Sentinel - Progressions Series 01 With Deadly Intent
Disclaimer: The characters depicted within this story do not belong to us, but are the property of Pet Fly, UPN, and Paramount. No money has been made from the writing of this story.
Note from the Authors: In our Sentinel universe, the events depicted in The Sentinel by Blair Sandburg did not occur. Therefore, any "canonical" references that may be found in this story are related to episodes up to and including Most Wanted.
Dedication: This story is dedicated to friendship, for only through caring for others can we truly find a sense of peace and belonging.
With Deadly Intent
by Beth Manz
Prologue
A thin layer of fog hovered above the damp ground, a nearly transparent substance that shifted effortlessly in the light wind, obscuring then revealing patches of earth. The filmy white wisps were the only sources of light in the surrounding darkness, and even their fragile presence was rapidly dissipating. Above, the sky was a dark void that extended downward to blanket the landscape in inky blackness.
The night was placid, still; the only sound to be heard was the monotonous dripping of water as it trickled languidly from the old storm drain and splashed against the wet earth below.
A man squatted within the dankness of the concrete storm duct, a gaunt figure attired in worn black work boots and a one-piece navy blue jumpsuit. Two lines of white lettering adorned the back of the jumpsuit, identifying its wearer as an inmate of Washington State's maximum-security prison. Those white letters, seemingly innocuous, burned into his skin like a firebrand. It was an abhorrent label that he had worn impatiently for three years now. Its constant presence mocked him, reminded him of where he was... and of the man who had put him there.
The prisoner huddled in the dampness, shivering with uncontrollable tremors that forced his slight frame into a tight ball and compelled him to pull his arms and legs tight against his body in an effort to gather and retain some measure of warmth.
To a casual observer the man could almost appear fragile, even frail. But that impression would last only until the moment that the observer looked into the man's eyes. A calculating coldness and a determined, almost feral gleam shone forth from those windows to the man's soul, instantly exposing the calmly controlled malice that drove him.
Again the man shivered, a deep tremor that ran the length of his body. The jumpsuit, while functional, was little protection against the bitter chill. But the man had had no option regarding his attire. No matter; if all went as planned he would soon be warm and dry again, the jumpsuit discarded and replaced with clothing of his own choice. He almost laughed aloud at that thought--ridding himself of the loathsome garment held almost as much excitement for him as the fact that he would soon be his own man once again.
From the shelter of his hiding place the prisoner stared down at the ground below him, mentally calculating the 20-foot drop to the wet earth. The storm drain emptied out beyond the prison fence, then it was a just a quarter-mile jaunt to the line of trees that edged the prison property on its eastern side.
The man hesitated, listening carefully for any sound that would indicate that his absence from the cellblock had been discovered. But only the constant drip, drip, drip of the water met his ears, and he allowed himself to relax just a bit.
Prisoner.
His lips curled in disgust as the term settled itself in his mind. But not for much longer. He was about to cast the title aside... again. And this time he intended to make sure it was for good. He'd die this time if he had to--die before he'd allow them to put him behind walls a third time.
He pushed his thoughts aside, surveying the dark landscape for the last time from within the relative shelter of the old storm duct. It was time to go.
Positioning himself on the lip of the drain, the man balanced on the edge for the slightest moment, took a deep breath and jumped out into space. Hitting the ground, he curled his body and rolled forward into a tight somersault, thereby absorbing only a minimal amount of impact from the landing. Beneath him, the moisture of the rain-soaked ground immediately permeated his meager clothing; he stood quickly to distance himself from the soggy earth.
Sparing only the briefest of glances behind him, he set out for the forest ahead. He pushed himself forward, railing inwardly at the muddy ground that sucked at his boots, slowing him. He had timed the distance from the storm drain to the forest to the best of his ability, knowing he would have less than a minute before the large spotlight from the prison tower would swing its powerful beam across the tree line where he was headed.
To his left he could see the beam approaching and he knew it would be upon him in a matter of seconds. Garnering every bit of energy he possessed, he sprinted to the tree line and then jumped, sailing headfirst into the underbrush at the edge of the forest just as the spotlight illuminated the ground where he had been only a moment before.
The prisoner scrambled to his feet and ran into the trees, pushing himself through the night, struggling to stay upright as he thrashed through the thick undergrowth. He stumbled once, heavily, but picked himself up and kept going. He knew it was imperative that he get to the small stream that cut through the forest, for it was only there that he would be able to disguise his scent from the prison dogs that would no doubt be sent after him as soon as his escape became known.
He stumbled on, blindly at times. Breathing became increasingly difficult; each breath was an audible gasp, its intake more and more insufficient against the burning craving of his lungs. But he pushed on, ignoring his body's demands.
It seemed like he'd been running forever and that he would never reach the stream when suddenly he burst through a stand of small saplings and there it was--only a few feet before him, a muddy bank sloped down gently into a ribbon of slow-moving water.
Without hesitating, the prisoner waded out into the water, then turned downstream toward his next goal. Carlo Arguelles, an old prison buddy who owed him a few favors, was waiting for him outside of the little town situated about five miles downstream. Of course, he was well aware that that same little town would be one of the first places the authorities would search once they discovered he was gone. He knew his only hope of remaining free was to reach his rendezvous before the prison guards found his empty cell.
He allowed himself a small smile as he slogged along through the cold water. His thoughts scrolled forward, buoyed now by a sense of freedom that he was daring to believe would be his after all. He'd be able to hole up with Carlo over in Tacoma for a few days, get some new clothes, maybe cut his hair. Then... he had an appointment. An appointment in Cascade. More specifically, an appointment with Detective James Ellison.
The prisoner laughed quietly. He'd had more than enough time to think about it, to plan it. Time to decide how best to make Ellison pay for what he'd suffered at the detective's hands.
Yes, Ellison would pay. But not right away. A smile pulled up one corner of his mouth as he thought about his plan. His revenge.
The man stopped and looked back in the direction from which he had come. He listened carefully, then squinted to peer through the darkness. No sounds from the prison reached him--no indication of the facility's warning siren, no guards' voices raised to call directives to one another as they pursued their quarry downstream, no dogs barking as they sniffed at his footsteps and led their human counterparts down the path he had taken to escape.
The prisoner sighed deeply--a sound of contentment. Prisoner? He was halfway to his rendezvous with Arguelles and there was still no indication that his escape had been discovered.
Ex-prisoner. Escaped felon. Fugitive.
He rolled the new terms over in his mind and found them to be much more to his liking than the title he had carried for the past thirty-six months. He'd made it. He was free to take up his life, start anew... just as soon as he was finished with Ellison. It was a heady feeling, and he savored it.
Pushing his damp hair back out his eyes, Dawson Quinn started forward again. An exhilarating sense of purpose beat in his heart, pumped through his veins... Ellison. Ellison would be his.
Part One
Ahead of him, the traffic light turned red and Simon Banks braked his Buick sedan to a smooth stop. He smiled benignly; his monthly status meeting with the mayor was behind him, and it had gone surprisingly well for a change.
He sat at the light, enjoying the sun-warmed interior of the comfortable car, the taste and aroma of one of his ever-present cigars. He smiled openly now, his expression touched with just the slightest amount of evil satisfaction. Within the confines of his own car he was able to actually smoke his cigars--something not allowed at the station, where he had to be content to hold them in his mouth but never light them. He sighed. He supposed the new environmental laws had their place and purpose, but he still missed the days when he was allowed to smoke in his own office.
The traffic light turned green. Simon pushed gently at the accelerator and was halfway through the intersection when the police radio crackled to life. Reaching over, he turned the volume up. Two uniformed cops, Cawley and McMann--hadn't he met them at that police fund raiser last month?--were calling in an apparent homicide. An unidentified man found in a dumpster, one bullet to the head. Alley behind the Commerce Street branch of Evergreen State Savings and Loan. Requesting a forensics team and an investigative detail.
Simon snatched the microphone from its clip and spoke into it, identifying himself. "I'm approximately six blocks from your location and am responding. ETA two minutes."
"Copy that," the voice of one of the uniformed officers came back to him.
Banks replaced the microphone and half-listened to the conversation as it continued between the police officer and dispatch, the routine handling of the nearly innumerable details that went into the initiation of an official investigation.
Crossing Commerce Street, Simon drove toward the designated alley. As he approached the small back street, a small worry prickled at the back of his mind. Why did this area seem so familiar to him?
He turned into the alley that ran behind a number of financial institutions located on Commerce. It was easy to spot the police cruiser ahead; the car sat alone in the narrow street, its rotating red and blue lights muted by the bright, late morning sunlight.
Pulling in ahead of the cruiser, Simon parked and exited his vehicle. As he walked back toward the crime scene, he was met by Officer McMann. The young man fell into step beside him, giving him a brief rundown of the few details he and his partner had acquired thus far. The facts were sparse, not much more than had already been divulged during the initial call on the police radio.
"Were you able to find any identification?" Simon queried.
"None that we could find without having to move the body, Sir," McMann answered crisply.
Simon forced back a smile. The rookie officers seemed to be getting younger looking with each passing year, and McMann was no exception. Barely into his twenties, he was fresh and eager, and clearly intimidated by the captain's presence.
Simon stopped near the dumpster and tossed the remaining length of his cigar to the ground, crushing the smoldering object beneath his foot. Placing his hand on McMann's shoulder, he smiled. "Relax, Son. Let's just see what we have here."
Stepping up to the open dumpster, Simon steeled himself for what he was about to see. Twenty-plus years on the force, and it still wasn't easy to look upon the remains of a life that had been cut short by an act of violence. The captain peered over the lip of the rusted container and ran his eyes along the length of the body, up to the pallid face.
Immediately, his breath caught in his throat. "Oh, no," he rasped out, stepping back away from the dumpster without realizing he was doing so. Closing his eyes, he forced himself to take deep, calming breaths. His right hand sought and found his glasses, removing them from his face; his left hand came up to rub vigorously at the bridge of his nose.
Now he remembered why this area was so familiar to him. Now he remembered the last time a body had been found in this same location. In this same dumpster.
"Sir?" McMann was beside him, his face anxious. "Sir, are you all right?"
Simon nodded. "Yes, yes I'm fine," he said brusquely, immediately regretting his stern manner. Deliberately softening his tone, he added. "I know this man."
"You know the victim?" the officer blurted out, then fell silent. He opened his mouth once to speak again, then shut it, not knowing what to say.
Simon pushed his glasses back onto his face and turned to McMann. "Have you ever heard of Gilbert Brody?" he asked the rookie.
The officer's eyes widened in surprise. "Lieutenant Gilbert Brody? Of course. I mean, I know the man retired a year or so ago, but he's practically a legend at the Academy." McMann glanced at the body lying within the dumpster and swallowed. "You mean... this is... ?"
Simon nodded. "He was a good cop," he said softly to the man beside him. "An excellent cop," he murmured even more softly to himself. Snapping to attention, Simon barked an order to McMann: "You and your partner seal off this alley on both ends. Make sure that no one--and I mean no one--gets down here unless they're here on official business. I want this scene preserved."
"Yes, sir," the young officer responded.
Simon watched as the two officers split up, each of them heading toward opposite ends of the alley where curious onlookers were already gathering. Left alone at the dumpster, Banks pulled on a pair of latex gloves and steeled himself for a more thorough examination of Brody's body.
And a name ran through his mind--Dawson Quinn.
Quinn had been on the run from the state prison for almost a month now. The Feds had taken over the investigation from the very first, effectively shutting the Cascade Police Department out of their little "dog and pony" show. The Feds' insistence on keeping Simon's team in the dark had especially rankled Jim Ellison. Ellison had asked Simon on numerous occasions to be placed on Dawson's trail, but Simon had had no choice but to deny his requests. The Feds were adamant--the Cascade PD would be copied on pertinent paperwork and details, but under no circumstances were they to join the search for the escaped felon.
As the weeks had passed and there was no sign of Quinn, Simon had begun to breathe a bit easier regarding the escapee. He had even started to think that perhaps the reports he was receiving back from the Feds had some merit after all--perhaps Quinn had skipped the state, even the country. The agents assigned to the case had grown more and more confident of that hypothesis, though Ellison had remained insistent that the theory was a convenient cover-up to mask the agents' own ineptitude.
Simon's thoughts shifted... maybe this wasn't Quinn's work. After all, what did Gilbert Brody Sr. have to do with the convicted murderer other than the fact that he was the father of one of Quinn's victims? Brody had been a cop for over thirty years and he'd put away any number of criminals; any number of men could have had a score to settle with the former detective.
But no other man would kill Brody and then dump him in this location, in the same dumpster where his son's body had been found following the Federal Reserve heist. No, it had to be Quinn. Only he would know...
Simon sighed deeply and pulled the gloves up around his wrists with an angry snap; he had a job to do.
Reaching in, the captain began to poke gingerly through the dead man's clothing. All of the outer pockets of Brody's jacket and slacks were empty. Gently easing back the front of Brody's brown tweed blazer, Simon pushed practiced fingers down into the inside pocket of the garment. Something crumpled against the tips of his fingers; he grasped the obj
ect between his index finger and thumb and pulled it carefully from its hiding place. It was a small piece of paper from a note pad, folded over once.
Opening it, Simon stared down at the neatly printed letters. He read it twice and then a third time, as though he couldn't truly believe what he was seeing. But then--as the reality of what he was reading hit him, along with all its accompanying implications--Simon felt his world crumble around him.
He bit back an angry groan and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Punching the speed dial number that would connect him to his office at the station, he waited impatiently as the call began to ring through. Rhonda's voice answered almost immediately, "Captain Banks' Office, Rhonda speaking."
"Rhonda!" he barked at his long-suffering assistant. "Get me Ellison! Now!"
/
/
Detective Jim Ellison took a large bite out of his ham and Swiss sandwich. He'd been looking forward to lunch for well over an hour now, and the disparate yet complementary flavors of the sweet ham and tangy Swiss cheese had just begun to stimulate his taste buds when Rhonda called to him across the quiet bullpen.
"Jim? Simon's on the phone for you. Sounds urgent."
Jim sighed deeply. "There goes lunch," he grumbled to himself as he swallowed the bite of sandwich and motioned for Rhonda to put the call through. He snatched up the receiver on the first ring. "Simon," he greeted his captain, interjecting a smile into his voice.
"Jim, I need you to get over to the financial district right away," the captain ordered without preamble. "I'm here with a couple of uniforms. We have a body in a dumpster."
Jim shrugged to himself. Sounded like a routine case so far. He stood, hastily rewrapping his uneaten sandwich. "I'm on my way, Captain. Where are you exactly?"
Simon tersely gave him the details of his location: Financial District... Alley behind Commerce Street... Just down from the Federal Reserve...Directly behind Evergreen State Savings and Loan...
The directions, mere details at first, began to take shape in Jim's mind and as they did so, fear gripped at his stomach, tightening its hold as full understanding settled over him. "Simon," he ground out, not wanting to believe what he was hearing, "That's the same area we found Gil Brody's body after Quinn--"