The Burning Edge

crime. Gannon took it, read it over. Nothing here he didn’t know. His phone rang.

“It’s Lisker. Update me.”

“They’re about to start a news conference.”

“What do you have?”

Glancing around, he lowered his voice to protect his information. “I got an account of what happened from a source close to the investigation, but it’s going to take more work to flesh it out.”

“What about suspects?”

“Nothing so far. Nothing they’re talking about.”

“They have any leads? What’re they saying?”

“Not much.”

“Well, what else you got?”

“That’s it for now.”

“That’s it? We’re going to need more to stay out front on this. We’ve sent people up to report on the manhunt.”

“I have to go.”

Several sober-faced men in suits and uniforms emerged at the microphones. The one who identified himself as FBI Special Agent Tim Weller then made introductions of the police people flanking him from Rockland County, Ramapo P.D. and the New York State Police.

In the seconds Weller took to prepare, it struck Gannon, as it often did covering major crimes, how this part of the process was a macabre juxtaposition. Here they were about to joust over information on a multiple homicide, while not far off, the bodies of the victims still lay under tarps in pools of blood.

And somewhere out there notifications would soon be made; somewhere out there wives, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, sisters, brothers would be told the worst thing a human being could ever hear. Gannon knew the devastation, knew how the ground under your feet vanishes, how your world changes forever.

A memory shot through him.

The state trooper standing at his apartment door in Buffalo, holding his hat in his hand. He has shining brown eyes. A mix of cologne and unease as he clears his throat and confirms. “Jack Gannon?” Rotating the hat in his hand, saying, “I’m so sorry to have to tell you that your mother and father have been in an accident. A very bad accident. I’m so sorry.”

Gannon shifted his concentration to the podium where Weller looked into the cameras and unfolded a sheet of paper.

“Let’s get started.” He read directly from the handout, offering little more than a bare-bones summary of the case: Police were searching for four armed-and-dangerous suspects wanted in connection with four homicides during the robbery of an American Centurion armored car while the crew was replenishing ATMs at Freedom Freeway Service Center at Ramapo. Three of the victims were armored car guards, the fourth a resident of Connecticut. At this time, their names are being withheld until tomorrow after their next of kin have been notified.

“We’ll take a few questions now,” Weller said, igniting a deluge.

“Is this in any way connected to terrorists?”

“Nothing’s been ruled out at this time.”

“How much cash was stolen?”

“That’s undetermined at this time.”

“Was anyone taken hostage when they fled?”

“We don’t believe so. Nothing indicates anyone taken against their will.”

“Can you estimate how many shots were fired?”

“We don’t have that information at this time.”

“Did the guards fire back?”

“It’s unclear at this point.”

“We heard the suspects fled on motorcycles, is that true?”

“That’s our understanding. We hope to have more information later.”

“There’s some indication the power failed prior to the heist. Is this an inside job? Is anyone else involved?”

“All part of the investigation.”

“Were security cameras working?”

“That’s under investigation.”

“We heard that maybe people outside took some pictures or video with cell phones?”

“We’re looking into that.”

“Have your searches on the thruway and in town yielded any leads?”

“Not yet.”

“Can you tell us about the fourth victim?”

“As we’ve said, we’ll have more information tomorrow.”

For nearly half an hour the reporters were unrelenting with their questions. Many were repeated, frustration mounting until Weller concluded matters. “The investigation is ongoing. More information will be released at a later date.”

Gannon sighed internally.

It looked as if his angle about the fourth victim being an FBI agent who’d died going for his gun remained his exclusive. Using his BlackBerry, Gannon typed an immediate update to the news desk at WPA headquarters with a note stating that he’d write a fuller feature once he got back. After he’d pressed the send button, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“So this is it?” Katrina Kisko glowered at him. “This is what you couldn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t want to complicate things.”

“I just don’t get it, Jack. I am not your freakin’ enemy. Besides, when a story like this breaks, you seriously think the New York Signal isn’t going to know about it?” She shook her head. “You’re still pissed at me, that’s what this is all about.”

“Well, you kind of just flushed me away, but that’s fine.”

“I’m sorry. I suck at that sort of thing, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Can’t we be friends? Maybe work together on this? I’ll help you, you help me?”

Gannon smiled.

“I don’t think so. You’re forgetting, you’re my competition, Katrina.”

The warmth drained from her face.

“Fine with me, if that’s the way you want to play it. You want to go up against me, the New York Signal and our two million online followers? Well, bring it on.”

Katrina walked away.

That’s the way I want to play it, Gannon thought.

As he and Dixon headed back to his SUV, he stopped at the tape, his eyes adjusting to the distance, and watched the crime scene technicians working around the victims.

He gave it a moment, out of respect for the lives lost.

8

New York City

Killers At Large After Armored Car Heist…

The headlines on the I-87 truck stop murders blazed along the news zipper that flowed around the old New York Times Building.