Page 1 of Ultimate Justice

Chapter One

The fugitive they were tracking had been sentenced to life for four murders—including a cop—making a knock-and-announce warrant futile…and deadly.

FBI Special Agent Evan McGarry held up three fingers, wishing they had a hardened steel battering ram to break down the door.

Two fingers.

Due to exigent circumstances, they didn’t.

One finger.

Evan slammed his shitkicker against the door. The wood cracked. He kicked again. Another crack, louder this time. The door shuddered but didn’t break.

Deputy Marshal Angela Martinez pulled her radio. “Want me to call for that battering ram?”

Fuck. That.

“Cover your eyes.” He unslung his Remington 870 shotgun, aimed in on the lock and pulled the trigger. The acoustical blast shattered the early morning stillness of the tiny Boulder suburb.

Ignoring the recoil pounding his shoulder, he racked in and fired off two more rounds, leaving the door splintered with a gaping hole where the knob and lock used to be. With the muzzle of the shotgun leading the way, he breached the door, searching left and right as he made a rapid entry. Behind him, his team fanned out with shouts of “clear” as they hit the other rooms on the ground floor.

Evan’s heartbeat was a steady staccato as he passed a large, nearly empty bookcase at the base of the stairs. He and Martinez headed to the second floor. The cloying scent of stale garbage and God knew what else tainted every breath he took. Beneath the stained avocado-green carpet runner, one of the steps creaked. He froze, but heard nothing, save for his own breathing.

Given that he’d blown a hole in the front door, Stonewall Jackson Jones had to know they were coming. The goal was to take him alive. If possible. If the man presented a threat, Evan was fully prepared to blow him straight to hell.

At the top of the stairs, he fisted his hand. A piece of rope hung from a rectangular panel in the ceiling—a recessed attic door. The rope wasn’t swinging, and he couldn’t detect any motion from above.

The first bedroom on the right was an office with a wood table, a chair, boxes of papers stacked against one wall, and an old corn bristle broom on the floor in front of the window. Evan aimed the shotgun at the closet door, sliding his finger to the trigger and nodding to Martinez. She threw open the door. Empty, aside from half a dozen metal hangers lining the rod.

They cleared the next bedroom and headed into the remaining room, this one containing a double bed with the comforter thrown back. Martinez covered off on the closet, aiming in with her Glock. Evan whipped open the door. A rack loaded with hangers bearing shirts, jackets, and long coats filled the closet. Shoes and more boxes sat on the floor. He shoved the hangers aside, verifying no one was hiding in the corner.

On the floor, by the side of the bed, was a pair of canvas sneakers. Prison-issue sneakers. Evan yanked off one of his tactical gloves and pressed a hand to the pillow. Still warm. Jones had been there. His gut told him the man was still in the house.

Jones was smart. By constantly switching locations, he’d eluded recapture for nearly six months since breaking out of the correctional facility in Sterling, Colorado. Not one hour ago, a local cop reported a resident living across from this house had seen a man fitting Jones’s description climb inside a window.

He glanced out the bedroom window into the backyard. Along with the same cop who’d called in the tip, one of Evan’s best friends, ATF Special Agent Brett Tanner, guarded the backyard. His other best friend, DEA Special Agent Adam “Deck” Decker, and another cop were positioned outside the front door. No one could have gotten past them.

Deputy Marshal Roy O’Shea joined them in the bedroom. “Nothing?” His voice held disbelief.

“He’s here.” Or was. Evan strode back into the hallway. There was only one space in the house that hadn’t been searched.

He looked up at the rope attached to the attic access panel. “Cover me.” He shouldered his shotgun, then grabbed his Glock and a tactical flashlight from his belt. He pulled on the rope.

The access door lowered, creaking on rusty hinges. Evan unfolded the aluminum ladder screwed into the underside of the panel. He clicked on the flashlight and started up the rickety stairs.

Just before poking his head above the level of the attic floor, a deadly epiphany flashed before his eyes.

Jones was a homicidal sonofabitch with nothing to lose, and he had people helping him.

The man would be armed.

Easing back down the stairs, he held up his hand, indicating no one should move. He returned to the first bedroom and grabbed the old broom from the floor.

Back in the hallway, he shoved his ballcap between the bristles so it would stay in position, prominently displaying the letters FBI embroidered in gold over the brim. He climbed partially up the ladder, pulling his Glock out and easing the broom into the attic. He held his breath, waiting for his cap to get blown away. It didn’t. Jones was either playing it cool…or hiding.

Lowering the broom, he handed it to O’Shea and clicked the flashlight on again. In slow increments, he poked his head into the attic. Musty air filled his nose. Cobwebs hung from nearly every ceiling joist. Boxes and crates littered the floor, with an old rolltop desk and chair abutting one wall. Aluminum air conditioning ductwork ran from a central unit, fanning out across the wood floor.

Slowly, he climbed the rest of the stairs. At six-three, he could barely stand to his full height without whacking his head. Hanging from one of the joists was a bare bulb light. He tugged on the chain. Reluctantly, the bulb flickered to life, adding only slightly more illumination.