Free Half-Past Dawn by Richard Doetsch Page B

continuing to tighten as he blocked every blow with his right arm. And with a swipe of his leg, Cristos knocked Gallagher’s feet from beneath him, leaving him dangling.
    Gallagher’s face was impossibly red, his eyes bulging in stress and fear, for he knew there was no escape.
    The other two stared in shock as the life was literally squeezed out of their associate, but neither made a move, as a single step would be like raising a hand to die next.
    Gallagher’s body began to twitch and vibrate as if each muscle was doing its part to escape. Robbed of his last breath, as if at the bottom of the sea, his eyes began to lose focus, his body stiffened … and he was finally released, crumpling to the ground gasping, his hands rubbing his throat.
    “I wanted you to taste death, something you rendered so quickly to Jack Keeler before accomplishing your task.” Cristos looked at the three men before him. “I want you to know fear. I want you to know that no one was allowed to kill him except me.”
    Cristos methodically closed the box. It was a moment. The only sound was Gallagher’s labored breathing as he climbed to his feet.
    “You have six hours to find me that box.”
    And the three left.
    Cristos reached into his pocket and withdrew the envelope. He stared at it a moment, knowing the words written within. He didn’t know how its author possessed the forethought to write it; only a select few knew he was in the country. While the expression on his face was placid, calm, it was entirely contrary to his emotions.
    For the letter in the box he had stolen was addressed to him.

CHAPTER 12
    F RIDAY , 8:45 A.M .
    F RANK HUSTLED DOWN THE long embankment that led to the river’s edge. The churning waters were still near flood stage after the previous night’s rains, inhibiting the recovery effort that was already well under way. He had parked his Jeep a quarter-mile up the road behind a string of emergency vehicles, flashing his old police badge to gain access to the site. Frank looked up at the crowd that stood on Rider’s Bridge in silent, rapt attention. They were not the usual rubberneckers, the morbid curious hoping to see a body. They were a mix of law enforcement, friends of Jack and Mia from the FBI, the DA’s office, and both local and city police. Even from his fifty-yard distance, he could see the grief in their faces, in their body language.
    And as Frank continued to look, he felt an uneasy shame, a horrible feeling of deception for allowing so many to think the couple dead. He knew the pain he had felt at hearing of his friends’ deaths and knew it was a communal feeling shared by all of their colleagues. Although he wanted to shout out about Jack’s survival, he knew it would only further endanger Mia, wherever she might be.
    Frank turned his attention to the enormous crane that sat mid-span, its cable line disappearing into the churning river below, where a small pocket of bubbles turned into a froth. An enormous man, six-four, at least 220 pounds, emerged from the water, climbing up the bank. He removed the regulator from his mouth and pushed his dive mask up onto his head.
    The two men nodded to each other.
    “I hate this,” the man said in a deep voice, pushing his wet blond hair from his face.
    “I know. Anytime a rescue turns into a recovery, it’s heartbreaking to all.” Frank avoided the man’s eyes, hoping his deception would not be evident in his face. “Look,” Frank said slowly, pausing as he formed his words. “I need a favor, and I need your discretion.”
    Frank had known Matt Daly for twenty years. He was local, part of the fabric of the community. He had retired from the Byram Hills police force at the ripe old age of thirty-nine and owned a local bar called GG’s North. He still responded as part of the dive team whenever the need arose.
    “Discretion …” Matt nodded. “There’s a word with implications.”
    “The people in this river are family.”
    “I think it’s safe