“Don’t ever pull a gun on me again unless you intend to use it. I’m here to bring them all down. That means you, too. Prepare yourself for a shit storm. I’m all out of kid gloves. No more fucking around.”
She thrust his head forward so fast his forehead smashed into the table, bouncing once. When he righted himself and turned around, she was already walking out the door.
He wiped the spittle from his mouth, got out of his seat as best he could holding his broken hand, and ran for the door. Two chairs were in his way as he stumbled across the pub.
“Are you okay, Mister?” the waitress asked as he passed her.
Without saying a word, he crashed through the door, gun firmly in hand.
The Charger was gone. But that was impossible. He made it to the door in the time she would’ve needed to get across the street. No way she could’ve gotten in the car, turned it on—he hadn’t heard it start—and drive away. At this hour, John Street was busy. Car after car drove by. How did she pull that off?
“Mister, would you like me to call anyone for you?”
Tim let the door close behind him. He needed painkillers. That fucking girl probably broke his hand again. Lightheadedness swept over him. He staggered as he walked down the sidewalk toward the underground parking garage.
He would run her plate number when he got to the office. He would text questions when the consortium contacted him for a name and a location. He would come to the bottom of this and he would hurt that girl when he saw her again.
He stumbled down the access ramp into the parking garage and turned toward his car. The driver’s side window was busted in. Glass littered the cement by his car door, sparkling like little diamonds. He scanned the empty garage. Not even the sound of someone fleeing the area could be heard.
A common thug? Or the girl?
He trudged to his car, the pain in his hand intensifying, throbbing.
Glass covered the driver’s seat. He ambled around to the passenger side, unlocked and opened the door, plopping down into the seat. He took a deep, calming breath.
When he opened the glove box, he saw that nothing was disturbed. Whoever broke in must’ve just wanted to cause damage. Even the CD Player was still there. Nothing else seemed to have been touched.
Like a strobe light going off in his head, he thought of his police gun.
He opened the center console.
It was empty.
The gun was gone.
Who knew it was there? In his unmarked cruiser he wore the gun. In his personal vehicle he stored it in the console. Did Erzabet see him place it in there at the cemetery?
No way. She didn’t look at him once. She had stoically stared straight ahead the entire time. She didn’t look at him until they were seated across from each other in the pub.
Then who did this? And why?
He struggled with it for a full minute, but came back to the girl. It had to be her.
It was time to call it in.
He pulled out his phone and called Marina and told her to bring Niles. Meet him on John Street.
“Bring a lot of Advil,” he added before hanging up.
Chapter 6
Jamie Stratton called in his position as he performed a safe-walk with Mrs. Jennings. Mrs. Jennings, at least eighty years of age and fragile, shopped at Eaton’s Centre every week, filling her basket on wheels and asking security for a safe-walk to her car. Eaton’s Centre security offered safe-walks to anybody who requested one. Ever since the shooting in the food court in 2012, the requests for safe-walks had skyrocketed. Sometimes Jamie spent half a shift walking people to their cars.
Today was different, though. Not five minutes ago, Jamie’s patrol supervisor had radioed all security guards walking the garage levels to watch for a white Dodge Charger. The police scanner in the main office had announced that all units were to be on the lookout for that vehicle. Jamie had written
She thrust his head forward so fast his forehead smashed into the table, bouncing once. When he righted himself and turned around, she was already walking out the door.
He wiped the spittle from his mouth, got out of his seat as best he could holding his broken hand, and ran for the door. Two chairs were in his way as he stumbled across the pub.
“Are you okay, Mister?” the waitress asked as he passed her.
Without saying a word, he crashed through the door, gun firmly in hand.
The Charger was gone. But that was impossible. He made it to the door in the time she would’ve needed to get across the street. No way she could’ve gotten in the car, turned it on—he hadn’t heard it start—and drive away. At this hour, John Street was busy. Car after car drove by. How did she pull that off?
“Mister, would you like me to call anyone for you?”
Tim let the door close behind him. He needed painkillers. That fucking girl probably broke his hand again. Lightheadedness swept over him. He staggered as he walked down the sidewalk toward the underground parking garage.
He would run her plate number when he got to the office. He would text questions when the consortium contacted him for a name and a location. He would come to the bottom of this and he would hurt that girl when he saw her again.
He stumbled down the access ramp into the parking garage and turned toward his car. The driver’s side window was busted in. Glass littered the cement by his car door, sparkling like little diamonds. He scanned the empty garage. Not even the sound of someone fleeing the area could be heard.
A common thug? Or the girl?
He trudged to his car, the pain in his hand intensifying, throbbing.
Glass covered the driver’s seat. He ambled around to the passenger side, unlocked and opened the door, plopping down into the seat. He took a deep, calming breath.
When he opened the glove box, he saw that nothing was disturbed. Whoever broke in must’ve just wanted to cause damage. Even the CD Player was still there. Nothing else seemed to have been touched.
Like a strobe light going off in his head, he thought of his police gun.
He opened the center console.
It was empty.
The gun was gone.
Who knew it was there? In his unmarked cruiser he wore the gun. In his personal vehicle he stored it in the console. Did Erzabet see him place it in there at the cemetery?
No way. She didn’t look at him once. She had stoically stared straight ahead the entire time. She didn’t look at him until they were seated across from each other in the pub.
Then who did this? And why?
He struggled with it for a full minute, but came back to the girl. It had to be her.
It was time to call it in.
He pulled out his phone and called Marina and told her to bring Niles. Meet him on John Street.
“Bring a lot of Advil,” he added before hanging up.
Chapter 6
Jamie Stratton called in his position as he performed a safe-walk with Mrs. Jennings. Mrs. Jennings, at least eighty years of age and fragile, shopped at Eaton’s Centre every week, filling her basket on wheels and asking security for a safe-walk to her car. Eaton’s Centre security offered safe-walks to anybody who requested one. Ever since the shooting in the food court in 2012, the requests for safe-walks had skyrocketed. Sometimes Jamie spent half a shift walking people to their cars.
Today was different, though. Not five minutes ago, Jamie’s patrol supervisor had radioed all security guards walking the garage levels to watch for a white Dodge Charger. The police scanner in the main office had announced that all units were to be on the lookout for that vehicle. Jamie had written
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