help getting there.”
Standish took the phone. “Thanks, Chris.”
“I’ll use Vin’s cell . . . call Buck and JD, have them meet you there.” He raised his hand to stop Standish’s protest. “I know you need to be on your own, Ezra, but not now. In a couple of days, when we’re sure you’ll be okay, we’ll give you all the time you need.”
Standish nodded in agreement and walked away – not in a straight line – and when he made it to the end of the path, he turned and began the short journey to Inez’s Bar and alcoholic oblivion.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten
Master Fan Fiction List
- Sequel to ‘A Murder Mystery’
Rating: PG Bad Language
Fandom: The Magnificent Seven
Category: Four Corners Detectives AU
Main Characters: Ezra and JD
Disclaimers: The guys are owned by CBS, MGM, Trilogy Entertainment Group, and The Mirisch Corp.
Notes: The April 2005 Challenge (the Mystery Challenge) - offered by Jesfrealo. Write a story where a mystery plays a key role in the story. Have one or any combination of the guys be the detective(s). It can be funny or serious and in any open universe. Extra points if you make an unusual pair of the guys work together to figure out the mystery (so not Chris and Vin or Buck and JD...). Have fun!!
Summary: Detectives Standish and Dunne hunt for a killer
Spoilers: None
Author's note: A BIG thank you and a bear hug to the person who nominated this story for a 2008 & 2009 MoM award!
Warning: Josiah Sanchez is the bad guy in this story!
Part Nine
When Sanchez began to drag him away from the bed, Standish felt an overwhelming need to see Krinkly before they left the bedroom. Where the need came from he didn’t know, but it was a need so strong it caused him to open his eyes and look back over his right shoulder. Two browned stained pillows covered Krinkly’s head, explaining the sound of the gunshot, but they couldn’t hide the smorgasbord of blood and brain matter that had snuck out from beneath the pillows for all to see . . . and Standish wanted to see.
His stomach, repulsed by the view, caused him to regret his decision; it erupted with a sudden brutality that forced Standish to his knees, almost dragging Sanchez down with him. With each painful bout, Sanchez’s previous words came back to haunt him. If you throw up I’ll force it back down your throat. The words repeated themselves like an irritating song, forcing him to see an image that he didn’t want to see – an image that encouraged his stomach. He continued to throw up until there was nothing left. Everything he’d eaten during the last twenty-four hours now lay in a puddle on the carpet and he couldn’t turn his eyes away from it. He coughed when he began to gag on the saliva and blood that filled his mouth. After spitting the mixture out onto the floor, he wiped his mouth, first on the left side of his coat, then on the right; the pain the movement caused to his split lip went unnoticed.
Sanchez felt his own nausea grow at the sight before him and he grimaced in disgust when the Detective’s lips scraped against the hand he was using to hold the smaller man in place. Keeping his body behind Standish’s, Sanchez placed his left knee on the floor next to Standish’s hip and pressed his right knee into the Detective’s back. He then leaned forward, his lips close enough to touch the chilled flesh of Standish’s cheek and said, “I remember saying that I was going to force you to eat that.” He increased the pressure on Standish’s shoulder and back, forcing him toward the floor.
Standish groaned and closed his eyes when he felt Sanchez pushing him closer to the floor. The smell of his own vomit grew stronger, blending with the smell of Krinkly’s death. Each smell on its own was bad enough, but together . . . they were nauseating. Thankfully, his stomach had nothing left to give.
It took a few seconds for Standish to realize that Sanchez was no longer pushing him down. He opened his eyes, thanked God, and the Devil that he was still a few inches off the floor; now, if only God or the Devil would save his miserable life. His breath caught in his throat when he felt the Glock press painfully against the back of his neck. He continued to feel the barrel of his own gun as it began to travel upward, stopping only when it reached the back of his head. In his mind, Standish could see the bullet exiting the barrel and entering his skull, leaving a hole the size of a fist when it came out the other side.
“I’ve wanted to kill you since the moment you walked into Duncans Bar,” Sanchez said.
Standish closed his eyes.
Sanchez could feel his victim trembling beneath him. Standish was scared; the fear flowed through the man’s body. This was what the killer enjoyed: the fear. It was what he lived for. The feeling he got from taking a person’s life was better than an orgasm.
“How do you think they’re going to react when they find you lying face down in your own vomit?”
Standish refused to answer. For a fleeting moment, he considered begging his way out of it, but begging wasn’t in his nature and it wouldn’t get him anywhere, not with a killer like Sanchez. Fighting back was also out of the question. Not only did he lack the strength, the position Sanchez now had him in made it impossible.
What he needed was a miracle.
“I want to know what your final thoughts are, Detective Standish.”
The only thought running through Standish’s panicked mind was, I don’t want to die like this, but he wasn’t going to say the words the killer wanted to hear. Standish gathered his remaining courage and said, “Go fuck yourself, your sister and your fucking dog.”
“Brave words for a man who’s scared of dying,” Sanchez smiled.
The killer, so caught up in the moment, didn’t hear or see the two men move through the open doorway into the bedroom, each man taking up a position on either side of him. When he heard Larabee’s voice, “Four Corners Sheriff’s department. Put the gun down and step away from him,” Sanchez knew he might have lost the game.
Standish’s body jerked in surprise at the sound of Larabee’s confident and steady voice. He expected Sanchez to pull him back up onto his feet and use him as a human shield. It didn’t happen. Instead, the killer imbedded his fingers even further into his shoulder, causing him to groan in pain.
Sanchez looked up with an expression of stunned disbelief written all over his features. Chris Larabee, wearing a bulletproof vest over his uniform, stood five feet away from him. He quickly looked to the right to find Vin Tanner, also wearing a vest, and then looked back at Larabee. Both men were close, too close. They stood with their guns raised, ready to take him out of the game as soon as he gave them an opportunity. He wasn’t going to give them one.
With a hint of admiration in his voice Sanchez said, “Larabee, I didn’t think you’d find us . . . at least not before I had a chance to kill Standish.”
It only took a moment for Chris Larabee to realize that this was going to be the third worst day of his life. In front of him, Ezra Standish was on his knees with a killer practically lying on his back, holding a gun to his head. Larabee was going to have to use every negotiating skill he possessed to keep Standish alive, but if it were necessary, he wouldn’t hesitate to kill Sanchez. It also helped to know that there was a trained sharpshooter standing a few feet away from him.
Larabee took control of the growing hatred he felt for Sanchez and said, “You made it easy for us to find you.”
“Really,” Sanchez returned Larabee’s stare. “How?”
Larabee ignored the question. “Put the gun on the ground and step away from him. I will shoot you, if you don’t.”
Wanting to see Larabee, Standish opened his eyes but all he could see was the floor; it wasn’t enough. He needed to take a more positive role in what was about to occur, instead of feeling as if he were standing on the sideline, blind to everything that surrounded him. Pushing up against the weight on his back and getting nowhere, almost caused him to whimper with despair. When his eyes began to water he closed them again, telling himself that it was the strong odor of vomit that caused the tears, and not the surprising arrival of Chris Larabee.
“Go ahead, shoot me.”
Standish agreeing with Sanchez whispered, “Yes . . . please . . . shoot him.”
Sanchez, in a voice so low that only Standish could hear said, “Shut your fucking mouth.”
“Put the gun on the floor and step away from him,” Larabee repeated.
“Just shoot him, Chris,” Tanner said.
Standish couldn’t help but smile at the sound of Tanner’s voice. If Larabee didn’t talk their way out of this, Tanner would simply shoot and kill Sanchez.
“You won’t shoot me,” Sanchez said.
“Why not?” Larabee asked.
“You’re not stupid, Larabee. You won’t take the chance that I’ll develop a death grip and pull the trigger as a result.”
Only Sanchez’s hold on him stopped Standish from falling closer to the ground with the weight of those words. He hoped that neither of his friends would take that chance. If he was still going to die today, he wanted it to be because Sanchez pulled the trigger by choice.
Larabee’s response to those words was to lower his weapon, directing his aim toward Sanchez’s left knee.
Sanchez ignored the move and said, “I want to make a deal.”
Larabee’s reply was succinct, “No.”
“I’ll kill him!”
“No deals.”
“We are going to make a deal, Larabee. You’ll agree to it and I’ll let Standish live.”
“No.”
“Chris . . .” Standish had the sudden urge to bitch slap the stubbornness out of his boss.
Sanchez could feel the pain as some of the muscles in his body began to cramp up; he’d been in the same position for too long. Understanding that he was beginning to feel desperate, he took a deep breath to calm himself. He wasn’t going to let Larabee win.
“Here’s the deal . . . you bring me my--”
“If you ask for your fucking dog, I’ll shoot you right now,” Larabee warned him.
“It’s a one for one deal, Larabee,” Sanchez said. “It’s not like I’m asking for a helicopter and a million dollars.”
“No, you’re asking for a fucking dog,” Larabee shook his head then continued, “It’s over, Sanchez. Put the gun on the floor and step away from him.”
Larabee, not prepared for Sanchez’s next move, stepped back when the killer removed his hand from Standish’s shoulder and grabbed the smaller man’s forehead in the palm of his hand. Sanchez then pulled Standish’s head up and back, revealing his friend’s battered face to the room. Larabee swallowed his shock and knowing how Tanner would react to the sight of their friend, said, “Vin, stay where you are.”
“I’m gonna kill him, Chris.” Tanner had taken the back seat during the negotiation, allowing his boss do all the talking, but after seeing what Sanchez had done, he wanted to take control.
“Vin,” Larabee could see Tanner taking a step closer to Sanchez.
“No more talking . . . we kill him, now.”
“Kill me and you kill Standish,” Sanchez said.
After the sudden change of position, it took Standish a few seconds to get his bearings and once he did, he blinked a number of times to clear his vision. When it finally cleared, he could see Larabee and Tanner. The expressions of tenacity on their faces told Standish that the two men were willing to do anything to protect him.
“Vin . . . don’t.”
At the sound of Standish’s voice, Tanner relaxed his posture and stepped back into his original position, indicating to Larabee that he was now in control of his emotions.
“Can we get back to it now?” Sanchez knew that Standish wasn’t going to last much longer. Even with Standish on his knees, he still had to support most of the man’s weight.
“I’m not agreeing to a deal.”
“If you don’t agree to a deal, you’ll watch him die just like he watched Krinkly die.”
Larabee refused to look at the cadaver on the bed. Jefferson Krinkly would get the attention he deserved once this situation was under control.
“Listen to me, Sanchez, because I am not going to continue to repeat myself to you,” Larabee spoke with a calmness that was well known to both Standish and Tanner. “We are not going to make a deal. Do you understand me?”
The smile returned to Sanchez’s face. “Then get your boss down here. He made a deal with me earlier, I’m sure he’ll be willing to make another one.”
Larabee, thinking that two could play the same game, allowed his own smile to grow. “Not going to happen this time, Sanchez. This is between you and me.”
“You’re willing to let Standish die?”
“He won’t die.”
“You want to play with this man’s life? You’re worse than I am.” Sanchez was beginning to think he was dealing with an idiot. Did this man not take part in any of the Police Department’s Negotiation Seminars? Did he even know what the word negotiation meant?
“You’re wrong about that.”
“Wrong about what, Larabee?” Sanchez asked.
“I’m not playing,” Larabee said.
“Neither am I,” Sanchez moved his hand up over Standish’s head, and after taking a handful of the man’s hair, pulled the Detective’s head back. The back of Standish’s head now rested on Sanchez’s shoulder, his eyes staring up at the high ceiling. Sanchez rubbed his jaw along the side of the Detective’s face and said, “I made my first kill when I was fourteen, Larabee, and I enjoyed it. Taking a person’s life . . . it’s easy for me. When I look into your eyes, I see a man who struggles with the thought of killing another person. You won’t kill me. You can’t kill me. Walk away now, Larabee. Give me an hour to leave town, and I’ll let Standish go. If you don’t, I will kill him.”
Standish could feel the tension building within Sanchez’s body and knew without a doubt that the man was about to pull the trigger. “Chris . . .”
Larabee reacted to the fear in Standish’s voice and took a step closer to Sanchez.
“Take another look, Sanchez, and I guarantee you that you’ll see a man who is prepared to kill to protect a friend. So believe me when I tell you, that I will kill you to save him.”
Standish, realizing what Larabee was about to do said, “Then shoot him.”
The bullet struck Sanchez’s left knee and the man’s body reacted to the pain that tore through his leg. The fingers of both hands opened, dropping the Glock and releasing Standish. In a desperate need to stop the pain, his hands wrapped themselves around the injured knee and drew the leg closer to his chest as he fell to the floor.
Standish fell with him and as soon as his back hit the floor, the Detective began to push himself backwards away from Sanchez, only stopping when his back hit a small stack of newspapers.
Keeping his gun aimed at the man on the floor, Larabee moved quickly forward, kicking the gun out of Sanchez’s reach. “Place your hands on the back of your head and roll onto your stomach.”
“Fuck you, Larabee!” Sanchez snapped. “You’ll regret this, believe me. I’ll make you pay!”
“You had your chance already,” Larabee looked into the killer’s eyes and smiled. “It’s over.”
Saliva flew from between Sanchez’s lips as he spoke, “That’s what you think. I’m not going to make this easy for you. You want me on my stomach . . . you put me on my stomach!”
Larabee kicked the hands that were attempting to protect Sanchez’s injured knee from any more pain; the hands failed miserably.
“Fuck!” Sanchez pulled his leg even closer to his chest.
“Place your hands on the back of your head and roll onto your stomach.”
“I’d do as he says, Sanchez,” Tanner had moved to a position next to Larabee, his own gun covering the man on the floor. “He’ll keep kicking you until you do and we’re in a hurry . . . we want to go and take care of our friend.”
Sanchez looked over at Standish and said, “Should have fucked you over when I had the chance, Standish.”
Larabee kicked Sanchez’s knee with a lot more force, this time dislocating one of the man’s fingers.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Sanchez glared at Tanner, then at Larabee and made a decision. Lifting his blood-covered hands to the back of his head and carefully lowering his leg, he rolled over onto his stomach. Another obscenity escaped his mouth when his damaged knee made contact with the floor. He then grunted in pain when Tanner dug a knee into the small of his back. When the handcuffs closed around his wrists, he knew he had lost. The game was over.
As soon as Tanner had secured Sanchez's hands, Larabee lowered his gun, turned to face Standish and said, “Hey, Ezra, it’s alright, we’ve got you now.”
Pulling his knees to his chest, Standish tried to steady his breathing. Now was not the time to panic. Chris and Vin were here with him. He was safe. It was over. Pain made itself known to him and he grimaced, forcing it to the back of his mind.
Larabee frowned at Standish’s silence and moved to kneel in front of him, blocking his view of Sanchez. “You’re okay, Ezra.”
Standish blinked and saw the concern on Larabee’s face. “Can you take these cuffs off?”
“Sorry, Ezra.” Larabee put his gun on the floor, pulled a key from his belt and pulled Standish forward until the Detective’s forehead rested against his shoulder. Ignoring the tremors that ran through Standish’s body, Larabee reached behind the smaller man and removed the cuffs. Larabee dragged his right hand over the back of Standish’s head before pushing his friend back against the stack of newspapers.
The caring touch that had come from Larabee, gave Standish the strength he needed to pull himself back together. Taking a deep breath against the pain he knew was coming, Standish brought his arms forward and rubbed each wrist in turn. “Shit, that hurt.”
“Any other injuries that I can’t see?”
“No.” Standish used his fingers to explore the injury on his forehead, feeling the dry blood that covered the area. It didn’t feel bad enough to warrant too much attention. He rubbed his tired and sore eyes with the palm of his other hand. Standish looked down at his knees and said, “I’m sorry about JD . . . I couldn’t . . . it’s my fault he’s dead.”
“What?” Larabee frowned, his expression falling from his face when he realized what Sanchez had done. “JD’s fine, Ezra. He’s not dead. He took a knock to the head in the accident, that’s all. According to Jackson, he didn’t even get a concussion. He’ll have a headache for while . . .” Larabee stopped talking when he realized Standish was staring at him. The man’s eyes had widened in both shock and relief.
“He told me that--”
“Sanchez was messing with your head,” Larabee looked over his shoulder and when his eyes rested on the killer, he began to rise from his crouched position in front of Standish.
“Chris,” Tanner had seen the same look in Larabee’s eyes once before and knew what it meant. “Take Ezra outside, get him checked over by the medic. You can send Hollman in to back me up.”
Larabee stared at Sanchez for a moment longer before turning back to Standish. He picked up his gun and placed it back in its holster before reaching down for Standish. “Come on, Ezra, let’s go.”
With Larabee’s help, Standish made it to his feet and without looking at Krinkly or Sanchez, he walked away from what was almost his own crime scene. He made it all the way into the other room before his knees buckled. A strength he didn’t know he had kept him from falling flat on his face.
Larabee strengthened his grip on Standish’s arm and said, “There’s an ambulance outside, we’ll go to the hospital and get you checked out.”
Standish pulled his arm out of Larabee’s grip, losing his precious balance as a result. Only Larabee’s quick reflex’s stopped him from falling. “I’m not going to the hospital!”
“Ezra, don’t start with me!” Larabee growled.
“I’m starting anything, Chris. I’m not going to the hospital.”
“You’re hurt. You need to be checked out by a Doctor,” Larabee took Standish's arm in a firm grip and began to pull him out of the main room of Krinkly’s apartment and into the corridor that led to the front door. “Look, if you don’t want to go in the ambulance, I’ll take you. Hollman can help--”
Ezra snorted. “It’s his fault that Sanchez was able to get to me. If he hadn’t--”
“Don’t worry about Hollman,” Larabee smiled as he pulled Standish out through the open front door. “Apparently . . . JD is going to take care of him.”
When Standish stepped out into the late afternoon light, he closed his eyes against the sharp pain that coursed through his brain. He could feel the weakening sun’s warmth on his cool flesh and took comfort in the fact that he was still alive. Taking a deep breath, he relished the smell of the flowers flourishing on the Maple bushes that were growing at the side of the house.
“You okay?”
“No.” Standish opened his eyes and looked down at the cars parked in the street. He began to make his way down the steps, only making it half way before sitting down. “I’m not going to the hospital.”
“Ezra . . .”
Standish looked up and when the movement caused his head to spin, he began to massage his temples in an attempt to ease the pain. He gave up on the right side when he remembered the injury on his forehead. He wondered if Sanchez or the accident had caused it. At the memory of the accident, Standish lowered his head but continued to massage his left temple. He spoke his next words so softly that Larabee struggled to hear them, “I’m not getting into a car.”
“Ezra, you need to--”
“What I need . . . right now . . . is a drink.”
Larabee, understanding the man’s need for alcohol, sat down next to Standish and said, “The last thing you need is a drink.”
“After what I went through in there . . . after what I saw . . . Chris, he wanted me to watch, but I wouldn’t open my eyes. He made me kneel on the floor, put my face against Krinkly’s back . . . I couldn’t fight him, couldn’t do anything to stop him . . . he killed Krinkly in front of me. I felt his life leave his . . . aw hell,” Standish covered his face with his hands to stop the tears from falling. He didn’t want to embarrass himself or Larabee.
“I’m sorry, Ezra.”
Standish nodded and removed his hands from his face, the tears still glistening in his eyes. “I was scared, Chris . . . for the first time in my life, I was really scared. Not of dying, but of the way I was going to die.” He stood up so he didn’t have to look at Larabee. “I don’t want to get into a car. I don’t want to go to the hospital. I want to get a drink.”
“How are you going to get home if you won’t get in a car?”
“Walk.”
“Ezra.”
“And I’m not going home. I’m going to Inez’s. I am going to get so fucking drunk that I won’t be able to think for a week.”
“Ezra--”
“Chris . . . please . . . I can’t deal with this right now.”
Larabee watched as his friend began to walk away from him. “Ezra, wait. Give me a few minutes to get things organized and I’ll walk with you.”
“I want some time to myself, Chris,” Standish stopped, looked over his shoulder at Larabee and lowered his eyes. “I’ll meet you there.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Ezra!” Larabee sprung to his feet and ran down the last few steps. “You can’t go anywhere in your condition . . . you can barely stand up on your own.” He grabbed Standish’s elbow and pulled him around to face him. The emotion in Standish’s eyes made him pause in his attempt to get his friend to a hospital.
“Chris . . . please, let me go.”
“Shit!” Larabee reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. Handing it to Standish, he said, “Call me if you need help getting there.”
Standish took the phone. “Thanks, Chris.”
“I’ll use Vin’s cell . . . call Buck and JD, have them meet you there.” He raised his hand to stop Standish’s protest. “I know you need to be on your own, Ezra, but not now. In a couple of days, when we’re sure you’ll be okay, we’ll give you all the time you need.”
Standish nodded in agreement and walked away – not in a straight line – and when he made it to the end of the path, he turned and began the short journey to Inez’s Bar and alcoholic oblivion.
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Part Seven | Part Eight | Part Nine | Part Ten
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