Vendetta Stone Read Online Free PDF

sure you want to talk about this? Now might not be the best time,” Allenby advised.
    “No, I need to get this done today,” Jackson said, and turned to the precinct commander.
    “Sir, I’ll make a brief statement after you finish, but I don’t want to take questions afterward. Can you get me out of here without running a media gantlet?”
    “There’s an exit right off the community assembly room that goes out into our parking lot. It’s not accessible by the public, and the fence can only be opened by a cruiser making contact with the sensor panel. But we can override if you pull your car inside,” Reynolds said.
    Jackson didn’t apologize for his earlier outburst, but thanked the officers and looked at his watch. At five till five, they headed into the lobby. Jackson peered in and saw the media gathered around the front lectern, his brother sitting in the back. He motioned for Patrick to step outside as Allenby went inside.
    “Look, I need to borrow your car,” Jackson half-whispered. “I can’t explain right now, but mine’s parked behind the public health center just down the street. That’s where your car will be in about fifteen minutes. Pull your car around the building and inside the fence and park by that door. Leave the keys in the ignition.”
    Reynolds talked to a patrol officer, wh o went around out front and let the civilian car enter the restricted area.
    Patrick nodded and followed the cop outside. Jackson went into the briefing room an d sat next to Allenby up front.
     
     

5
    Jackson studied the reporters and camera crews as Reynolds discussed various aspects of the investigation and then offered to take a few questions. Several hands raised, and Reynolds fielded them deftly, answering in the vaguest of terms. Jackson’s intense concentration broke when Reynolds called his name.
    I remember thinking how bad he looked. I glanced around for our late-as-usual photographer, Casey Leiber, and spotted her. She blew hair out of her face and squatted just below camera range of the television lighting so she didn’t use her flash. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Jackson’s brother Patrick re-enter the room, take a seat in the back, and nod. I looked forward and a somber Jackson Stone nodded back.
    As Jackson stepped to the lectern, he seemed to lapse into a fog as if deciding whether he wanted to go through with his plan to talk. The collective media grew silent, tension filling the room. Those hushed seconds seemed to last forever.
    “Jack?”
    Allenby’s barking voice cut through the fog, and Jackson recognized his surroundings and the difficult path he’d chosen. He cleared his throat and mumbled a “scuze me” and wiped a tear from the corner of his left eye. Steeling himself, he understood his dangerous plan would change his life forever. He couldn’t imagine how many other lives it would alter—and in some instances end.
     
     

 
     
    After he said his first two shocking lines: “I don’t want justice . . . I want revenge,” a resolute Jackson stood there for several long seconds, watching the various reactions of the media—eyes popping wide open with astonishment, words forming but only mimed, the note-taking freezing in mid-scribble, some audible gasps. We were all caught off guard at this unexpected development.
    For veteran newsmen and women, press conferences like this were supposed to be routine. For the electronic media, it meant interviewing the police spokesman, getting the grieving family member on tape for a thirty-second sound bite , followed by sympathetic words from the anchor back at the station, then moving on to the next big story. For print media like myself, I wanted hard facts from the cops to wrap around some colorful comments that might warrant better play for my story.
    “Colorful” described my face as I flushed with excitement, realizing the impact of the story that had fallen into my lap. In all my years on the police beat, I’d never heard a