94 #TooLate

Connor Presley had taken April’s call just a fraction too late – he was already staring down the barrel of a gun when he was forced to hang up. Geoffrey Schroeder stared at the reporter intently, assessing if he posed any danger.

‘I’m unarmed,’ Connor said, raising his hands slowly in the air.

Geoffrey placed his forefinger to his lips and replied, ‘Shhhh.’

The warehouse had long been abandoned. Wind blew through the cracked and missing windows, with broken glass scattered everywhere. It was the perfect place to kill someone. No CCTV cameras. No witnesses. No one to help. Connor was beginning to think this had been a bad idea.

Schroeder indicated with the barrel of the gun that the journalist should move to the right. The crunch of their footsteps on the broken glass could be heard above the wind rattling through the old building as Schroeder herded Connor behind a bunch of old pallets that were haphazardly stacked about eight feet high. Connor wondered why they were trying to hide. If Schroeder wanted to shoot him, he could have done it there and then.

Behind their makeshift wooden cover, Schroeder stopped pointing his gun at Connor and whispered, ‘I didn’t shoot Horrigan. I wanted to, but I guess someone hated him more than I did. I got a tweet from someone called Baby Angel telling me he was going to be in Baltimore. They told me to go to his hotel. But it didn’t feel right, so I backed off. Next thing, he’s dead. Someone wanted me to shoot him or take the rap for it. That’s why I wanted to know who gave you my name. I’ve been set up.’

They both heard a noise at the other end of the warehouse. ‘We’re not alone,’ Schroeder said, raising his gun in readiness.

Connor feared that Schroeder may think he’d set him up. He protested his innocence. ‘I swear I didn’t tell anyone where I was coming. No one. Not even the cops.’

Schroeder looked distracted and didn’t seem to take any notice of Connor’s declaration of innocence. ‘It’s no cop. We need to get out of here,’ Schroeder said, as he crouched down to peek around the edge of the pallet stack.

Suddenly Schroeder flew backwards. A loud bang cracked around the warehouse walls, leaving a ringing noise in Connor’s ears. The pro-lifer writhed in agony, clutching his face, before another bullet struck, blowing blood and matter out of Schroeder’s side across the floor. Connor attempted to pull him back to safety, but it was too late. Geoffrey Schroeder lay lifeless.

His gun was within grasp, but Connor had never fired a weapon before. He was also up against an expert sharpshooter, so knew that any thought of a movie-style shootout, with him blasting his way to safety, would be futile. Instead, he decided to use what he was good at, and all he had left. Words.

‘I’m coming out. My hands will be in the air. I have no weapon. Repeat, I am unarmed. Okay. I’m coming out now,’ Connor announced loudly. Here goes nothing, he thought to himself. Connor stepped from behind the pallets to show he wasn’t about to make any sudden moves.

‘I was always waiting for you to “come out”, Elvis. I’ve had my suspicions about you.’ Bryce Horrigan’s former deputy, Tom O’Neill, smirked at Connor.

Connor ignored the gay jibe and asked with genuine interest, ‘How the fuck did you find us?’

‘I was in the boot of my car. Or the “trunk”, as they say over here. I even tweeted you from it. Nice touch with the valet parking, don’t you think?’ Tom said, pleased with his ingenuity.

‘And where did you learn to shoot like that?’ Connor asked.

‘Well, duh, I am from Northern Ireland,’ Tom replied in his thick Derry accent. ‘We’ve got more fucking guns than the Yanks. At least I don’t have to hide them here. God bless America and the Second Amendment. The right to bear arms is the best thing about this country. I keep mine in the boot. You’re not supposed to, but it came in very handy, don’t you think?’

Connor decided to change tack. ‘Murder, Tom. Really? Bryce may have been a pain in the arse, but bitch about the boss over a beer, for fuck’s sake – you didn’t have to kill him.’

‘That’s what I thought too, but when you’re offered the perfect plan to literally get away with murder… well, frankly, it was just too damn tempting,’ Tom replied, his powerful-looking gun pointing directly at Connor.

Connor scoffed. ‘Get away with murder, Tom? You lured an unarmed man to his death, stared him in the eye and shot him in cold blood. You’ve crossed the line, buddy. You going to do the same when you fall out with your next boss? How about the boss after that, Tom? Where would we be if we all did that? You’re fucked, mate.’

‘You think so?’ Tom snorted.

‘I know so. Bryce wasn’t the only one lured in, pal. Or that poor pro-life fucker lying over there in his own guts. Don’t you think Pasty and her insane mother have a contingency plan for you too, you dumb twat?’ Connor saw Tom flinch at the mention of his co-conspirators. ‘They can expose you with a single tweet, fella. And don’t think they won’t. They might have hacked Bryce’s Twitter account, but you pulled the trigger. You’ve been lured in, just the same as Schroeder.’

Tom’s gun barrel dropped ever so slightly. He may have been the one holding the weapon, but suddenly he felt very exposed. It made perfect sense that the Tolans would dispose of him now. He was the only one who had fired the shots. He had killed Bryce, Chrissie Hardie and the hotel porter, Cliff Walker. It was only meant to be Bryce. It had been all so simple when they’d laid it all out. It was only now he realised he was just another pawn in the Tolans’ lethal game.

Tom finally responded to Connor. ‘Bryce was right about something: I could never fill your boots, Elvis. You are good. A real operator, as they say in the trade,’ he said as he raised his rifle up to eye level and took aim at the rival reporter.

***

Detective Sorrell listened to the entire conversation on his iPhone, recording the confession on the free ‘Call Recorder’ app Haye had installed for him. Connor had phoned the captain’s cell from his BlackBerry before stepping out from behind the pallets. Sorrell had been about to hang up on the reporter when he heard him say he was unarmed. Realising a situation was unfolding, he had hit the record button.

Haye had already been driving Sorrell towards the warehouse, at the head of a fleet of police vehicles, even before they’d taken the call from Connor. That’s after they had triangulated Tom O’Neill’s location from the strength of his signal between cell towers, in the same way they had been tracking down all the Internet trolls.

Sorrell had his phone clamped to his ear, listening to the events unfold in the warehouse he could now see in the distance. But he was too late: a single shot rang out, abruptly ending the transmission. ‘Shit,’ the captain swore as he thumped the dashboard in frustration.

***

Connor Presley’s BlackBerry had shattered into several pieces when he dived to the floor as Tom O’Neill had taken aim and fired. But the shot that rang out hadn’t struck. Instead, when Connor looked up, Tom was spreadeagled on the floor.

‘Got the motherfucker right between the eyes.’

Connor looked behind him to the prostrate figure of Geoffrey Schroeder. The pro-lifer lay lopsided, one half of his body a bloody mess, his rifle propped up on a broken piece of brick, the butt under his good arm. He was still staring through the telescopic sight, the effort of manoeuvring into position sapping the last of his energy.

Captain Sorrell and his trusted lieutenant found them that way. Connor desperately needed to call April. He picked up the bits of his BlackBerry and stared at it despairingly.

‘Here, use my phone,’ Haye said, offering his cell.

‘Thanks. But I can’t remember her bloody number. I’ll tweet her instead,’ Connor said as he struggled to familiarise himself with the iPhone’s touchscreen, having been so used to the BlackBerry keys. He logged on to his own account and sent a DM to April:

Connor Presley @ElvisTheWriter

Are you all right? Situation here resolved. O’Neill was the killer. He’s dead.

Connor pressed ‘Send’, before writing another:

Connor Presley @ElvisTheWriter

Also need your mobile number. My BlackBerry is knackered.

He sent his second message believing it was a futile gesture as April would never have the wherewithal to check her tweets. He was about to dial his office when he received a DM:

April Lavender @AprilReporter1955

What took you so long? I’ve sorted psycho mum/daughter. I’m bloody starving.

Connor shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘Will wonders never cease,’ he said to himself.