Tough Love (19 page)

    “"I hate to tell you this, but whoever is shooting at us is in the triplex,”" Butch said to Grace as he slid his phone back into his pocket. They had to speak loudly because of the rain; but because of the rain, they weren’'t too afraid about being overheard. “"Which means they’'re in the Sixty-Sixes. So it could be Jamal.”"

They were still crouched behind the Dumpster. Dispatch informed them that help was on the way with plenty of lights and sirens to scare off their attackers. Grace was counting the seconds. At least the rain was making it a little harder to see the two of them huddled like sitting ducks in the rising swill.

“"That’'s the best news I’'ve had all night,”" Grace retorted. “"Jamal, I mean. We can arrest his sorry ass and then he’'s off the streets.”"

“"Then Jamal’'s got a record.”"

She watched the triplex for more signs of movement. “"He’'s a juvenile. It’'ll fall off his record in two years.”"

“"You’'re dreaming, Grace. The state of Oklahoma that I live in would try him as an adult.”"

She grimaced because he was right. If Jamal wanted to run with the big dogs, he’'d get locked up with them.

Shadows slid down the fire escape, which ran parallel to the cracked, weed-infested sidewalk. Someone was climbing down. Looked to be at least two someones. She saw a glint of metal; it had to be a gun. Maybe today Jamal had gotten his gun.

Tough times.

She felt a cold fire in her stomach as lightning crackled overhead, confirming that the lead guy was Jamal with a gun. He was followed by someone big and hulking, with prison muscles. Tyrell himself? Ready to witness the kid making his bones?

I don’'t want to shoot him. But she held her gun with both hands, following them. Beside her, Butch did the same. If it came down to her or Jamal, Jamal was dying tonight.

She and Butch had cause to shoot. Neither one of them was doing it. She thought about his little brother, and Mr. Briscombe, wheezing for life the way that kid had in the alley. This was one of the ways criminals got made. Bad options led to bad choices. It took a lot of balls to stand your ground while the Four Horsemen galloped toward you. It was also pretty stupid. But there were things you could do, to save yourself. If you couldn’'t plan your future, staying a couple of steps ahead of them, you could just flat-out run. Or ask someone who was already running to carry you.

Here she was.

“"Grace,”" Butch said, “"this Mexican standoff is bullshit.”"

“"You don’'t want to shoot him, either.”"

“"I don’'t want to die today, either.”"

Then she lost the two figures in the accordion slats of the fire escape. Goddamn it, she and Butch needed night-vision goggles to deal with this. She wondered if the Sixty-Sixes had them. Sons of Oklahoma probably did. Her nerve endings were crackling like live wires. People—--armed criminals—--she couldn’'t see lurked just a few yards away. Which way had they gone?

“"I’'m going around the other side of the Dumpster,”" she said.

He nodded.

She flattened herself against the wet metal, planting her feet carefully because it would be easy—--and stupid—--to slip or twist her ankle in a pothole. Taut, she kept her gun at the ready, scanning all around. Adrenaline made her hum inside. She had to redirect it or it would turn into fear, so she did—--into a nearly superhuman attentiveness. She had a cop’'s edge, which was why cops won at these games more often than bad guys. The bad guys lacked the Jedi discipline to move into a place where you weren’'t any emotion at all. Where you were the job and nothing else.

Except …... she couldn’'t ignore the part of her that wanted to spare Jamal Briscombe.

There was a shift in the air. Lightning flashed again, and Grace studied Butch’'s back. Judging by his posture, she knew something was up. Something was about to happen. She took a deep breath and stayed in control of herself. If it came down to her and Jamal, it would be her. If it came down to her and Butch, it would be Butch. She knew he would do the same for her—--take a bullet, go down. After all these years as cops, it was part of their DNA. It was something they could count on.

Earl, take care of Gus, she thought. Then she wondered: If she died, was Earl done with the rest of her family? Maybe none of the other Hanadarkos/Normans needed extra chances.

The rain poured down; her hat was soaked, more of a liability now because it was heavy, constricted her line of vision, and made her head a bigger target. She took it off. It might come in useful later, to deflect attention and confuse the enemy.

She had reached the end of the Dumpster. Slowly she pivoted, facing the expanse of metal, and peered around the side. The hair on the back of her neck stood straight up.

Across the street, someone was directly facing her, and she was pretty sure it was Jamal. He was a silhouette barely discernible in the darkness. Did he see her? Could he shoot her? Shoot a cop, man, and your life was over.

Licking her lips, she steadied her aim.

Then she heard the blare of a squad car. There was no way she could relax now—--it might be now-or-never time across the street—--but she knew there was an end in sight. She hoped it was a good end. Beside her, Butch was just as alert and cautious as ever.

The squad car was joined by a second and a third, cops throwing open their doors and squatting behind them. Then a SWAT team, in a panel van. And last but not least, Ham. He had on a helmet but she knew it was her partner. He was wearing black body armor with POLICE emblazoned in white letters on the back. She didn’'t distract him; in the dark, she and Butch could be mistaken for bad guys. The best thing they could do was stay out of the fracas unless they were needed. But that was also the hardest thing to do.

Ham solved that by jogging backward to the Dumpster. Butch was on the west side and Ham came up to him first, then leaned backward to check on Grace.

“"You’'re okay,”" he said.

“"Yes.”"

“"Why didn’'t you …...,”" he began, but he stopped. Then he said, “"We’'ll get you covered and get a squad car over here.”"

He left them there and rejoined the team. But instead of covering Grace and Butch, Tac gave the word and they surged forward, toward the triplex. Tactical teams split off, sweeping the street.

“"They shouldn’'t do this,”" Grace protested. “"Shouldn’'t confront them here, on their home turf. It’'s raining and it’'s dark. We should get out and go.”"

“"I’'ll lay you odds a chopper’'s on the way,”" Butch said angrily. “"Make that two. One for us, and one for the press.”"

“"Oh, God,”" Grace groaned. “"I hate the mayor.”"

“"Say it louder,”" Butch deadpanned.

Then she heard the voice of Tactical on a bullhorn.

“"We have you surrounded,”" he announced. “"Come out with your hands in the air.”"

“"This is bullshit,”" Grace said. “"This wasn’'t a planned op, was it? Did we just stumble into something?”" She clenched her teeth. “"We don’'t have body armor on. We don’'t know the op. We’'re just sitting here in a puddle of crap.”"

“"Captain Perry’'s probably throwing a fit.”"

“"And calling IA, I hope.”" That was a sore spot with Grace. Kate had had a thing with her biggest nemesis in Internal Affairs. After he sent a spy into their midst, Kate broke it off. But not before. A captain should never have done such a thing to her detectives. Well, they’'d all done goofy shit, but really that had pushed the envelope.

“"We’'re being put in harm’'s way for publicity,”" Grace said. And so was Jamal. “"This is bullshit.”"

“"You got that right,”" Butch said.

“"You have ten seconds to come out,”" Tac said.

Across the street, the flare of a gun announced that someone on the bottom floor—--maybe someone who had just climbed down the catwalk—--had aimed and fired at the cops.

Guns blazed, blam blam blam blam, in a hail of bullets. Grace kept her weapon close and her Dumpster mate closer as they watched from the sidelines. Her anger was getting the best of her. It was a battle that shouldn’'t be. It was dangerous and stupid.

Through the ear-buffeting racket, Grace detected the soft whum-whum-whum of a helicopter. She looked up. POLICE was written on the underbelly, and the copter was sending out a high beam over the triplex. Grace saw two, three, five guys on the balcony. And one girl. Dumb ass. When the light hit her, she fled inside …... just as the window to her right shattered. Two of the guys on the balcony crumpled.

A second helicopter appeared in the sky with the KLAE affiliation visible in the running lights. Grace gritted her teeth.

“"Think your fiancéee’'s up there?”" Grace asked Butch.

“"If she is …...”" Butch trailed off. There really wasn’'t anything he could do to stop her. Reporters went to the stories. And the good stories were about life and death.

Bullets hit the Dumpster, making thudding noises. Grace looked behind herself and saw a couple of lumps of cardboard slowly rising and falling, like geometric worms—--the homeless, defenseless as always. Grace tugged on Butch’'s arm.

“"We gotta do something,”" she said.

He nodded; they bent over as far as they could and headed for the khaki caterpillars. Grace threw her arms around the first one and Butch ran farther into the lot for the second. Protect and serve. Making herself a human shield, she shouted, “"We gotta get you out of here. It’'s dangerous to be out here.”"

“"What’'s happening? What’'s happening?”" her skel cried. He was a leathery man; she had no idea how old he was. He had no teeth. Wait. He was a woman.

Grace had scanned the lot as she ran to the woman; she figured the safest place was directly behind the Dumpster, where she and Butch were bivouacked. Pushing the sleeping bag off the disoriented woman like she was divesting a stack of Styrofoam cups of their sleeve, she made sure the lady was ambulatory before she draped herself around her and half carried, half shepherded her toward the Dumpster. She wanted to check on Butch but she had to stay focused—--Paige would be so pleased—--and besides, the woman was panicking. The bullets were flying toward them, and of course it would seem more logical to duck and cover somewhere else.

“"C’'mon, ma’'am, just a little farther,”" Grace urged the screaming woman.

She didn’'t know if she was even registering. Grace half pushed her down, still shielding her, watching for Butch. Here he came with his homeless guy. He barreled into the Dumpster, dropping the emaciated man like a football, and said, “"There’'s one more.”"

“"Don’'t leave us!”" the woman shrieked.

“"I’'ll go,”" Grace said. “"I’'m smaller. Harder to hit.”"

“"I can run faster.”"

“"Maybe in your prime, Longhorn,”" Grace taunted him. “"You’'re an old man now.”"

“"Then we’'ll both go.”" Butch nodded at her and they took off, charging through the rain and the mud, the litter and the crap, into the darkness. It was too dark, but Grace wasn’'t about to pull out a flashlight.

Then the choppers overhead buzzed the lot and Grace swore under her breath; one or all of them would be misidentified and become victims of friendly fire. Her boots sloshed through mud and she almost lost her balance, but Butch caught her arm. Then he went down …... face-first, into the muck.

She knew she’'d laugh about it later; she knew she’'d wish she had her phone so she could take his picture. If her phone lived through this whole thing—--her phone with Rhetta’'s message on it, telling them her location.

Shit.

Grace ran.

A bullet whizzed past her ear.

    No callback from Grace, or Ham, but Rhetta was back in her own yard now, turning off the engine. And Jeannie was more hysterical, and far more belligerent, than she’'d been before. Rhetta guessed she was on something that had kicked in. Rhetta made a long list of possibilities, but all she had to counteract any of them were water, coffee, and a shoulder to cry on.

“"Oh, God, I love him.”" Jeannie was crying over Hunter again.

Rhetta kept an umbrella in the cab of the truck; she grabbed it, opened the door, and stepped in a puddle. Grimacing, she splashed around to Jeannie’'s side. Jeannie hadn’'t yet opened the door. Rhetta tried it. It was locked, and Rhetta was standing there in the pouring rain.

Rhetta pounded on it. “"Jeannie, open up!”" she shouted.

The truck door burst open so fast that it nearly knocked Rhetta over. Then Jeannie tumbled out, pushing Rhetta backward; Rhetta fought to stay on her feet and just managed it.

“"Take me back a him,”" Jeannie pleaded, hanging on Rhetta. Her breath could start a fire, even in this rain.

“"Come on,”" Rhetta said, clasping Jeannie’'s thin wrist and dragging her toward the barn. There was no way she was going to wake her family up with Jeannie’'s dramatics.

“"Hunter,”" Jeannie bawled.

Tight-lipped, Rhetta got the barn door open and hustled Jeannie inside. Jeannie took a few steps forward, then collapsed in a heap. Rhetta stared down at her, then grabbed up the same blanket she’'d used when she’'d spent some time visiting with Buttercup and Speckles—--although she didn’'t remember getting up to fetch it that night—--and draped it over Jeannie.

“"You should take those wet clothes off,”" she said. “"I’'ll get you some fresh clothes and some coffee.”"

“"Don’' leave me,”" Jeannie pleaded.

“"It’'ll just be for a few minutes. Don’'t get the calf’'s straw wet.”" Rhetta picked her umbrella back up.

She left the barn and put down the plank that secured the door. Theoretically she had just kidnapped Jeannie. Blanching, she entered her house via the kitchen and took off her soaked boots, her jeans, and her sweater. She went into the laundry room and slipped on some old corduroy pants and one of her son Todd’'s sweatshirts. She grabbed some sweats and a black turtleneck sweater for Jeannie. Quickly she brewed some coffee and tried Grace, Butch, and Ham again. She didn’'t call Bobby. If he wasn’'t out with them on a call, she wanted him to stay home with his family.

After the coffee was done, she went back into the barn. Jeannie had taken off her clothes, leaving them in a heap, and had wrapped herself in the blanket. She had tottered into Speckles’'s pen, and she was singing to the little calf.