Chapter 6 - Cornered Beast
The rain began to fall in heavy, slanted sheets across Minneapolis as the unmarked police cruiser tore down I-94 with its red and blue lights flashing against the dark clouds.
At St. Paul Downtown Airport, the private hangar bay was dark except for the floodlights illuminating Hangar 4. Warren’s sleek black Mercedes sat idling near the open hangar doors, its driver-side door wide open.
Teresa slammed her cruiser into park, pulling her service weapon as two backup squad cars pulled up alongside her, sirens blaring.
"Warren Prescott!" Teresa shouted through her megaphone. "This is the Hennepin County Sheriff's Department! Drop your keys and step out into the open with your hands on your head!"
Silence answered her, save for the patter of rain on the metal roof of the hangar and the high-pitched whine of a single-engine plane engine turning over inside.
"He's trying to taxi!" Charles shouted over the noise.
Teresa radioed the tower. "Block the runway! I repeat, block Runway 2-2 immediately!"
"He's not going to make the runway," Charles said, watching the shadows inside the hangar. "Look!"
Through the torrential downpour, a figure emerged from the side door of the hangar—not heading toward the plane, but running toward the fuel storage tanks at the edge of the tarmac. Warren was carrying a heavy leather duffel bag and a silver metallic case.
"Cover me!" Teresa yelled to her officers, rushing forward into the rain.
Charles followed right behind her, his boots splashing through deep puddles. They rounded the corner of the fuel depot just as Warren reached a locked chain-link gate leading to the perimeter road.
"End of the line, Warren!" Teresa shouted, aiming her pistol directly at his chest.
Warren spun around. His hair, usually meticulously combed, was plastered to his forehead by the rain. His clothes were soaked, and his eyes carried the wild, unhinged look of an animal trapped in a snare.
Then, his gaze landed on Charles standing behind the detective.
"Charles!" Warren laughed, a harsh, hysterical sound that echoed off the corrugated metal tanks. "Look at you! Playing the hero, as always! Did you bring your scalpels, Doctor?"
"Drop the bag, Warren," Charles said calmly, stepping out slightly to draw his former friend's full attention. "It’s over. Lillian is alive. She’s awake, and she told the police everything."
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Warren’s laughter vanished instantly, replaced by a shock wave of pure rage. "Alive? No... no, that’s impossible! The dosage was three times the lethal threshold! She should have been dead before the ambulance arrived!"
"She would have been," Charles said, taking a slow, measured step forward. "If you hadn't underestimated me. You thought you were the smartest man in the room, Warren. But you forgot that love is stronger than your petty mathematics."
