ANOTHER SUNNY DAY (25 page)

As if in slow motion, Sam yelled, “No!” even as he helplessly watched the bullet imbed itself in his friend’s throat, just a fraction of an inch above the protection of Larry’s Kevlar vest.  The old cop gasped as blood spurted simultaneously from the wound and from his open mouth.  His eyes widened, then glazed as his body crumpled to the ground. 

Too shocked to think, Sam reacted instinctively.  “Drop the gun, Asshole!  Let her go!” he shouted, trying to distract the young man while inching closer.  Sam had automatically drawn his gun and steadied it in both hands but couldn’t get a clear shot at the pimp who was using her as a shield.  Her smile had been replaced by a slack-jawed look of shock and horror.   She clung to the man’s arm as if it was the only thing holding her upright.

The pimp whirled and turned his gun on Sam.  Careful to keep the woman between them, he fired again.  The first shot pounded into Sam’s vest with the force of a 300 lb. linebacker, knocking him back a couple steps.  Sam steadied his stance and kept his gun leveled and his gaze locked with the killer’s.  For a split second, they froze, each looking down the barrel of the other’s gun.  A slow vicious smile curled one corner of the pimp’s lips.  He knew the young cop wouldn’t risk hitting the woman, and he also knew there were a lot of vital areas on Sam’s body not protected by Kevlar.  With cold, deadly intent, the pimp squeezed the trigger.

“Fuck you, too,” he said with cold blooded hatred.

Anticipating the shot, Sam dodged.  There was no pain as the bullet pierced his right shoulder, only a sort of electric shock jolting along his nerve endings…then nothing.  Sam didn’t even feel the gush of blood that poured down his arm.  His fingers relaxed, no longer able to hold the gun that clattered to the concrete and slid under the patrol car. 

The woman took advantage of the distraction to land a sharp elbow into the pimp’s ribs.  Caught by surprise, and no longer needing the shield, the young man released his hold long enough for her to twist away.  Instead of running for freedom, she grabbed his arm.

“Stop!  Are you crazy?” she shouted.  She watched, horrified, as her pimp kept the gun aimed at Sam. 

“They’re all the same.”  The pimp shook her off, his focus never leaving the wounded cop.     

Sam’s own gaze never wavered as he stared into the crazed eyes of the last man he’d probably ever see.  His left hand closed around the baton still attached to his belt, and he yanked it out.  But before he could take a swing, the pimp stepped closer, his arm extended, the heavy black gun held steady in his hand by a fierce hatred. 

Sam didn’t even have time to brace for the impact.  There was a sparkly blue blur as the hooker lunged forward, followed by a deafening explosion as the gun belched fire and lead.  Sam staggered backward, aware of a blinding explosion of pain and a fresh flow of thick, hot liquid pouring down the side of his head.  There was a muffled pounding in his ears as the garish lights of Colfax spun around him.  He struggled to focus, but his knees buckled beneath him.  The concrete came up much too fast and hard.  He tried to push himself up, but the dizziness dragged him back down. 

All the things that should have been going through his mind, the whole “life flashing before you” thing and thoughts about how upset his mother would be at his death weren’t as prominent as his own disappointment that he hadn’t seen this coming.  Stupid, stupid, stupid…he’d let his guard down and ignored all his training.  Now his old friend already lay dead, and within seconds, Sam had no doubt he would be joining him.  Precinct Shit had claimed two more victims…three if the girl didn’t get away.  

His senses foggy, he thought he heard another shot.  His eyes were almost closed as a bright red stain spread across the Nuggets jersey.  In disbelief, the young black man looked down at the gaping wound in his chest, then melted to the ground.  

Sam felt soft, trembling fingers touch his cheek.  He forced his eyes open and looked up into the face of an angel.  His foggy senses cleared long enough for him to recognize the wide blue-green eyes of the hooker.

“I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry,” she whispered over and over. 

Sam fought the waves of unconsciousness that tugged at him.  He managed to lift his head enough to look around at the bloody scene.  Both Larry and the pimp lay dead, only inches away from each other on the sidewalk, their blood oozing out and meeting to form a shiny dark red puddle.  The
ridealong was crouched behind the open door of the patrol car with his arms braced on the sill of the open window, Sam’s pistol grasped between both of his hands.

In the shocked silence, Sam became aware of the sound of sirens approaching.  He blinked through the veil of blood that was flowing into his eyes and looked back at the woman.  But she had vanished.  Had he only imagined her gentle touch and soft voice?

A half dozen patrol cars slid to a stop, their flashing red, white and blue lights joining the dizzying whirl, then everything went black as Sam lost his precarious hold on consciousness and slid into darkness.

* * *

Kate leaned against the closed door of her apartment, then whirled around and scrambled to lock all three locks.  Her fingers were trembling so violently, it took several seconds to get the safety chain into its small round hole.  Her first impulse was to crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head, curl into a ball and not move for at least a week.  If she was lucky, this would all be an awful nightmare, and at any moment, she would wake up and everything would be just as it had been several hours ago.  Back to the worries about coming up with the rent, getting a good long-term job, having enough extra money to get the brakes on her car fixed and maybe even being able to afford a new pair of shoes. 

But tonight Kate wasn’t so lucky.

She glanced down at her hands and realized they were splattered with dried brownish-red spots.  Blood.  She pressed her lips together and struggled to swallow the rush of bile that suddenly filled her throat.  With increasing panic, she saw there were more dark red splotches all over the front of her tube top and skirt and even on the bare skin of her shoulders and chest. 

Oh God, she had to get them off.  Frantically, she clawed at the fastener of the skirt and yanked it off.  She peeled off the tube top and dropped it on top of the skirt and added her shoes to the pile.  Finally, she pulled off the long blonde wig and tossed it on a chair. 

Wearing only black bikini panties and a black strapless bra, she hugged herself, trying to stop the shivering that had wracked her ever since the first shots were fired.  Her jaws ached from being clenched for so long.  She needed a shower…a long, hot shower to wash away the blood and the horror and the death…

Kate crossed the room that served as a combination living/dining room with a kitchenette blocked off in one corner by a folding screen.  Small, run-down, yet barely affordable, she had, nevertheless, looked on it as a cozy hideaway...until now.  Even with all the blinds closed, drapes pulled and the door locked, she still felt vulnerable and alone.  At any second there could be a knock on the door and the police . . .  She wasn’t ready.  Not yet.

Kate knew she shouldn’t have run away.  It wasn’t even a conscious thought as much as an instinctive reaction to flee.  When she heard the sirens, she knew help was near, and there was nothing she could do for any of the men lying on the sidewalk.  She melted into the growing ring of curious bystanders and watched the emergency activity.  As more and more people arrived, she had slid farther into the background until she just stepped away and disappeared into the night.  Sooner or later she would have to talk to the police.  Later, seemed to be the better plan. 

She entered the bathroom and turned on the shower.  It would take at least five minutes for the hot water to reach her second floor pipes, so she finished undressing while it ran.  Her fingers fumbled as she took off her left earring, than reached for the right one.  Touching the empty lobe of her ear, she sighed.  Damn!  The sparkling crystal hoops had been her favorite pair.  She sighed and stepped out of her panties, then unhooked her bra. As she tossed it on the bed, a hundred dollar bill fluttered to the floor.

She blinked and stared at the crumpled bill for a few seconds without moving.  Jameel had given it to her earlier in the evening, and because she hadn’t brought a purse, she’d tucked it into the cup of her bra.  In all the excitement, she’d completely forgotten about it.  Stepping over it as if it was a poisonous snake, she entered the shower and pulled the curtain closed behind her.

As expected, the water was barely lukewarm, but it still felt good, pouring over her, washing away all the physical reminders of the night.  She scrubbed her face and body with a soapy washcloth until her skin felt raw.  Even after the water ran cold, she lingered in the protective cell of the tiled shower until she started shivering again.  Reluctantly, she turned off the faucets and picked up a towel. 

She made a half-hearted attempt to blow dry her hair, then wrapped a fluffy robe around her naked body.  Suddenly overwhelmed by a debilitating exhaustion, she succumbed to her earlier instinct and crawled into bed.  With all her lights blazing and her ruined clothes littering the floor, she closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.  As much as she hated to think about it, she knew nothing would change before morning.  Sooner or later, she’d have to deal with it all . . . but for the few hours left until dawn, she would try to find peace in the depths of sleep. 

* * *

It was almost 4 a.m. when he reached the newsroom.  In spite of the early hour, there were already a couple other reporters at their desks, working desperately on their latest tip, trying to develop it into a story that would make it to press.

Brian smiled as his fingers closed around the cell phone in his pocket.  Let them scramble.  Yesterday, he’d been one of them.  But this morning, everything had changed.  What might have been a back page filler had suddenly become a front page headline. 

Somewhere between the shootings and the arrival of the coroner, he’d called his editor who had promised him two inches on the front page in today’s edition, plus a half page in tomorrow’s and a full spread on the website.  All with his by-line. 

For eight years he’d been working at this paper, doing every crap job there was just to stay on the payroll.  Denver was a great city if you liked football or skiing.  Brian liked neither.  His pallor was well earned spending hours inside homes or bars or malls or whatever crazy location might produce an interesting story.  He couldn’t get the big assignments until he’d proven himself.  But he couldn’t prove himself until he found a big story.  That vicious cycle had generated such fascinating assignments such as the man who had painted his house, lawn and even the dog Bronco orange and blue or the woman who trimmed one of her hedges in the image of Obama during the Democratic Convention. 

No matter how small and unimportant each story was, he’d struggled to keep it fresh and give it his whole heart, knowing that one day, he’d get his shot at the big time.  One day someone would notice the beautiful prose and the brilliant insight that he put into each and every piece. 

And that one day was today.  He’d already called in the brief report that barely made it into the morning edition.  He had all day to write the more detailed story that would appear in tomorrow’s edition.  He wasn’t scheduled to be in the office until noon, but he was too energized to sleep.  He could still remember the weight of the cop’s
Glock in his hand and the kick when he pulled the trigger.  Even hours later, the rancid smell of gun powder and blood still filled his nostrils.  The adrenalin continued to pump through his veins, making his heart pound wildly in his chest.

Brian’s fingers danced across the keyboard as the words detailed the events of the night.  This story was big enough and had a high enough profile to break him through that ink-stained barrier.  And best of all, this story was all his.  

OMG

A Young Adult Novel

By Bob Kat

Published December, 2012

CHAPTER ONE

TUESDAY, EARLY JUNE

There was a parrot outside her window.  Kelly rubbed her eyes and squinted into the painful glare of bright Florida sunshine that had awakened her.  Perched in a palm tree, the large scarlet and blue bird cocked its head and looked back at her.  Trying not to frighten it, Kelly slid the sheet back and eased her legs out of bed.  One slow step at a time, she crossed to the window and knelt down.