“We’ll figure it out,” he said after a few moments.
“More people are gonna die,” she said.
“If they do, that’s not on you,” he said. “All of us make our choices and have to live with the consequences.”
“Or not live with them,” she added. “You know, this whole thing would be a lot easier if I didn’t love you.”
He pulled back to arm’s length. “You’ve not said that before,” he said. “Is it true?”
Erin smiled shakily. “This would be a pretty lousy time for us to start lying to each other.”
“I’m not Lorenzo Bianchi, you know,” he said. “And you’re not Nina. We’re writing our own story, with our own ending.”
“You don’t get to choose how your story ends,” Erin said grimly.
“Sometimes,” Carlyle said, “when you come down to it, that’s the only choice we have left.”
Author's Note
I wish to acknowledge a debt to Edward Conlon of the NYPD for his excellent memoir “Blue Blood.” I am particularly indebted to him for his lively and compelling accounts of the inner workings of the New York Police Department’s Street Narcotics Enforcement Unit.
Here’s a sneak peek from Book 8: MassacreComing 2020Click here to get a reminder when it's out!
Erin saw the smoke from three blocks away, rising over lower Manhattan. As she got closer, she was able to follow the flashing lights of squad cars, fire engines, and ambulances. The street was choked with emergency vehicles. Lights, sirens, and blaring horns overwhelmed her senses. Poor Rolf, with his sensitive ears, was having an even worse time.
Erin parked as close to the scene as she could. She got Rolf and dismounted, making her way toward the billowing smoke. She didn’t see Lieutenant Webb, but she noticed the Bomb Squad van in front of the building and angled that way. A young guy with a military buzz cut was standing next to the van, talking to an engine captain from the Fire Department.
“Hey, Skip!” she called, recognizing her friend.
“Hey, Erin!” Skip Taylor replied. “You might want to keep back a little. Fire’s still going.”
“I can see that,” she said. She turned to the firefighter. “Sir, what’s the situation?”
“Firebombing,” the captain said. He pointed to the front of the building. Dense clouds of smoke poured through the shattered plate glass. “Excuse me, Detective. I know you have your job to do, but right now, I have mine. We’re containing the blaze. I’ve got Engine 24’s crew working the fire, and 55 doing a rescue search.”
“They’re inside?” Erin asked, appalled. As a first responder, she’d made entry to burning buildings, but it was never safe or easy.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “Excuse me.” He turned and went quickly toward the fire.
“What can you tell me, Skip?” Erin asked the bomb tech.
“I was just talking to the cap about the danger of secondaries,” he said.
“Secondaries?”
“Secondary explosions,” he explained. “We’ve shut down the gas lines, and I’m guessing they don’t have propane tanks inside, so the worst I’d expect would be a grease fire. The guys should be okay.”
“O’Reilly!”
Lieutenant Webb hurried over, Vic Neshenko looming behind him. Erin’s commanding officer had his trademark unlit cigarette in one hand. Webb looked unhappy, even by his standards.
Vic, on the other hand, was cheerful. “Welcome to the party,” he said.
“What’ve we got?” she asked.
“Dispatch got a 10-10S,” Webb said, the code for a crime in progress with shots fired. “We had a Patrol unit less than a block away. When they rolled up, they took fire from at least two automatic weapons, so they fell back and called for backup.”
“Any officers hit?” Erin asked sharply.
“Nope,” Vic said. “Lucky bastards. Got some holes punched in their car.”
Erin suppressed a shiver, remembering a similar situation she’d been in last year. “Glad they’re okay,” she said.
“While they were pinned down, some joker tossed a Molotov through the storefront,” Webb continued. “Then the perps took off around the corner. They must’ve had a car waiting. Backup arrived in less than two minutes, but the shooters were already gone.”
“Traffic cams?” Erin asked.
“No good,” Vic said. “We’ll check ‘em, but there’s a lot of traffic on that road, and we don’t have footage in the middle of the block, so we don’t know which car was theirs. We may be able to ID the shooters at the corner, but we’ll have to run all the plates on all the cars.”
“And theirs will be stolen,” Erin predicted. “They’ve probably already dumped the car.”
“Probably,” Webb gloomily agreed.
“How many shooters?” she asked.
“The uniforms saw three,” Vic said.
“We’ve got spent brass all over the sidewalk,” Webb said, indicating the front of the building. “Of course, New York’s Bravest are contaminating the hell out of the crime scene as we speak. I hate arson jobs.”
“On the bright side,” Vic said, “the shooting ended before we got here.”
“You’re in a good mood,” Erin observed.
“Can’t a guy be happy?”
“Not if it’s you,” she said. “I’d call that highly suspicious.”
“You gotta watch out, Erin,” he said. “All this time around crooks and psychos is making you paranoid.”
“It’s not paranoia…” she began.
“…if they’re out to get you,” he finished. “Hey, Lieutenant, how long you think they’re gonna take hosing down our crime scene?”
“Depends on what they find,” Webb said. He was starting to say something else when a distinctive sound cut through the controlled chaos on the street. A series of loud pops, it was immediately recognizable to anyone who knew it.
Erin and Vic had their sidearms drawn before they’d even fully registered what they’d heard. Skip, who’d served in combat in Iraq, was even faster. He was crouching behind his van’s engine block by the time Erin shouted, “Shots fired!”
“Where the hell did that come from?” Webb demanded, drawing his old service revolver. Cops and firefighters were scattering, taking cover and looking frantically for the shooter. More shots rang out.
“Over there!” Vic shouted, pointing at the burning building.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Erin muttered.
The fire captain ran toward Webb, a radio at his ear. “Lieutenant!” he shouted. “I’ve got men
