He smiled. “I know I’ll pay for that later, but,” he dipped his forehead toward her, “the look on your face right now...is worth the price.”
She shed a half grin at her partner, the man she relied on to have her back in these situations. “You will pay for that.”
Entering the structure, Devlin and Hawkins led the U.S. Marshals Service Special Operations Group (S.O.G.) toward the stairs. Her four-inch heels clicking off the tile flooring, she lifted a balled hand and glimpsed him. “Take one for you.”
He gave her a fist bump. “Not if I take one for you first.”
Six months ago, Hawkins had stepped in front of a bullet meant for Devlin. His vest had absorbed the projectile. From that moment, the two deputy marshals became close friends and started fist bumping and repeating their mantra before every potentially violent encounter.
*******
Having ascended two flights of stairs and crept down a third-floor hallway, the assault team stacked up outside an apartment door.
Devlin and Hawkins stood on the opposite side of the walkway, across from the door.
The S.O.G. team leader looked at her.
Hearing a noise—a door closing in a hollow room—she faced the direction of the sound and glanced at an ‘EXIT’ sign at the far end of the hall before eyeing Hawkins.
He showed her an upturned thumb.
She nodded at the S.O.G. team leader.
The man pounded on the door.
Devlin raised her voice. “Raphael Mendoza, this is the U.S. Marshals Service. We have a warrant for your arrest. Open the door.” Retreating, she gestured at the agent with a battering ram.
The man swung the instrument, and the door burst inward. Two columns of heavily armed men flooded the dwelling, each man shouting commands:
“U.S. Marshals.”
“Hands.”
“Show me your hands.”
“Get down on your knees.”
Guns up, Devlin and Hawkins were last to enter the living area.
More commands came from the S.O.G. team...
“Get down on the floor.”
“Hands on your head.”
“Don’t move.”
Seconds later, at different intervals, Devlin heard shouts from different men.
“Clear.”
“Bedrooms are clear.”
“Clear.”
The S.O.G. team leader approached Devlin. “All clear, ma’am. Suspects have been secured.”
Devlin went from room to room, identifying each handcuffed man. She faced Hawkins. “He’s not here. Mendoza’s not here.”
Hawkins scowled at her. “What do you mean? You said you saw him.”
“I did see him.” She ran fingers through her hair. “He got out of that Caddy right in front of me. Where did he—” she half closed an eye at her partner, her mind recalling the sound of the closing door from seconds earlier. “Someone tipped him off that we were coming.” She bolted out of the apartment and headed for the back stairs.
“Devlin.” Hawkins followed her.
“Bravo Team, report.”
“All clear...no contact—over.”
After bursting through the stairwell door, Hawkins one pace behind her, she leaned over the railing and saw Bravo Team stacked up on the first-floor landing. She tipped her head back and eyed a gray metal door with areas of missing paint that revealed rust blotches. Lifting her tight-fitting skirt, she clambered up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. “Mendoza’s on the roof.”
*******
With their guns at the ready and each deputy marshal spanning his/her one hundred and eighty degree arc of responsibility, Devlin and Hawkins cleared the roof, hurried to the edge, and peered over the side. She scanned the adjacent roof and spotted a door closing the last few inches. Pointing with her chin at the door, “He jumped,” she holstered her 1911 and backed away.
Hawkins glanced at the narrow alley three stories below. “All teams, the suspect’s jumped to the structure to the immediate east. Cover both exits. Make sure he doesn’t get out of that building.” He turned around and saw his partner removing her vest. “What are you doing?”
“This thing’s too restrictive. It’ll also,” she tossed the garment at him, “weigh me down.”
“I—” approaching her, he caught the clothing, “that’s not what I meant. You,” he shot a look at the other roof and came back to her, “you can’t do this, Jess. It’s too far.”
Hiking up her skirt for more freedom of movement, Devlin filled her lungs and exhaled. “Sure I can. I’ve got,” she bobbed her head downward while lifting one boot, “long legs. And we’re one story higher.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I won’t let you do it. This is crazy.”
“Crazier than letting a child molester get away?” Squinting, she found a landing place and lowered her center of gravity. “Meet me downstairs.” Devlin took off running.
Hawkins lunged for her, “Jessica,” but she was beyond his reach.
Three strides from the metal lip, she felt her heart beating faster. A dozen years ago, she had competed in the long jump in high school; however, she had done so in tennis shoes and shorts, not high-heeled boots and fishnets. She planted the sole of her left boot on the metal lip. Tennis shoes, boots... she pushed off, it can’t be that much different.
Flying through the air, Devlin discovered one difference—traction. Her plant foot had slipped upon takeoff. Pumping her arms and legs as if she were still running, she saw her landing spot, further away than she had envisioned. Resisting the urge to look down at the darkened alley, she focused on her target while propelling her arms and legs faster. She brought her feet together and leaned forward.
Her heels touched down two inches from the edge of the building. Throwing out her hands, Devlin scraped her right knee and both palms, and fell onto her right hip before rolling through the landing. She stuck a boot spike into the rubber-coated, flattop roof to slow her momentum. Her knee boot skidded a short ways, and she came to a halt, down on one knee, one hand on the roof. Getting to her feet, while rubbing the smarting knee, she glanced over her shoulder.
One hand on his hip, the other holding the Glock loosely at his side, his lips
