THE LAST ALIBI

The Blind Spot

Cole ran three steps. Then stopped.

The hallway was wrong. He had expected the emergency lights to stay red. They didn't. They switched to bright white. Flashing. Strobing.

His eyes couldn't adjust. He pressed his back against the wall. Squinted.

Footsteps echoed from both directions. Left. Right. He was trapped.

The maintenance door he used before? Locked. He tried the handle. Steel. Solid.

Cole turned right. The tunnel to the courtroom. Sixty seconds of blind spot. That was the plan.

But the power outage wasn't part of the plan. And the footsteps were getting closer.

He ran.

The tunnel was narrow. Concrete walls. Pipes overhead. No cameras. Dean had been right about that. But the strobe lights made everything jump. Shadows twisted. Shapes moved.

Cole's bare feet slapped the cold floor. He had no shoes. No jacket. Just the orange jumpsuit and a flash drive in his pocket.

The tunnel ended at a steel door. PUSH. He pushed.

Locked.

No. No, no, no.

He rammed his shoulder against the door. The metal groaned. Didn't budge.

The footsteps were louder now. Voices. Shouting.

“He's in the north tunnel!”

Cole looked back. Flashlights bobbed in the darkness. Three. Four. Maybe more.

He had nowhere to go.

Then he saw it. A vent. Low on the wall. Just big enough for a man to squeeze through if he didn't mind losing skin.

Cole dropped to his knees. He pulled the vent cover. Screws held it in place. He yanked. Nothing.

He kicked it. Once. Twice. The metal bent.

On the third kick, the cover popped off. Clattered on the floor.

The flashlights were fifty feet away. Closing fast.

Cole shoved his head into the vent. The metal edges scraped his shoulders. He pulled himself forward. Elbows. Knees. Squirming like a worm.

The vent was dark. Tight. The air smelled like dust and rust.

Behind him, a voice shouted. “He went in the vent! Cut him off!”

Cole crawled faster. The metal cut into his palms. His knees burned through the thin jumpsuit.

The vent split. Left or right?

He chose left.

Ten feet. Twenty. Thirty.

Then the vent ended. Another grate. Light on the other side.

Cole kicked the grate. It flew open. He tumbled out onto a concrete floor.

A basement. Storage. Boxes of old files. Broken furniture. A single bare bulb hung from the ceiling.

He stood up. Blood dripped from his hands. His knees were raw.

The basement had a door. He ran to it. Unlocked.

He opened it. Stairs. Leading up.

He climbed. Two floors. Three. His lungs burned.

The stairs ended at another door. This one had a window. Cole looked through.

A parking garage. Empty. Dim lights.

He pushed the door open. Cold air hit his face. He was outside. Sort of.

The garage was attached to the courthouse. Cole could see the street through the exit ramp. Rain was still falling.

He ran toward the ramp. His feet were bleeding now. Tiny cuts from the vent. From the concrete.

Halfway there, headlights flooded the garage.

A black SUV. No plates.

It skidded to a stop between Cole and the exit.

The driver's door opened. A man got out.

Frankie.

He was wearing a black tactical vest. His beard was trimmed. His eyes were hard.

“Get in,” Frankie said.

Cole stepped back. “You killed Lauren.”

Frankie's expression didn't change. “Petra told you.”

“She said she saw your face.”

“Petra saw what she wanted to see.” Frankie walked closer. “I didn't kill your wife. I was there that night, but I didn't pull the trigger.”

“Then why were you there?”

“Because I was watching your father. He was in the neighborhood. I followed him. When I saw him go into your house, I called the police. But they never came.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

Frankie stopped ten feet away. He raised his hands. Empty.

“I expect you to get in the car before the police find you. They're already sweeping the building. You have maybe two minutes.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“Because if I wanted you dead, you'd be dead. I had a rifle pointed at your head in my warehouse. I could have pulled the trigger anytime.”

Cole's mind raced. Frankie's story matched some of the facts. But not all.

“The uniform,” Cole said. “You were wearing a military uniform. Lieutenant Colonel insignia. Piper saw you.”

“I was wearing a uniform because I was coming from a veteran's event. The insignia belonged to a dead friend.” Frankie lowered his hands. “I'm not your enemy, Cole. But I'm not your friend either. I want the same thing you do. Your father. In the ground.”

The sound of sirens echoed through the garage. Getting closer.

Cole looked at the SUV. Then at the exit ramp.

He made a choice.

He got in the car.

Frankie slid behind the wheel. The SUV roared to life. He drove toward the exit ramp.

A police cruiser turned into the garage. Lights flashing.

Frankie didn't stop. He accelerated.

The cruiser swerved. Frankie swerved harder. Metal screeched against concrete.

The SUV burst onto the street. Rain hammered the windshield. Frankie turned left, then right, then left again. The tires slid on the wet asphalt.

Cole grabbed the door handle. “Where are we going?”

“Somewhere safe. For now.”

“Nowhere is safe.”

“Then somewhere less dangerous.” Frankie drove through a red light. Horns blared. He didn't slow. “Petra gave you a flash drive.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I've been watching her too. She's not who she says she is.”

“She said you killed Lauren.”

“She's lying. Or she believes a lie. Either way, she's dangerous.”

Cole reached into his pocket. The flash drive was still there.

“What's on this?”

“Evidence. But not the evidence you think. Lauren was investigating your father for years. She had documents. Recordings. Photos. But she also had something else.”

“What?”

Frankie turned onto a side street. The neighborhood changed. Old houses. Boarded windows. Graffiti.

“She had a backup. A dead man's switch. If she died, the evidence would go to every news outlet in the country. But she never activated it.”

“Why not?”

“Because she didn't think she would die. She thought your father would back down. She was wrong.”

Frankie pulled into an alley. Killed the engine.

They sat in silence. The rain drummed on the roof.

“I need to see what's on the drive,” Cole said.

“You need a computer. I have one. But first, we talk.”

Frankie turned in his seat. His face was half in shadow.

“The night Lauren died, I was parked two blocks away. I saw your father enter your house at 2 AM. He was inside for an hour. Then he left. Five minutes later, I heard a gunshot.”

“You didn't go inside?”

“I went inside. I found Lauren on the floor. You were on the couch. The gun was in your hand. I removed it. Checked for a pulse. There was none.”

“You touched the gun?”

“I wore gloves. But I left your fingerprints.” Frankie's jaw tightened. “I know. Stupid. I panicked. I should have called 911. Instead, I ran.”

“You ran because you were afraid of being blamed.”

“I ran because I was a convicted felon. Dishonorable discharge. No one would have believed I was helping.”

Cole pressed his palms against his eyes. The cuts stung.

“So my father killed Lauren.”

“He ordered it. The trigger man was someone else. A professional. The Eraser.”

“Sabine mentioned that name.”

“Sabine has been chasing The Eraser for years. She's convinced it's one person. It's not. It's a network. Operatives who stage murder-suicides for wealthy clients.”

“And my father hired them.”

“Your father is one of the clients. He's also an operative. He's been killing people for decades. Your mother. Your grandparents. Anyone who got in his way.”

Cole lowered his hands. His eyes were dry. He had no tears left.

“Where is he now?”

“Washington, D.C. Hiding behind Aegis's legal team. But he knows you're out. He knows you have the drive. He'll send someone to kill you.”

“Then I need to move fast.”

Frankie started the engine. “First, you need to see what's on that drive. Then you need to make copies. Lots of copies. And you need to send them to people who can't be bought.”

“Like who?”

“Like journalists. Federal agents. Anyone who isn't on your father's payroll.”

Frankie pulled out of the alley. He drove through the rain-slicked streets. The city was waking up. Early commuters. Delivery trucks.

They stopped in front of a small building. A pawn shop. Iron bars on the windows. A sign that said “GOLD & SILVER.”

“This is your safe place?” Cole asked.

“This is my home.” Frankie got out. He unlocked three deadbolts. The door swung open.

Cole followed him inside.

The shop was small. Glass cases filled with jewelry. Guns. Coins. A counter at the back.

Frankie led him through a curtain into a back room. An apartment. Couch. TV. Kitchenette. A desk with a computer.

“Sit,” Frankie said. “Plug in the drive.”

Cole sat. His hands were shaking. He inserted the flash drive into the USB port.

A folder appeared. Labeled “CHARLES MATHERS – EVIDENCE.”

Cole opened it.

Hundreds of files. Documents. Photos. Audio recordings. Video files.

He clicked on the first video.

A man sat in a chair. Middle-aged. Gray hair. Cold eyes.

Cole's father.

But older. Thinner. The face was different. Plastic surgery had softened his features. Changed his jaw.

But the eyes were the same.

“The recording will show that I am of sound mind,” Charles Mathers said. His voice was the same. Deep. Calm. “I am making this statement voluntarily. My name is Charles Mathers. I am presumed dead. That was a lie.”

Cole's breath caught.

“I faked my death in 2008 to escape prosecution for war crimes committed in Afghanistan. I have since been working as a consultant for Aegis Solutions, a private intelligence firm. During my time with Aegis, I have participated in the elimination of seventeen individuals who posed a threat to the company's interests.”

The video continued. Charles listed names. Dates. Methods.

One of the names was Lauren Mathers.

“My daughter-in-law, Lauren Mathers, was terminated on June 14th at 3:15 AM. The operation was conducted by Aegis operative known as 'The Eraser.' The target's husband, Cole Mathers, was framed for the murder. He is innocent.”

Cole stopped the video. He couldn't watch anymore.

“He confessed,” Cole whispered.

“He recorded a confession as insurance,” Frankie said. “In case Aegis ever tried to kill him. He's been holding it for years.”

“Why give it to Lauren?”

“He didn't. She stole it. She had a contact inside Aegis. Someone who copied the files.”

Cole looked at the screen. Hundreds of files. Years of evidence.

“This is enough to put him away forever.”

“It's enough to put him away. But not forever. Not if he has good lawyers and bought judges.” Frankie leaned over Cole's shoulder. “You need to make copies. Send them to the FBI. The DOJ. The New York Times. Everyone.”

Cole started copying files. The progress bar crawled.

“How long?”

“An hour. Maybe more.”

“We don't have an hour.”

“Then we wait.”

The front door of the pawn shop exploded inward.

Cole hit the floor. Glass shattered. Wood splintered.

Frankie grabbed his rifle from under the couch. He fired through the curtain. Three shots. Fast.

Return fire came. Automatic. The wall behind Cole shredded.

“Back door!” Frankie shouted.

Cole crawled toward the kitchen. A bullet grazed his shoulder. Burning pain.

He reached the back door. Unlocked it. Tumbled into an alley.

Frankie was right behind him. Blood ran down his arm.

They ran.

The alley led to another street. Frankie's SUV was parked around the corner. They reached it. Dived inside.

Frankie started the engine. Tires screeched.

Behind them, two men in black tactical gear emerged from the pawn shop. They raised rifles. Fired.

The back window of the SUV exploded.

Cole ducked. Frankie drove.

They turned onto the main road. The gunmen disappeared in the rearview.

Cole sat up. His shoulder was bleeding. A graze. Not deep.

“Who were they?” he asked.

“Aegis. They found us.” Frankie's face was pale. “The drive. Did you copy it?”

“I didn't finish. The progress bar was at thirty percent.”

“Thirty percent is better than nothing.”

Cole pulled the flash drive from his pocket. Still there. Still warm.

“We need to find another computer.”

“We need to find a hospital. You're bleeding.”

“It's a scratch.”

“It's a bullet wound. It needs cleaning.”

Frankie drove toward the industrial district. Warehouses. Factories. Abandoned buildings.

He stopped in front of a metal building. No sign. No windows.

“What is this place?”

“A safe house. Owned by a friend. No questions asked.”

They got out. Frankie knocked on the door. Three times. Pause. Two times.

The door opened. A woman stood there. Short. Dark hair. Wearing medical scrubs.

“Frankie. You look like hell.”

“Nice to see you too, Shiloh.”

The woman looked at Cole. “Who's the bleeding man?”

“Cole Mathers. The one they're framing for murder.”

Shiloh raised an eyebrow. “You bring the most interesting people.”

She stepped aside. Cole walked in.

The building was a makeshift clinic. Exam tables. Medical supplies. A computer in the corner.

“Sit,” Shiloh said. She pointed to a chair. “Let me see your shoulder.”

Cole sat. She cut away his jumpsuit. Cleaned the wound. The antiseptic burned.

“You're lucky. An inch to the right, and you'd need surgery.”

“I feel lucky.”

Shiloh bandaged his shoulder. Then she stepped back.

“The computer is yours. Use it. But make it fast. The people hunting you? They know everyone in this city. Including me.”

Cole walked to the computer. He inserted the flash drive.

The folder appeared. The evidence.

He started copying files again.

Forty percent. Fifty. Sixty.

The front door exploded inward.

Not gunfire. An explosion.

Cole hit the floor. Shiloh screamed. Frankie raised his rifle.

Through the smoke, a figure walked in.

Clark Mathers.

He was wearing tactical gear. His face was hard.

“Cole. Give me the drive. No one else has to die.”

Cole looked at the computer screen. Seventy percent.

He needed more time.

“Come and get it,” Cole said.

Clark raised a pistol. “Last chance.”

Frankie fired. Clark dove behind an exam table. The bullet hit the wall.

Return fire. Frankie grunted. Fell.

Cole grabbed the flash drive. Pulled it from the computer.

He ran.

Through a back door. Into another alley. Clark's footsteps behind him.

Cole turned a corner. A dead end. Brick wall. Ten feet high.

He jumped. His fingers caught the top. He pulled himself up.

A bullet hit the brick next to his head.

He swung his leg over. Dropped to the other side.

Clark was climbing the wall.

Cole ran. His lungs burned. His shoulder screamed.

He burst onto a main street. Cars. People. Morning traffic.

Clark wouldn't shoot here. Too many witnesses.

Cole disappeared into the crowd.

He had the drive.

He had thirty percent of the evidence.

And he had no one left to trust.