Page 92 of Dead Air
"Drop the gun."
The chamber's shadows shifted as flashlight beams probed from the tunnel entrance. Federal agents approaching, voices echoing through stone passages. Seconds remaining before the confrontation expanded beyond their control.
Byrd raised her weapon suddenly, aiming not at Lawson but at Richardson who had just appeared at the chamber entrance. With her eighth and final shot, she fired.
Two gunshots thundered through the chamber. Lawson discharged her weapon from training rather than will. Byrd's final bullet found its mark as Lawson's shot struck the judge center mass. The judge collapsed against the ladder, weapon clattering onto stone.
Richardson staggered backward, fresh blood spreading across his chest. The bullet had struck him over the heart, a mortal wound without immediate medical attention.
"Tom!" Lawson caught him as he fell. His weight dragged them both to the ground. Blood soaked through his shirt, hot against her supporting arm.
Federal agents swarmed into the chamber, weapons sweeping for threats. Agent Morrison led the team, assessing the scene with tactical efficiency.
"Two down! Need medical immediately!" he shouted into his radio.
Richardson gripped Lawson's arm with fading strength.
Medics rushed into the chamber, equipment bags in hand. They moved directly to Richardson, whose vital signs deteriorated visibly. Byrd lay motionless against the ladder, beyond saving.
Medics pushed Lawson aside, beginning emergency procedures. Blood soaked the stone beneath Richardson's body. His eyes remained fixed on hers as life ebbed from them.
"Case closes tonight," he managed before consciousness left him.
Agent Morrison led Lawson away as medical teams fought to stabilize Richardson for transport, the outcome already clear in the medics' expressions and frantic movements.
"Complete statement required," Morrison said. "Once you're medically cleared."
Lawson nodded mechanically, watching over her shoulder as Richardson's life drained onto centuries-old stone beneath a judge's estate.
Five years of investigation ended in underground darkness. Justice delivered through bullets and personal vengeance rather than judicial process.
chapter
thirty-five
White hospital corridorsstretched in sterile uniformity. Lawson navigated through them, guided by the nurse's directions. Critical Care Unit, third floor, Room 307. Richardson had survived surgery but remained in critical condition. The bullet had punctured his right lung and nicked an artery. Three hours of emergency procedures had stabilized him enough to transfer from operating room to recovery.
She paused outside his door. Through the narrow window, monitors blinked and recorded vital statistics in green. Richardson looked diminished against white sheets, tubes and wires connecting him to machines that sustained what his body could no longer manage alone.
The guard stationed outside nodded at her approach. Federal, not local police. The distinction mattered now that department corruption stood exposed. No one knew how deep Byrd's influence reached, how many officers still carried loyalty to the dead judge. Federal protection ensured Richardson lived long enough to testify.
"Agent Morrison cleared you for ten minutes." The guard checked his watch. "Doctor says he's conscious but heavily medicated. Don't expect much clarity."
Lawson pushed through the door. The antiseptic smell hit her first, then the rhythmic beeping of cardiac monitors. Richardson's eyes opened at her approach, recognition flickering across features gray with pain and medication.
"Erin." Her first name, not her rank. The formality that had defined their relationship for years stripped away by circumstance.
She pulled a chair to his bedside. "Doctor says the surgery went well."
"Doctors lie to comfort the dying." Richardson's voice emerged as a dry rasp, a shadow of his commanding tone. "I've got maybe hours. Internal bleeding they can't completely stop."
"You should rest. Save your strength."
Richardson's hand moved toward the morphine pump controlling his pain medication. He pressed the button to decrease the flow rather than increase it. "Need clarity. Need you to know everything before I'm gone."
The movement took visible effort. Sweat beaded across his forehead despite the room's chill. The decision to reduce pain medication for lucidity spoke to whatever urgency drove him.
"Listen carefully." He shifted, wincing as tubes pulled against his movement. "There's a safety deposit box at Savannah Trust Bank. Key taped under my desk drawer at home. Box contains everything about Monica's case. Everything I didn't tell you before."
