I slam my hand down on top of Derek's head as is protocol while he gets into the back of the car. Shit. Miranda rights. I mumble them in one breath before slamming the door in his face.
Tyrone’s supped-up Challenger stops behind the cruiser. I get in.
He's sipping on a drink from Starbucks.
“Bro, you grabbed breakfast while I was doing all the heavy lifting?”
“We ain’t rookies anymore. The heavy lifting is over, now the rookie cops on the beat scurry like roaches.” Tyrone chuckles, before nodding toward the cup holder. My foam cup is piping hot, there's a slither of steam coming from the tiny plastic hole on top.
“Too bad we aren't anywhere near your kid sister’s place. You still haven't tried to hook your favorite partner up.”
“You’re my only partner. And I’d kill you before making a love connection,” I mumble. Our eyes connect. We've never kept secrets from each other but today is a new day.
“Speaking of tail, you don't step out the house less than suited up, Evan. We've been on the scene since the sun came up. You’re dressed for GQ but you're being way too mean to ol’ Derek.”
I chuckle. “My bad, before noon, you're bad cop.”
“Usually, but you ruined the rotate,” Tyrone says, turning west on Wilshire Boulevard. “I’m bad cop, with a knack for roughing ‘em up while sipping my caramel macchiato. You’re good cop, by the book—bitter, black coffee.”
I wave him off.
Tyrone pulls onto La Brea behind the squad car. “Once Cooper is in the interrogation room, that shit isn't going to fly with you beating him into the ground like Incredible Hulk. So like I said, dressed for GQ but not smooth at all. Like you haven't banged a female in a day or so.”
I take a deep breath. We've always talked about the women we had sex with. It probably started with a stakeout, and it just stuck, not that I say my partner’s name, but Tyrone and I have never been less than candid. Since Reese, I've been mum about my sex life. And I don't plan on saying shit, even if her identity is not disclosed.
My way out comes an instant later...
A plume of smoke rises in the middle of the intersection off Wilshire and Fairfax. Tires screech as three modified Land Rover Defenders come zooming to a stop in the middle of the crossing. A few of the cars, who’d been preparing to go, slam into the backs of each other.
Submachine guns let loose. One distracted driver turns the wheel of his Corvette as bullets blaze through the hood. The gunman doesn’t even flinch as the Corvette veers to the left in the nick of time and rams into a light pole.
My hand goes straight to my gun, my head popping down below the dash. The sound pummels through my chest cavity. I open the passenger door. Tyrone signals me as he opens his door.
An ocean of pedestrians on the sidewalk scatter in all directions.AA A young mother eyes me in terror as she lies atop her toddler, at the entrance of a baby boutique. Next to them is a gunned down bicyclist.
My head pops up to the window, as I crouch on the ground. The gunner’s sole interest is Derek Cooper. The rookie cops in the front seat of the cruiser both have their heads slumped. I realize the driver is laid against the horn because that's the only constant as the terrorists change magazines. I target one of the drivers.
The Russians! No redneck hicks like Riker. These guys smuggle vodka. There's no time to determine why they've just decided to join the party.
I aim for the third driver, with white-blonde hair. He’s spraying an endless supply of bullets.
My head ducks. Glass breaks over my hair. I dip low and aim for his feet. The leather of his boot puffs as a bullet blazes into it.
He begins to crumple. I aim for another gunner, but a teenage girl thrusts herself at me. She must’ve noticed my badge. There’s primal fear prickled in her gray eyes. In a nanosecond, I’ve looked her over.
“Get in, lie down,” I shout.
She crouches down in the backseat of Tyrone’s car.
They shout something in their native language and then their SUV doors open and slam in sequence. I stand up and shoot at the rear tires.
“Fuck.” I shout punching into the air.
I jog toward the police cruiser. All casualties.
Then I see one of the Russians on my side of the street. It's the one who had the shock of white hair. His tailored, silver suit is filled with soot from the asphalt. There’s a salting of glass shards around him. He’s also sporting a gunshot in the abdomen, as he curls into the fetal position. Feather eyelashes close against evil, pale-blue eyes.
This motherfucker better not die. Or I'll kill him myself.
14
Reese
Throat clamped shut; I place a hand at my chest in an attempt to complete such an automatic function as breathing. Then my hand rises up to my face as I fan myself. My face burns due to an onslaught of tears. I’m standing at the oven of Flour Shoppe.
Jamie and Maria both have their arms around Luis, as if to protect their bear cub. Sandra grabs my hands and says, “We have all decided to take a pay cut.”
The only action I am currently capable of is nodding repeatedly with tears streaming down my cheeks.
“Quit all of that crying, Reesita,” Maria chides, “We are family. You took a chance on me. Luis. Er… Jamie you’ve known since high school, so I’d say he got the job by association–which technically is a chance in itself!”
Jamie huffs, “I won’t even address that comment. But yes, we are all willing to pitch in a few hours, or rather take off a few hours in order to keep Luis. Group hug.”
They all surround me in an energetic embrace as I become a blubbering mess. This
