Damaged Goods (Don't Call Me Hero Book 2) (25 page)

“We’re probably the closest car,” I protested.

“We’re at the end of our shift,” he continued to resist. “Do you really wanna be stuck filling out paperwork when you could be cuddling up with your lawyer honey?”

I grabbed the radio handset. “Central, this is 432. Be advised we’re en route.”

“432,” the dispatcher responded, “I see you en route.”

The car slowed to a near stop and Mendez stared at me in disbelief. “Really?”

There was more he wanted to say, I was sure, but he let the one-worded question hang in the air for a while.

I returned the handset to its holster. “Really.”

We pulled into a sparsely populated parking lot moments later. I knew the club by reputation only. It was popular with both college students and locals, and police were often called in to break up fights between the two populations. I’d never heard of a call so early in the evening, however. They mostly came around bar time, not dinnertime. I exited the vehicle before Mendez even turned off the engine, giving my partner no choice but to follow me into the club.

I stood in the entrance to give my eyes time to adjust to the lack of natural light inside the bar. The club was located in a long, narrow building. The entryway was crowded with low tables and chairs that taller patrons probably tripped over. In the center of the club was a long bar, which occupied a good portion of one of the building’s side walls, and at the very back of the club was a square dance floor that was elevated a few feet. Even farther back was a sunken DJ booth, set apart from the dance floor by lower elevation and a Plexiglas wall. The entire floor plan looked like an ADA nightmare.

Someone had turned off the music and had turned on the overhead lights as though it were last call. Ownership was probably banking on the hope that people would start to disburse if the club looked like it was closing. It wasn’t working.

School hadn’t yet started for fall semester, but the football team was on campus early for preseason practice. Nearly half of the bar’s patrons wore university gear, most of which said Minnesota football. They’d probably just gotten out of practice and were letting off a  little steam. I could imagine a scenario where an intoxicated local had made a disparaging comment about the university or the football team or somebody’s mama and a fight had broken out.

“Jesus, it’s like
Roadhouse
in here,” I muttered to myself.

“Where’s Patrick Swayze when you need him?”

I looked over at my partner, surprised he’d gotten the reference, but even more surprised that he’d responded like a regular human being.

Mendez pulled out his on-person radio. “Dispatch, this is 432.”

“Go ahead, 432.”

“Dispatch, this party’s gotten out of hand. Requesting backup, Code Two.”

Call code numbers were used by officers and dispatchers to indicate the seriousness of an incident. Code Two indicated the situation be handled immediately, but lights and sirens need not be used and all traffic laws should be obeyed. Mendez had labeled our situation of middling importance.

“And now we wait,” he said, settling his hands on his gun belt.

“Negative. If we don’t step in right now,” I objected, “these kids are going to kill each other.”

“And if we don’t wait for backup, Miller, they’ll be killing
us
instead.”

“I guess that’s a risk I’ve gotta take.”

I approached the closest combatants—two burly college-aged men currently engaged in a fistfight. Both wore t-shirts that had Minnesota football screen-printed across the chest. It made me wonder if they were drunk or if maybe it was an offensive line versus defensive line conflict. They swung wildly at each other, missing the body parts that would have done any real damage and instead landing punches on each other’s thick arms and pectoral muscles. These boys didn’t know how to fight. They had height and weight on their side, but they hadn’t been trained like I had. Their skill came in shoving around 300-pound linemen, not in actually throwing punches.

“Stand down,” I ordered, hand out in a halting gesture.

The pair ignored me and continued to wrestle with each other. I touched my hand to my utility belt. I had mace, but I wasn’t about to use it inside a crowded nightclub where innocent bystanders could get hit with the spray. My taser wasn’t ideal for breaking up a bar fight either. I would be able to stun only one person before rendering the device useless.

“Miller!” I heard Mendez call out. “Watch out!”

I looked just in time to see a beer bottle flying through the air and narrowly miss my head. It crashed against a nearby wall and exploded in a cloud of glass shards. I whipped my head around to see who had thrown the projectile.

A man who looked older than the other kids in the bar approached me. I didn’t know if he’d been the one to throw the beer bottle, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

“Sir, I need you to back up and get out of here.”

He reached down and pulled a switchblade from his boot.

“Jesus, this really is a scene from
Roadhouse
,” I muttered to myself.

I had no idea what he intended to do with the puny blade, but I wasn’t going to stand idle to find out. I lunged forward and chopped my fist down on my attacker’s wrist. The impact forced his hand open and knocked the weapon free. When the knife hit the ground, I moved quickly and kicked it out of anyone’s reach.

A glimmer of fear passed over the man’s face. I’d disarmed him in seconds.

“Get. Out,” I grit out again.

This time, he complied with my order.

I didn’t have time to gloat or bask in the glow of a victory. All around me, oversized man-children were punching each other and breaking furniture.

I looked over to see that Mendez had thrown himself into the fray as well. He’d unwisely chosen to take on the biggest kid in the club though. Mendez was barely bigger than me; I didn’t know how he had any hope of taking down this Goliath.

I came to the aid of my partner. Mendez was trying to put the guy in a headlock, but his elbow caught under my chin instead. It rung my bell a little and knocked the cobwebs from my brain.

I leapt onto the kid’s back. He was enormous. He probably played offensive tackle or defensive back for the university. With my feet dandling in the air, I no longer had leverage. The best I could hope for was to hold on like riding some mechanical bull until he tired out. I could smell the alcohol seeping from his pores.

“Get off me, bitch,” he snarled.

“That’s no way to talk to a lady,” I retorted.

As much as I hated to admit it, Mendez had probably been right; we should have waited until backup arrived.

I couldn’t hang on forever. Using the giant’s back as a springboard, I leapt off of his back and landed on my feet. My knees cried out at the jarring impact.

The bulky college-aged man thrust a meaty fist in the direction of my head. I dodged the sledgehammer assault and watched as my would-be assailant missed and crashed his hand into a cinderblock wall. At contact, the man dropped to his knees and howled in pain. He held his injured fist close to his body. He’d probably broken a few bones.

Before I could lock in on my next target, the far door burst open and fading daylight spilled into the windowless bar, along with half a dozen uniformed police officers.

“Shit! Cops!” someone yelled.

Apparently Mendez and I were chopped liver.

There was a mad rush towards the exit as people fled the scene to avoid being arrested. Those who weren’t part of the mass exodus froze in place and raised their hands in the air to surrender.

It was over.

I sat on the curb outside, sore and exhausted from the bar fight. My uniform smelled like a combination of sweat, men’s body spray, and beer. I looked out at the parking lot as the chaos of the evening began to get under control. The red and blue lights of the squad cars illuminated the space and the faces of college-aged kids who’d made a bad decision that night. Nearly a dozen men sat on the curb in the parking lot, their faces filled with regret and their hands zip-tied behind their backs with flex-cuffs.

“Hey,” I called out to one of the kids who’d spilled out of the club and remained lingering in the parking lot. I couldn’t see his face, but the burning ember at the end of his cigarette beckoned to me like a lighthouse in a storm. “Can I bum one of those?”

He fished a cigarette out of the hard pack and handed it to me. I cupped my hands around its end while he lit it for me. I took a long, cathartic drag, filling my lungs with smoke. I stared at the cigarette as the white paper burned down to my fingertips. I hadn’t smoked in years; I’d picked up the habit in Afghanistan, but I’d given it up after seeing some of my Marine buddies being careless with their safety just for a cigarette.

I watched with interest as a familiar black Mercedes ignored the police barricade we’d set up and drove into the nightclub’s parking lot. I remained on the curb as the luxury sedan parked and the driver side door opened to produce two long, lean legs and red-soled high heels.

“What are you doing here?”

Julia stopped in front of me. “I got a call that my services were needed. It appears you’ve arrested half of the college football team.”

Her eyes focused on my hands. “I didn’t realize you smoked.”

I looked down to the dying ember at the tip of the cigarette. “I don’t.” I tossed the cigarette butt onto the black pavement and crushed it beneath my boot.

Julia settled down next to me on the curb before I could protest. My police uniform could take the dirty, jagged concrete, but her pantsuit was too nice for the ground.

“What happened here?” she asked.

“Bar fight.”

She rested her hand on my kneecap. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. My ego’s a little bruised, but I’ll survive.” The side of my face and my knees ached, too, but that pain would pass.

“Do you want to go home?” she asked.

“My bike’s at the precinct, and I’ve got paperwork to get to tonight yet.”

Julia sighed. “And I should probably track down my clients.”

“How did you get called so quickly?” I asked. “They haven’t even been processed yet.”

She shrugged. “The university’s athletic department has my office on speed dial.”

She stood and brushed at the seat of her pants, dislodging a few pieces of pebbled gravel.

Julia paused before taking her exit. “Are you sure you’re okay with this, Cassidy? You literally just arrested these students and here I am about to get them released.”

“Like you said before, they’re not murders. They’re just kids who made a bad decision tonight. Go on and help them,” I waved her away. “They’re gonna need it.”

I watched Julia walk away.

Mendez appeared before me, blocking my view. I wondered if he’d seen or heard Julia and me talking. “You ready to go, Miller? That paperwork’s not gonna fill out itself.”

I released a long breath, still feeling the lingering effects of the cigarette. “Yeah.”

+++

It was no longer the stiff material of my leather utility belt that made me uncomfortable; it was the emotionless look on Inspector Garnett’s face. I bet he was a spectacular poker player because I had no idea why I’d been called in to his office on my day off. I sat, trying not to fidget in his office, a small room with a solid wooden door and a large blinded window that provided us privacy. I’d received a phone call from the Inspector’s administrative assistant earlier that day that he wanted to meet with me. I wasn’t due for a review, still only halfway through the rehiring protocol, so I worried that news about Mendez and my scuffle at the college nightclub had made it across his desk.

“Can I get you something to drink?” he asked me. “Water? Coffee?”

I shook my head. “No, thank you.”

Inspector Garnett hollowed his cheeks. “Tell me, Miller, why do you want to be a cop?”

“Sir?” I hadn’t been asked that question since I’d sat for my oral boards.

“Humor me,” he urged.

I leaned back in my chair. “Well, as you probably know, prior to my hiring with the Fourth Precinct, I was a member of the United States Marine Corps. I served two tours of duty for Operation Enduring Freedom in Afghanistan, and during my service, I acquired a very specific skill-set, one that made enrollment in the police academy seem like a no-brainer.”

“So you’re a cop because it’s familiar?” the Inspector questioned. “Because it’s comfortable?”

“Not exactly. There’s nothing easy about this job, as you well know, sir, but it’s what I’ve been hardwired to do. I’ve got the training and the knowledge, but it’s more than that. I don’t think I’d be meeting my potential doing anything else. And not to sound full of myself, but I’d like to think the department and the community we serve is better off because of me. I find the job to be a challenge,” I continued, “but it’s one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done. I get to go home each night knowing that I’ve made a difference—that I’ve done some good.”