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Rich switched on the engine and swerved away from the curb, then wrenched the wheel hard right, and drove straight into the parking lot I knew by heart. He braked between the man we knew as Blackout and his gray sedan. Blackout hadbeen nonchalant, certain he’d make his escape. He didn’t know what was coming.
“Lights,” I said.
Rich turned on the high beams and blinded by the light, Catton shielded his eyes with the crook of his elbow. Rich set the parking brake and we bolted from the car, weapons drawn.
I yelled, “SFPD! On your knees. Hands on your head. Do it, now.”
CHAPTER 92
SIRENS SCREAMED. GRILL and roof lights flashed red and blue from blocks away as squad cars broke from the perimeter and converged on our location. The man in black recovered from his momentary high beam blindness and continued trying to evade us and get to his ride.
My Glock was in both hands. I shouted again, “Get down on your knees! Hands on your head. Do it. Now.”
But Blackout turned on his heel and ran toward Linden Street. We were in close pursuit and then he tripped. My partner, faster than me, was on him. Grabbed his collar with his left hand, pressed his gun to the side of Blackout’s face, and jerked him to his knees.
I came in close and stared at the subject of night terrors. Yes. It was Blackout. The man I’d seen on too many murder videos. Real name Bryan Catton.
I yanked his arms behind his back as he resisted. I had cuffed his left wrist and was working on the right. Rich kept his gun on Catton and began to pat him down. But the bastard wasstrong, and he pulled out of my grasp and backed away toward the loading dock.
He pulled a gun from somewhere and aimed it at me. Conklin was behind me. Julie’s face came into my mind. And Joe’s. The blood left my head and pooled in my knees.
Catton shouted, “Freeze!”
I stiffened my legs. That was all I could do.
And the man who’d told us to freeze at the point of his gun, shouted with military authority. “Lie facedown, both of you! My gun is mad. I can fire or I can bolt. Choose option two. When I’m outta here, we all live.”
I knew “we all live” was a ruse and that someone would die in the next few seconds. I was rigid. It was a lose-lose situation. We could die here. Or, if we killed Catton, we might never find Cindy.
I said, “All right, all right. There’s my gun.”
I dropped my weapon and began to kneel. I was buying only seconds to give Rich a better shot.
He fired. Twice.
We are trained to fire two shots to center mass but Catton was an athletic genius. He’d turned sideways, avoiding probable kill shots, taking a .9 mm round in his right forearm. He grabbed his shattered arm and as blood streamed down, he screamed, and his weapon clattered to the ground.
As Rich bent to pick up the gun, Catton took the opportunity to knee him in the face. Rich’s head snapped back from the blow, but he wasn’t out. He balled up his fist and delivered a bone-breaking punch to Catton’s nose.
Catton screamed again. Blood flew from his face. My cuffs were dangling from his left wrist. Richie’s cheek radiated redeven in dim light, but he was otherwise unharmed. Catton was wailing, Rich rolled him onto his belly and I finished cuffing the monster.
When Catton was immobilized, I leaned over and grabbed a handful of his hair. I lifted his head from the ground and looked into the bloody face of the man who’d murdered so many innocent people, who’d taunted us, who’d abducted our close and beloved friend.
I said, “Where’s Cindy? Tell me where she is and I’ll help you. This offer expires in ten seconds.”
This man had talked before, sent video evidence of his murders with cinematic flourishes. Now he said, “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
Stepping back, I said to my partner, “He’s all yours.”
Rich Conklin and a uniformed officer hauled Catton to his feet. I fished my phone out of my vest, set the camera to video, aimed it at the bloody tableau in front of me, and pressed “record.”
Inspector Richard Conklin said, “Bryan Catton, you’re under arrest for murder. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you …”
Brady pulled up in his SUV, Alvarez in the passenger seat. Our Godlike lieutenant got out first.
He called out, “Is it him?”
“Yes, sir.”
