The door to the next room was open. An office. Also empty. From the final bedroom, a muffled sound leaked out. It sounded like a suppressed scream. Weston’s hands tightened on his weapon, and he took a deep breath, purposefully loosening his grip. He closed off his emotions, only allowing himself to rely on his training. Feelings could come later.
The door was cocked open. Weston edged up to the doorframe. He strained his ears but couldn’t hear anything. With his boot, he kicked the door open. It banged against the wall. His breath caught as he raised his weapon.
Victor Haas was straddling Avery, holding a gun to her head. She was face down, her mouth smooshed against the carpet, preventing her from screaming. Blood coated the side of her face.
Victor flicked the gun in Weston’s direction. Wood splintered as a bullet slammed into the molding.
Weston twisted out of the way, using the wall as cover. “Let Avery go, Victor Haas. It’s over. The house is surrounded. You won’t be able to escape the master bedroom. There’s no place for you to go.”
His instructions weren’t just for Victor. They were for Grady too. By identifying the attacker, pinpointing their exact location in the house, and describing the hostage situation, it would aid backup officers. Weston prayed Grady could still hear him.
“You’re lying,” Victor shouted. “No one else is here.”
The sound of glass shattering followed his words. Weston peeked around the edge of the doorjamb. Victor had broken the sliding door leading out to the patio. Probably with the butt of his gun. He held Avery upright and was using her body as a shield. It appeared her hands were bound behind her.
Somewhere deep inside, rage boiled, but Weston had to keep his head clear. He calculated his options. There weren’t many. Best case scenario was stalling until backup arrived.
Weston ran into the bedroom, using a tall dresser for cover. “Victor, you won’t make it out of the backyard with her. Stop this now before it goes too far.”
“I’m not going back to jail.”
Weston’s gaze shot to the backpack on the floor. He remembered reading a report about the thefts on campus. A similar backpack had been taken.
He peeked around the dresser. Victor was dragging Avery out the door. His hair was unwashed and his eyes wild. Under the influence of drugs, maybe? Some street drugs were known to cause superhuman strength. Weston wouldn’t let Victor harm Avery more than he already had.
“Listen, stealing is small potatoes,” Weston said. “I’m sure we can work out a deal. You won’t have to go to prison. But if you hurt Avery, then things change. Everything is riding on the decision you make now.”
He nearly choked on the lies, but they were necessary to keep Victor from escalating. The focus had to be on saving Avery.
Weston peeked around the dresser again. Victor was still in the same place. Half in and half out of the busted sliding glass door. Avery, however, seemed to have recovered somewhat from her head wound. When she met Weston’s gaze, her eyes were clear.
She was calculating. Figuring out a move.
“Let Avery go, Victor, and we can talk some more.” Weston shifted to the balls of his feet. “We can fix this. I promise.”
The man wavered. Avery’s head dropped, and then she reared up, slamming her skull into Victor’s face. A resounding crack followed as Victor’s nose broke. The man howled, releasing his hold on Avery. She dropped to the ground.
Weston sprang forward, jumping over Avery, and tackled Victor. The two men flew into the backyard. Victor’s gun tumbled from his hand, landing somewhere in the grass. Weston vaguely registered Avery rushing over to the weapon as he wrestled Victor’s arms behind his back and cuffed him.
“Get off me!” Victor hollered. “This is police brutality.”
Weston had half a mind to shove Victor’s face in the grass, but hauled the man to his feet instead.
Detective Mike Steel raced around the corner of the house. “I’ve got him.”
Weston handed Victor over and hurried to find Avery. She was standing in the yard, leaning against the house. Smears of blood stained her hair and uniform. But she was alive. Emotion he couldn’t describe mingled with the adrenaline, and Weston had the insane temptation to gather her in his arms and never let go.
As he approached, Avery’s gaze slid from his. She turned and said, “Mind getting these off me?”
Handcuffs. Based on the empty spot on her utility belt, they were hers. Weston quickly undid them. “Come on. Let’s get you to the hospital.”
“Not yet.” Avery turned to face Weston. She offered him a weak smile. “Nice tackle.”
“Nice headbutt.”
She lowered her forehead to his chest. Weston wrapped his arms around her. The yard filled with law enforcement. Dampness coated his shirt, and for a moment, he thought it was blood. Then Avery sniffled. She was crying.
He hugged her tighter, shielding her from anyone else’s prying eyes. Weston didn’t have to be told. He already knew Avery wouldn’t want others to see her weep. That’s why she hadn’t wanted to go to the hospital right away. She needed a moment. “I’ve got you, Avery. I’ve got you.”
“I know.”
Eleven
The HUPD break room smelled like a mixture of stale pizza and dirty socks. Avery’s nose wrinkled as she poured a cup of coffee. The sleeve of her uniform rode up. Red marks, left by the handcuffs, were embedded in her skin. It’d been twenty-four hours since Victor’s assault, but the echo of her fear lingered. It sat in the center of Avery’s chest, like a weight of cold granite.
Had Victor murdered Debra and Marianne? He’d demanded a lawyer after being arrested, which delayed questioning. She yanked down the sleeve of her uniform to cover the marks and doctored her coffee with hazelnut cream.
Jorge Garcia
