The shooter’s answer was another long burst of gunfire, sprayed indiscriminately through the door and into the wall. Erin dropped into a crouch, which turned out to be a good idea. Two sizable holes were punched through the wall more or less where she’d been standing. Rolf barked sharply, standing tense and ready, but there was no way she was going to send him head-on at the gunman.
Vic made eye contact with her and she knew what he was going to do. She swallowed and got ready to cover him.
The gunfire paused for a second and Vic made his move. He ducked low, leaned around the doorframe, and fired three shots from his pistol. “Cover!” he shouted. Then he lunged into the room, keeping low.
Erin followed up, moving to the other side of the doorway and thrusting the barrel of her Glock around the door. She caught a quick glimpse of movement in the corner of her eye and pivoted just in time to see a man fling himself out the window. He didn’t bother to open it first, he just went, one arm in front of his face, straight through the plate glass.
Vic stood in the middle of the room, pistol dangling from one hand, mouth hanging open. Erin and Rolf had time to take two steps into the apartment before they heard the thud of the man hitting the ground, four floors down.
“Did he just do a Peter Pan?” Vic wondered aloud.
“Yeah,” Erin said. She was already on her way out of the room. She squeezed passed Lawton and Crawford on the stairs. Lawton was talking to Dispatch. Crawford just looked confused.
“Where you going?” he asked as she rushed back the way they’d come.
“And that’s why we wear vests!” she snapped, not bothering to explain herself. She took the steps two at a time, Rolf flowing down the stairs right beside her. They raced out the door and around toward the alley. Erin was expecting to find a dead body, or at best a guy with two broken legs. What she saw instead made her shake her head in silent admiration. The luckiest criminal in Manhattan had fallen four stories, blind, into an open dumpster filled with bags of something soft enough not to smash him to pulp.
She saw the torn trash bags and scattered litter where he’d landed and hauled himself out. He was obviously still able to move; there was no sign of the gunman himself. But she did see something almost as good. He hadn’t made it completely unscathed. A smear of wet blood marked the side of the dumpster.
“Rolf!” Erin said.
The Shepherd immediately snapped to attention, ready for orders. She pointed to the blood and gave him his German “search” command.
“Such!”
The blood was still warm and the trail was very fresh. A single sniff was all it took for the K-9 to lock on to the scent. Then he was off and running. Erin kept him on leash. She didn’t want him to get too far ahead, especially since she hadn’t seen a gun in her quick scan of the dumpster. That meant her guy was probably still armed.
“Erin! That way!”
The shout came down from above, like an angel calling an Old Testament prophet. Or, in this case, like a Russian-American detective yelling out a fourth-story window. She glanced up and saw Vic leaning out over the alley, pointing the same way Rolf was pulling.
“In pursuit!” she called back. “We got the scent!”
“I’ll call backup and secure the scene!” he replied. “Go get him!”
She’d half expected him to leap out the window and join her. It was gratifying to see Vic displaying common sense.
Rolf forged ahead, nostrils flaring, tail wagging, having the time of his life. He knew what was at stake: his favorite chew-toy as a reward. All he had to do was what he’d done a thousand times in training. He hustled around a corner toward the street. Erin just hoped the guy didn’t have a car waiting for him. Rolf couldn’t track a car.
But the dog didn’t get all the way to the street. He stopped at a manhole cover, snuffled at it, and scratched with his front claws.
“Good boy,” Erin said, crouching beside him. She could see the flakes of rust where the cover had been jimmied open and another smear of blood on the lip of the lid. She knew where the guy had gone.
But it was a tricky tactical problem. Either he’d kept running, or he was waiting at the bottom of the shaft with a gun in his hand. If she opened the hatch, she might get her head blown off. If she didn’t, he might get away.
This was exactly the sort of situation a flashbang grenade would be perfect for. Unfortunately, after a few too many accidents, the NYPD didn’t use them anymore. Erin had her sidearm and backup piece and that was it.
While she considered her options, a squad car pulled up outside the alley, less than ten yards from her. A pair of uniforms jumped out, probably in answer to Vic’s call. They must’ve been right at the corner. Erin was wearing a vest that said POLICE in big white letters, but she held up her shield just in case.
“What’s up, Detective?” one of the officers asked.
“Got a 10-34S,” she said, giving the code for an assault in which shots had been fired. “Perp did a rabbit, I’m pretty sure he’s down here.” She toed the manhole cover.
“Let’s go get him!” the other officer said. He was a freckle-faced kid, fresh out of the academy by the look of him.
“He still got the gun?” the older officer asked, more practical and less adventurous.
“I think so,” Erin said.
“There’s three of us, Sarge,” the rookie insisted. “Plus the dog. We got this.”
The veteran gave him a look. “And there’s gonna be three of us going home at the end of the shift, kid.
