“Look at all this blood,” I hear a guy mutter.
“Stay focused,” another growls.
“This is Lieutenant Rhett Walker with the Joliet City PD,” Rhett shouts. “Lay down your weapons and get down on the ground, or I’ll be forced to shoot.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. We did have the element of surprise.
“The cops are here?” the first guy says, his voice shaken. “Man, I knew this was a bad idea!”
The same buddy replies with a grunt. “I swear to God, Lopez, if you put your gun down, I’ll shoot you myself.”
“The cops are supposed to be helpin’ us. I didn’t want to fight no cops.”
“Lopez.”
I hear the thunk of metal on wood. I’m surprised one of them wanted out so bad he’s willing to throw down his weapon. I’ve known a few guys who got cold feet on missions. Didn’t turn out well for them, though.
I flinch at the sound of two gunshots. That’s it. Two. There’s a crash and another gunshot, but afterward all I hear is silence. Although I’m concerned about the outcome, I’m more concerned about my messed-up calf. I bring my leg closer and remove the last of the bandages covering my tattoo. With careful movements I wrap my injury, trying not to focus on the visible muscle that glistens thanks to the missing chunk of skin.
“Get down on the floor,” Rhett yells.
I breathe easy. At least, whatever happened, Rhett came out on top.
Once I’m done with my leg, I attempt to stand. It doesn’t work, and I struggle against the boxes. I give up and wait. When Rhett rounds the corner of the pile, I stare up at him with my one eye. He gives me the once-over, and I know I look like shit.
“Just give me a hand,” I mutter.
“Maybe I should do a cute bit where I hold a gun to your head until you do what I say,” he quips.
“I’d like you a little more if you did.”
Rhett lets out a single laugh and smirks. I laugh too, if only because I didn’t think he would appreciate that joke. He offers his hand and I take it. I get to my feet, and it’s hard to stay standing, but I manage.
I spot one of the thugs facedown on the dock with his hands on top of his head. The other two are dead in a pool of their bodily fluids, each with a hole through the back of their skulls.
“Two shots was all it took you?” I ask Rhett.
“Kids on the street call it going to the gun range and practicing.”
What a smartass. I had eight guys to deal with—he’s still playing in the baby leagues.
Rhett walks over and takes a cell phone out of a guy’s pants pocket. He dials something quick and then holds the phone close to his mouth.
“Hello?” he says into the speaker. “There’s been an emergency at the Noimore docks. Officer down. Ten bodies. One in custody.”
Before anything else is said, he ends the call and throws the device back on the corpse. He rummages around the other pockets as I watch, half amused.
“I’ve fondled plenty of things in my day,” I drawl, “but dead bodies aren’t one of them.”
Rhett snorts but otherwise doesn’t reply. Instead he pulls a key ring from the sad sack on the floor and turns toward the boathouse door. He motions for me to follow. I limp after him, leaving my blazer and knife. Without the rush of a life-or-death fight, things slow down. I want to lie down and sleep. It’s all I think about until we reach the little four-door sedan parked in the dirt lot.
He unlocks the vehicle, and I slide into the front passenger’s seat, comforted by the soft fabric of the chair. After sitting in a metal van, fucking around on a dock, and tussling on a shitty boat, I’m ready for some luxury.
Rhett starts the thing up and peels out of the parking lot, speeding away as if he’s avoiding someone. I get my seat belt on, but not without struggle. My shoulder aches with each movement, and I tilt the seat back in order to rest. He blasts the heater to fight the cold. Within seconds I’m sweating, and I roll up my sleeves and press my skin against the coolness of the window.
“You have a cigarette?” I ask.
“No,” he replies, curt.
I kick one foot up on the dashboard and relax. Rhett shakes his head.
“Sit normally. It’s dangerous to position yourself like that.”
I kick the other foot up and hook my ankles. “Life’s short. I don’t give a fuck.”
He takes a hard turn onto the street, and I have to grip the door to keep in my seat. I give him a glare. “You tryin’ to make this dangerous?”
“We don’t have time to mess around.”
It’s a manual shift vehicle—I haven’t seen one of those in two decades—and he shifts the thing like he knows what he’s doing. I admire the fact he can drive, but I can’t bring myself to compliment the man. I’ve already dug a pit of hatred for him… climbing out now would be tiresome.
I close my eye and focus on breathing even. Soon I’ll be in a jail cell, and I’m sure they’ll have some drugs for me. Rhett takes another hard turn, and I jerk my gaze over to him.
“What’re you doing?” I demand.
“Beating Charleston to the punch,” he mutters.
“What’re you trying to beat him to?”
“Your house.”
“You think he’s going there to get the evidence?”
“There’s no doubt in my mind.”
Eh. Even at the rate we’re going, it’ll take at least thirty minutes to get to Joliet. I relax back in my seat and exhale. At least I might see Miles again before I go to the slammer. Though, the more I think about it, the more I don’t want to see him at all. He’s not the type of guy who would leave me to my fate in a jail cell. He’s the type of guy
