A loud sucking sound came from the sniper’s chest just as Luke’s right foot connected with Calderon’s torso.
A grunt came from Calderon as he went down, and Luke followed through with a spearing jab to the man’s head.
Calderon dodged it, then rolled twice and came back up onto his feet in a low stance.
Luke’s left foot flew up, but Calderon caught the sidekick with crossed wrists and twisted violently.
There was a snapping sound and a searing pain sent Luke to the ground.
He scissor-kicked Calderon just as a twenty-million candlepower spotlight pierced the night sky and blinded him.
“You got a positive ID on the target?” the SWAT commander asked.
The LAPD sniper sitting on the edge of the helicopter’s bay door turned to O’Reilly, whose assignment was to make the ID on McKenna. The detective peered through his binoculars again and nodded reluctantly.
Something wasn’t right. Why would McKenna try to fight his way into the hospital? He had to know an army of cops was waiting for him.
“Affirmative,” the sharpshooter replied.
O’Reilly could hear the anger in the man’s voice. One of his team members had gone over the side of the building and two others were lying face down in the wash of the light.
“Flight suit, sheriff’s colors,” the sniper continued. “Struggling with…it looks like a security guard. Guy’s holding his own.”
O’Reilly watched McKenna and the guard roll toward the edge of the landing pad, locked together like crazed beasts joined in a death struggle.
A man in a flight suit suddenly jumped out of the pilot’s door and ran to where a woman and small boy were trying to drag two downed SWAT officers into the elevator.
What the hell was going on?
“You’re clear to take out the target,” the SWAT commander said.
“Wait,” O’Reilly said. “Any transmissions from the sheriff’s chopper yet?”
“O’Reilly, stay off the air.” It was Lieutenant Groff’s voice.
The sniper cinched his strap tighter and trained his rifle on the rooftop.
Megan and Stevens had pulled Sammy into the elevator and then gone back for the two cops.
Frankie was yelping in Spanish when Megan and Stevens dragged the two men into the elevator.
Megan pressed the button for the first floor, then said to Stevens, “Keep the boy with you.”
She bolted out of the elevator just as the doors were closing.
Calderon easily pried free of Luke’s grip and jumped to his feet.
The blinding spotlight replaced Calderon’s silhouette. Luke rolled to his left, but a boot slammed into his side, cracking several ribs.
Calderon landed on him like a rabid animal and grabbed his neck in both hands. Unable to catch his breath, weakened by pain, Luke couldn’t break the man’s grip.
Calderon choked off his oxygen and a curtain of red descended over Luke’s eyes.
Suddenly, a scream penetrated the growing darkness.
Then something — someone — landed on top of Calderon.
“Shit,” O’Reilly heard the sharpshooter whisper.
“What’s going on up there?” the SWAT commander asked.
“Can’t get a clear shot,” the sniper replied. “A woman just got into the middle of it.”
Megan’s shouts sounded distant in Luke’s air-starved brain.
The helicopter’s spotlight angled away and an outline of her head appeared behind Calderon, her arms flailing at his back.
Her hand came around and a finger found Calderon’s right eye. She dug it into his socket.
Calderon let out a rumbling growl and his grip loosened.
Luke took a gasping breath.
Then Calderon’s head shot back and struck Megan in the face.
She fell away with a loud shriek.
Luke made a spearing jab at Calderon’s throat that was deflected.
Then another at his eye.
The second jab connected and Calderon rolled off of him, yowling in pain.
Luke sucked in a lungful of air and wheeled in the opposite direction. He struggled onto his one good foot.
Megan wobbled on one knee near the edge of the landing pad.
Calderon was sidestepping around Luke in a wide curve, circling his prey while rubbing blood from his eye. Then, suddenly, he charged.
Luke let out a roar, leapt into the air and spun in a 360-degree arc.
His foot landed cleanly on the side of Calderon’s head.
Calderon rocketed sideways as if struck by a projectile, rolling three times before tumbling over the roof’s edge.
And taking Megan with him.
Her scream pierced through the police helicopter’s thwack-thwack-thwack.
“Megan!”
Luke dove for the roof’s edge and grabbed the large hand clutching to its rim. He worked both hands around Calderon’s wrist and tightened his grip, then peered over the edge.
Megan was wrapped around Calderon, her head buried in his stomach, her legs clawing at the side of the building.
Four stories below them was the blacktop roof of a two-story clinic building that extended out beyond the rest of the structure.
“Megan, hold still!” he yelled.
Luke dug his fingers into Calderon’s sweat-drenched wrist and reached for Megan with his other hand.
He was several inches short.
“I’m slipping,” Megan said.
Luke’s foot found a rounded metal vent or pipe. He wedged his good ankle around it to hold his weight and leaned out over the edge.
The tips of his fingers found the collar of Megan’s jumpsuit. He got a small purchase, but she moved and his grip broke free.
“Megan, try to hold still.” Luke squeezed tighter around Calderon’s wet wrist.
Calderon looked up at Luke and curled his bloodied face into a sickening grin. His steaming nostrils pulsed with each breath.
“This is almost better than how I’d planned it,” he said.
Then he let go.
“No!”
But Calderon had already slipped through his grip.
There were no screams — just a sickening thud that struck his closed eyelids like a blast wave.
When he opened his eyes, the world around him went silent.
On the blacktop, forty feet below, framed by the helicopter’s twitching beam of light, Megan and Calderon’s bodies lay on top of each other, their limbs spread in the awkward angles of death.
64
“Stay where you are and put your hands above your head,” the helicopter speaker commanded.
The words didn’t register. Luke rolled onto his back and covered his eyes. He lay there for a span of time that was lost to his senses.
Eventually he struggled to his feet and started limping toward the Sikorsky.
“Stop. Right there. Do not move!” the loudspeaker ordered.
The sharpshooter raised his rifle. “I got you, you bastard.”
O’Reilly’s hand pushed the barrel aside. “No.”
The sniper turned to the detective, staring in disbelief. “You just bought yourself a shitload of trouble, pal. Get your goddamned hand off my rifle.”
The radio crackled. “What’s happening up there?” the SWAT commander asked.
O’Reilly pulled back his arm. “I’ll do it again if you aim that rifle at McKenna.”
The sniper said into his microphone, “Seems we got a reluctant soldier on our team.”
Caleb Fagan hurried down the second-floor hallway with Mr. Kong in tow, asking himself how one man had wreaked such havoc on what was to be his life’s legacy.
For Kaczynski, their quest was little more than an egocentric testament to the man’s scientific talents. The man was a narcissistic intellectual who would accept any social construct that gave his work a veneer of legitimacy.