These Boots Were Made for Stomping (11 page)

He quickly took another bite of brownie before he started respecting her strengths or something. He barely tasted the rich
chocolate. Instead, he shifted his leg in a vain attempt to ease the pain there, then steeled his spine. Time to give her
that little push back to her wealthy suburbs. Truth was, she’d been right about the pity coffee. He really didn’t think she
belonged here, though he admired her courage for trying.

“There’s drugs in our school, Micki.”

She rolled her eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know, Joe.”

“This new drug brings new money, new guns, new violence. I got shot because of it. Kids have died because of it. And frankly,
you aren’t equipped to either bond with these kids or handle yourself when things become violent. The kids roll over you,
the adults don’t respect you, and your idealism just won’t be enough to keep you alive.” He shook his head, wishing to hell
it was different, but it wasn’t. “I’ve been school cop here for a year now, but before I made detective, I walked this beat.
And before that, I grew up three blocks from Washington High. You’re not the first idealist to wander through.”

“Naive, starry-eyed teacher,” she said. He couldn’t tell if she was mocking him or not. “God, do you really think I’m that
young?”

“I think you’re admirable,” he said. Enough that he’d noticed her the very first moment she’d walked into the school. Beautiful,
compassionate, and destined to disappear in a few months. He’d seen it dozens of times. Most were smart enough to leave before
they got into serious trouble, but one in particular had left in a body bag. He’d been the detective who caught that case.
He’d also been sure it was Damian’s gang, but was unable to gather any evidence. That was the hell of it. Everyone else thought
Damian was another surly teen on a power trip, but he knew just how dangerous the little psychopath was.

But that was tomorrow’s problem. Today’s task was to make sure Micki didn’t wind up as another one of Damian’s victims. “The
truth is that you can’t understand these kids. And if you can’t do that, then you can’t help them.”

He watched the blood drain from her face, and her hand shook slightly as she raised her empty coffee mug to her lips. But
she didn’t leave. Instead, she set her mug down and met his eyes. Almost. “So, you were shot in the leg and then, instead
of taking a desk job during the extensive rehab phase, you chose to work in the very school that spawned the problem you’re
trying to fight.”

“Where else would I go?” he muttered.

“
You
can understand these kids.” It wasn’t a question. “Ergo, you can help them.”

He almost laughed. “Nah, I’m not that idealistic. I’m just tracking the drugs, Miss Becker. And if I keep some kids alive
while I’m at it, all the better.” He dumped a packet of sugar into the dregs of his coffee. “They’re our future, after all,”
he half-sneered.

She was silent a long time. She hadn’t even finished her brownie, but her coffee was long gone. In the end, she nodded and
smiled warmly at him. “Thank you, Mr. DeLuce. I appreciate your candor.”

He blinked, startled. Worse, she was standing up again. “Have I just been dismissed?” he asked, his tone harsher than he intended.

“I got the impression that you were dismissing me.” She lifted her chin. “Look, I know it’s hard. And I know you think I belong
back in the land of Richie Rich. But the truth is, I want to be here. I want to show these kids that someone cares, even if
it means I get intimidated in my classroom, laughed at by other teachers and . . .” She sighed. “And I end up a bitter, old
woman who tried too hard. If that’s where I’m headed, so be it. But I won’t reevaluate until I start getting mean.” She held
his gaze for a long moment, then added, “Mean like you.”

And with that, she turned and walked out.

He was on his feet and moving after her as fast as his bad leg would allow—which was decently fast—but she had no interest
in talking to him and was quickly out of sight. Truthfully, he didn’t blame her. He’d come on pretty strong. But it bothered
him that he’d been exactly what she’d accused him of—mean—and still had not accomplished his goal. He hadn’t nudged her away
from anything but himself.

“Micki, wait!” He hadn’t a clue what he was going to say to her, but . . . He frowned, peering at the parking lot in the cold
half-light of the overcast afternoon. The lot was tiny, hemmed in on all sides by straggly bushes and tall, dirty buildings.
Nothing unusual for this side of Indianapolis, but something was off. Nothing he could see. A sound? He only heard cars. Smell?
Coffee, exhaust, and . . . cologne? A fancy kind, favored by some rich folks. Rich folks plus Damian Ralston, hell-spawn of
Washington High.

Where had Micki gone? She’d turned left and then . . . There! She was walking down an alleyway to her car, and sure enough,
there was Damian cutting in behind her. And where one reprobate went, the others were sure to follow.

She didn’t notice, of course. The woman had no survival skills. Joe quickly considered his options. Normally, he’d just charge
up and warn the gang off. He might even be able to do it hard enough to keep Damian and his crew off her for the rest of the
school year. But that would only give Micki a false sense of security. Eventually she’d challenge the wrong gangbanger and
end up dead. He had to give her a good scare. And what better way to do that than by letting Damian and his gang at her? Not
for long. Just long enough to make her appropriately terrified. Meanwhile, Joe was here to make sure it didn’t get out of
hand.

He followed about seven steps behind, slipping behind cars and generally feeling like an idiot. He wasn’t low profile enough
to be really hidden, and not out in the open enough to be acting normally. He stopped at the corner of the building, hugging
the brick wall as he crouched behind a bush. Micki had almost made it to her car—a ridiculously chipper yellow Beetle—when
Damian stepped around to confront her. She jumped, obviously startled. Her shoulders tightened and she shied backward but
there was nowhere for her to go. She butted up against a delivery truck.

Joe couldn’t hear what was said, though he tried. The group’s body language told him exactly what he expected: Damian was
being threatening, Micki was scared, especially as a couple more thugs slid around from the other side of the truck. None
of them looked out of control—not even Micki—so there really wasn’t any danger to her. Damian was just trying to scare the
teacher who had embarrassed him. It was something gang leaders did. And yet . . .

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t watch this happen, even if it was the best thing for Micki in the long run. He pushed out of
his crouch and stomped up to Damian. “You got a special interest here, Mr. Ralston?”

Micki visibly relaxed, and Joe felt a brief surge of male pride that his presence could reassure her. But Damian turned, a
shit-eating grin on his face. That was never good. “I knew you were around here somewhere. Joey wouldn’t let a fine woman
like Miss Mouse wander alone.” Then the bastard reached out to touch Micki’s face.

He only made it halfway. “Touch her, Damian, and I’ll kill you.” Joe spoke the words quietly, but everyone froze at his tone.
Even he was startled by the vehemence in his voice.

Damian smirked, but he drew his hand back. “Got a thing going here, Joey?”

Joe raised his eyebrows and tried to stare Damian down. It didn’t work. Damian was hopped up on something, but it didn’t seem
like drugs. No, this kid got off on something entirely different: power, pain, maybe even blood. Whatever it was, Joe didn’t
want Micki right in the middle of it.

“You’re pushing it, Mr. Ralston. Be on your way.”

“Aw, no, I ain’t.” Damian lounged back on his heels, the smirk back. “I came here specifically to see you.”

“Then you got no business with Miss Becker.” He glanced at Micki. “Go on. Get in your car.”

Her eyes widened, but predictably she shook her head. She wasn’t leaving him. Joe grimaced. Very soon now, he was going to
have to explain to her the difference between being a help in a fight and a liability. Meanwhile, Damian gestured to his friends.
“I found someone, Joe. Someone who says he belongs to you.”

Joe frowned, but Micki gasped in shock. From behind the truck, another couple of punks dragged out a boy beaten to a pulp.
Stevie Crames—a kid who had come to Joe once to warn that Damian was power-mad and going to get someone killed. Joe’s breath
squeezed tight as he quickly scanned the kid. Stevie was conscious—which meant he was alive—but all that blood!

Joe started to move around Damian, but Micki got there first, wrapping her arms around the kid. “What have you done?” she
cried. “Oh my God!”

The thugs released Stevie to Micki, who staggered under his sudden weight.

“Call 911,” Joe said. His voice was tight, the guilt threatening to eat him alive. The boy was beaten up, but not dying. In
truth, he looked like he was conscious and pissed off. Good. He wasn’t as bad as he first looked, which meant Joe’s priority
was to get control of this situation. A quick scan told Joe he faced one gun—on Damian—and four knives. Not good odds, given
his bad knee and two civilians who needed protection.

“Found him over there,” Damian continued, waving vaguely toward the school. “Said he’s been talking with you, Joe, and some
people don’t like that much.”

Joe narrowed his eyes and put on his best confused frown. “Who is it?”

“It’s Stevie Crames,” Micki said from around her cell phone.

Joe blinked and stared. “I haven’t been talking to Stevie Crames!” he lied. Then he stepped up to Damian, not needing to fake
his fury. “You beat up a kid for no damn reason! Jesus, Damian, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Damian lifted his hands, his grin still in place. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Joey. We jes’ found him, right,
boys?”

Right on cue, the other kids’ heads bobbed up and down. “That’s right! We just found him!” They spoke with so much enthusiasm
that Joe knew they were terrified. Which meant that Damian really had gone off the deep end. That happened sometimes: a kid
got delusions of grandeur and made all sorts of bizarre mistakes. The problem was keeping the innocents out of the crossfire
while a gang leader self-destructed. Innocents like Micki, and Ste-vie, who had just lifted his head. He was down on one knee,
but struggling with Micki’s support to make it to his feet. “I told you,” he growled to Damian. “I ain’t talked to nobody.”

“What kind of leader are you?” Joe pressed. “Were you bored and just decided to beat up one of your followers?” He let his
gaze wander to the other boys. “Damn, I’d be scared just hanging around a psycho like you. No telling who you’ll turn on next.”

It was a calculated risk. Stirring the pot when outnumbered five to one wasn’t the safest move, but anything he could do to
erode Damian’s power base was a good thing. And from the way a couple of the boys shuffled their feet, he had scored.

“Nice try, Joey,” Damian sneered, “but I got reliable information. Stevie’s been blabbing.”

Joe put all his sincerity into his voice. “Not to me, he hasn’t.”

Doubt flashed briefly in Damian’s eyes. It was a split second of hesitation, but that was all that was needed. Not for Joe,
who was busy trying to think of the next thing to say; as much as he wanted to smash his fist right through the gang leader’s
face, it was best to defuse the situation. He never guessed that Stevie would roar suddenly to life.

With a strangled bellow, the kid flew out of Micki’s arms and straight at the gang leader. Joe tried to intercept. The last
thing he needed was more of Stevie’s blood on his conscience. But the kid was too fast. The best Joe could do was lunge for
Damian’s gun as the gangster tried to quick-draw. He didn’t get a hand on the gun, but he managed to grip Damian’s forearm.
A shot rang out, but it went wide; then all three of them—Damian, Stevie, and Joe—tumbled to the ground in a heap.

Stevie was on top, his fists flailing as he tried to bash in Damian’s face. Joe was struggling to gain control of the gun,
which was waving every which way. Damian was screaming, “Get him off me! Get him—”

Joe had enough focus to see the other thugs draw their knives. Shit. Then he saw Micki leap forward as well. Double shit.
He needed to get that gun! Almost . . .

Stevie must have seen the gun. Pretty amazing with all the blood flying, but he managed a backhanded blow that struck both
Joe’s fingers and Damian’s forearm at the same time. The strike was fast and wild. Joe’s fingers went numb, Damian’s arm snapped
back and the gun flew out of his hand.

Joe twisted as fast as he could. The gun clattered against a tree and dropped near one of the gangsters. No way could he get
there first, but Joe still tried. He rolled toward it, reaching as far as he could. He missed by a mile as one of the boys—Bobby
McCoy—picked up the weapon. Worse, the kid obviously knew how to handle it. He gripped it like an expert and was bringing
it to bear on Stevie.

“No!” screamed Micki, her voice cutting through the air like a whip.

“Don’t do it, Bobby!” Joe called, his voice as loud and authoritative as possible. It wasn’t going to work; Bobby had too
much adrenaline in him. His eyes were wide and his leader was still getting pummeled. The best Joe could do was throw himself
forward and pray. He was already shoving himself upright, his bad knee screaming all the way, when a black blur rushed past.

That’s all he saw at first—a black blur—as Micki kicked the gun away. It took Joe a moment to realize he’d seen her feet,
and her sensible black shoes, leap forward in a perfect kung fu kick. He blinked, but didn’t have time to gape. The other
boys were entering the fray, and Stevie was tiring. His blows were less wild, his screams more like gasps. In a moment, Damian
was going to flip the boy over and start killing him.

No, there was no time. Joe managed to shift his weight enough to stop one gangster, but the other two were already drawing
their knives.

“Don’t be stupid!” he bellowed, and was gratified to see them hesitate.