“Jesus Christ,” Colson shoved the truck into park and pulled his gun, but I was already out the door. He was calling in for reinforcements as I sprinted ahead.
Fuck was all I could think.
My brain raced to assess the immediate threat in what appeared to be an active homicide/shooter situation. Always act on the immediate threat first, then next, then next. Take ’em down one by one. As a solider, you’re trained how to adjust to an op when things go south and leaves you with multiple moving parts. And this scene definitely had multiple moving parts. I’d seen entire missions crumble because one man focused on the wrong threat.
Double grip, barrel up, I jogged across the grass, tunnel-visioned on the pistol shaking in old man Erickson’s grip.
“Gun down, Erickson.”
The man didn’t hear me. Jacked up on adrenaline, I assumed. His gaze was fixed on the two bodies at the edge of the woods. One standing, one motionless on the ground.
“I said put the gun down, Erickson.” I moved closer, my voice calm but loud. “This is Detective Max Jagger and Lieutenant Colson. We’ve got this, buddy. Put the gun down.”
My peripheral caught Colson just past the tree line, skirting the edge of the trail, coming up on the side of the scene. I edged closer, my eyes locked on that arthritic finger starting to squeeze the trigger.
Shit.
Like a flash of lightning, Colson lunged out of the woods, tackling the old man. The gun went flying along with an impressive amount of expletives considering the man was a regular at church. With that threat neutralized, I shifted my focus to the other players of this blessed event.
Erickson’s shouts and Colson’s grunts drowned out as I rushed threat number two, my gun pointed directly at the dark silhouette’s head.
“Get on your knees.” I yelled.
Just then, a siren sliced the air and blue and red lights bounced off the trees, brief flashes illuminating my target. My brows pulled together in what felt like stepping into a crazy dream after an evening of tequila shots. I blinked, my steps wavering. No way was I seeing clearly. Headlights moved along trees, stopping perfectly on the scene ahead of me, illuminating it as if it were on stage.
I froze, confusion—shock—momentarily clouding the focus I was known for. The sounds around me, the shouts, the flashing lights, everything faded as I looked at her.
Looking back, that was the moment.
The beginning of my fall.
A gust of wind blew a mane of long, curly, black hair across a pale, blood-spattered face. Her eyes, an emerald green reflecting in the headlights like a cat. Feral, based on the fury behind them. Wearing a pink tank top, grey leggings and jogging shoes, the woman stood tall and strong, motionless except for the heavy rise and fall of her chest. A line of red slashed across her top like morbid spray paint, up her neck, coloring the bottom of her chin. Blood speckled her milky-white arms. In her hand, a gun, pointed directly at the dead man at her feet.
Assess, assess, assess.
I refocused on my sights and repositioned the barrel of my gun, realizing that sometime during my hypnotic gaze, I’d dropped off the target. Something I never did.
Ever.
Like I said… the beginning…
“Ma’am,” I said. “I’m going to need you to toss your gun to the left. Now. Right now. Release the gun from your hands.”
She said nothing, but I knew this thing could go either way. I’d seen the look before. Wild, unbridled emotion. Crazy. Fitting, I know that now.
“Drop the gun, lady. I will not say it again.”
I crept closer, keeping my eyes locked on that damn pistol she wouldn’t let go of. I caught movement behind her and risked a glance at Officer Darby emerging from the trees at her back. His eyes were fixed on her, bulging with adrenaline. His knuckles white around the gun in his hands, pointed directly at that mane of wild hair. The kid stumbled on a tree root, but caught himself. A flicker of awareness flashed in the woman’s eyes, my first indication to suggest she was coherent, at least.
“Drop the gun.” Darby’s pitched voice sounded like a pre-teen at a Bieber concert. Typically, I’d laugh, but not then. That shaky, squeaky voice was a sign of lack of control. Not good.
And then it hit me. This was the kid’s first dead body.
So then, my focus was split between him, his gun, and the woman, and her gun.
It was the shitshow of all shitshows.
And my patience dissolved.
“Ma’am—”
Everything went into slow motion at that point. The pistol slowly slipping from her red fingertips, the burst of energy in her eyes, the shift of her hips, the spin of her heel.
Shit.
As she took off, I snapped to action.
“Don’t shoot, Darby!” I lunged forward, shoving my gun into the holster on my belt and sprinted after her. Three steps later, I leapt through the air and tackled her. I pinned her arms as we hit the dirt, pain exploding up my back. My grip wavered with the blow, this moment of weakness opening the door for another as her forehead connected with my chin. A flash of pain burst behind my eyes. The woman had just head-butted me. The chick was fighting me. This one-hundred pound spitfire lunatic was actually engaging in a physical fight with an armed man more than double her size. Bucking, twisting, writhing under my hold.
I can say, with one-hundred percent confidence, that in my two decades of military and law enforcement, not a single man or woman had ever fought me after I tackled them. It was instant surrender, every time.
Not with this one.
This woman.
Her curls whipped around my face as she fought like a rabid dog. Or cat, I should say, with those damn claws dragging down my back. The heat radiated off the woman in waves, our sweat sliding together as we wrestled on the dirt floor.
She smelled like coconuts. Sweet, vanilla coconuts.
Frantic shuffles beside me sent my awareness skyrocketing.
“Don’t shoot, Darby,” I ground out.
At this point, the wild beast and I had resorted to a school-girl like swatting match that I wasn’t particularly proud of. What the fuck was happening here? I caught her hand mid-air, twisted. Her body jerked, followed by a quick whimper, then, submission. Thank fuck. Every inch of my skin stung from her scratches as I straddled her, pinning her arms above her head.
“Jesus, woman,” I exhaled, getting my bearings.
Her hair, speckled with grass and twigs, fanned out around a face that I guessed was no older than mid-twenties. Her emerald eyes shimmered in waves of different colors against the blue and red lights flashing across her face. Magical, almost.
Unnerving.
We stared at each other for a moment, chests heaving, sucking in breath that had escaped us. That was the first time I got a real look at her. And that was the first time I felt… something.
Her skin was a flawless, snow-white, almost glowing under the moonlight. Not a freckle, not a single flaw on it. Her lips were full and deep red, with a little indent in the bottom one. A smattering of blood speckled the corner of her mouth and I found myself wanting to wipe it away. It didn’t belong on that skin, that face. Her forehead shimmered in sweat, her hair wet at the temples, little kinky curls framing her face. Despite the fact I had her pinned, her body tensed beneath me, as if waiting for an opportunity to strike. Those eyes daring me with a wild kind of defiance that told me she still hadn’t given up.
Fearless. That was the one word that materialized through the fog of my brain.
The woman was fearless.
“You got her?” Darby’s voice yanked me back to the present moment.
Keeping my eyes locked on hers, I addressed the rookie.
“I need you to check the man on the ground for a pulse. Call an ambulance. Then secure the scene and call in all available units. Have Tanya wake up whoever’s on call. This place will be crawling with joggers at the first crack of dawn. Check on Colson, get the medical examiner, and turn off your damn f
lashers. And for God’s sake, Darby, tie your goddamn shoe.”
“Yes sir. On all counts.”
“What’s Colson doing?” I asked.
“Interviewing the witness. Something Erickson, I believe. Want me to take that over?”
“I want you to do exactly what I just told you to do. And watch where you step. Don’t contaminate the scene.” More than this woman had, anyway, with her brazen attempt to flee.
As Darby stepped away, I spared a quick glance at Colson, who met my gaze immediately. I dipped my chin—good? He nodded, dipped his, returning the question. I dipped back—good.
I refocused on the woman between my groin.
“What’s your name?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line and it was the first time I noticed the blood on her mouth was her own. A deep split slashed the corner of her lower lip. I raised up and scanned her body, noting scrapes down her neck, her chest, the beginning of bruising underneath the spray of blood on her arms. A nasty gash sliced her bicep. The woman was hurt. My hands loosened around her wrists immediately. Her fingers flexed in response, but she didn’t move as I continued to look her over. It was the first moment her eyes left mine, hooded eyelids lowering, feathered lashes hiding the flash of embarrassment I caught in those green irises.
I lifted off of her slightly, relieving her of some of the two-hundred-plus pounds pressing against her.
“Are you hurt? Anywhere other than the obvious?” I asked.
She continued to avoid eye contact. A deep swallow moved the muscles of her neck, followed by the slightest head shake.
“Okay. So that’s a no. What’s your name?”
No response. I considered that she might be deaf, or a mute. Nothing would surprise me at that moment.
“Name.” I repeated again.
Normally, at this point, I’d either man-handle or threaten someone who wouldn’t talk, but not her. Why? Because my instincts were screaming at me. Something was just off. I wasn’t quite sure what or why, but nothing about it felt normal, including the dead man inches away that neither one of us were addressing.
Something about her was off.
Different.
The scene, everything. Everything felt off.
And, fuck, my back hurt.
“Alright, listen, it’s up to you how smoothly this goes from here. You continue to fight me, that’s your choice. Because I can go all night. You got that, lady?”
A moment passed before I felt her arms go weak beneath my hold. A subtle submission, but a start. I felt like I was addressing a toddler. A very smart toddler. The moment felt like a delicate dance that I wasn’t sure how to navigate.
“Good girl. Now. Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to release you and you’re going to raise onto your knees and put your hands behind your back. You try to run again, I’ll have your ass back on the ground and in cuffs in under ten seconds flat. Got it?”
Her jaw twitched.
“First, you’re going to tell me your name.”
Her head twisted to the side, as if searching for something on the ground. When she didn’t answer, I lost all remaining patience. I’d responded to countless calls where people, whether it be victims, witnesses, or the criminals themselves, were in psychological shock. Unable to speak, sometimes barely even able to walk. I knew psychological shock, and this wasn’t it. This woman’s eyes were too clear, too aware, too alert. And I was done with the bullshit.
“Jane Doe it is, then.”
I shifted off of her, gritting my teeth at the lightning shooting up my back. I yanked her torso up by her wrists. She didn’t like this.
“Sunny.” The single word spat out in a low, husky voice. She jerked out of my hold. “My name is Sunny.”
Sunny? Seriously? A woman with hair as dark as midnight, skin as porcelain as vanilla, and crimson lips as seductive as sin was named… Sunny?
“Got a last name, Sunny?”
“Harper.”
Sunny Harper.
“Okay, Miss Harper. On your knees. Let’s go.” I reached for her armpit.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Don’t make me.”
She lifted herself from the ground and shifted onto her knees.
“Hands behind your back.”
She kneeled strong, shoulders back, her chin held high despite the tremble that had started the moment our bodies left contact.
“Wrists together, please.” It was the first time I’d ever used the word ‘please’ while cuffing someone.
“Jesus.” Colson walked up, gaping at the victim on the ground feet away from us. Then, his narrowed eyes pinned the woman named Sunny Harper.
“You interview her yet?”
“No. Tried to run.” Emphasis on tried.
He looked back down at the dead body, then at the gun she’d dropped to the ground. “You mirandize her yet?” He asked me, leading me to believe that Erickson’s statement had suggested nothing innocent had happened there. Hell, I had no reason to believe otherwise at that moment.
“No,” I nodded to her arm. “She needs to be looked at by a medic before anything.”
“I don’t need to go to the—”
“We’re legally obligated.”
Colson snorted at this response. Not sure what he thought was so funny. The guy knew I didn’t do kid gloves. Then, he said, “I already called it in. Ambulance should be here any minute.”
Just then, sirens cut through the air and the meat wagon pulled into the lot, followed by backup.
It was an instant circus.
“I’ll take her over,” Colson said. “You start on the scene.”
I hesitated—this shocking the hell out of me. I stepped back while Colson jerked her up with more force than necessary, inciting a blow of protectiveness to my system. Another first, ever.
“You have the right to remain silent…” He pulled her away from me. “If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…”
I watched him drag Sunny by his side, her head held high. Her steps strong, unwavering.
“You have the right to speak to an attorney and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be provided for you…”
The headlights outlined their bodies, two long, black shadows stretching eerily across the grass behind them. Sunny’s head turned, but her eyes didn’t land on mine, they focused on the body that lay at my feet. There was another flash in that green before she turned back, then disappeared in the chaos.
I looked down at the dead man at my boots.
Half of his face had been blown off, leaving nothing but open flesh and bone. It was the first time I noticed more than just blood specking the grass. That gore was nothing, though, compared to the bullet hole where his left eyeball had once been.
8
Jagg
Despite being three in the morning, the station was abuzz with activity and as hot as an Iranian brothel. Smelled about the same, too.
Something about a second dead body in less than a week added a sick level of excitement to the anxiety in the air. I paused by the air-conditioner panel on the wall and clicked it down to sixty-five. Instead of a kick of a fan, I got a series of beeps, followed by a thud and blinking red light. Of course. I popped my fist against the panel, leaving heads turning and a crack down the middle.
“AC’s broke,” I shouted as I passed the bullpen.
It had been two hours since we first responded to the park and we knew not much more than when we’d arrived. Thanks to a pesky little thing called non-custodial interviews, law forebade us to interview Sunny until after she’d received medical care. Sunny had yet to give her statement. My patience was gone.
While the medics tended to Sunny and Colson continued his interview with old man Erickson, Darby and I secured and searched the scene. The medical examiner and “additional resources” had shown up twenty minutes later. By additional re
sources I mean, Officer Haddix, a part-time patrolman who’d been dragged out of bed. That was another thing about small town departments, lack of funding. Undertrained patrolmen did everything from evidence collection to interviewing the witnesses. Being overworked and underpaid tended to lend itself to shoddy investigation work. It was a vicious cycle and shoddy anything was unacceptable in my mind. It was one of the many reasons I was called in to assist in most homicides in the area.
This one just so happened to fall right into my lap.
The body was zipped up and taken to the morgue where it would sit until its autopsy the following day—if we were lucky.
Jessica Heathrow was the county medical examiner, another overworked, underpaid invaluable asset in a community with as many meth labs as churches. The difference in Jessica was that this overworked asset was always on her toes, always giving each case her full, undivided attention, whether it was ten at night or five in the morning. I don’t think she thought too much of me, but I’d grown to respect her, regardless. A lot more than I could say for most women.
According to the medic, Sunny was banged up with cuts and bruises and a pair of bruised ribs. It took eight stitches and sixty damn minutes to close the gash on her arm.
I wondered if any of those injuries had happened when I’d tackled her. Then, I promptly forced away an emotion I didn’t feel often—guilt—and reminded myself it was part of my job. What the hell was she thinking trying to run?
Her fault.
Not mine.
The medic said she’d denied any pain pills. Idiot.
After searching the scene with my new shadow, Officer Pukes-A-Lot, Darby and I went back to the station with Colson and Sunny behind us.
Darby was on his third handful of antacids trying to ease the stomach he’d emptied in the park earlier. Never knew a man could puke that loud, and that’s coming from someone who shut down bars for ten years of his life. Sounded like a pair of walruses mating. I looked the other way, though, because I knew that seeing your first dead body was never easy, especially when half the face had been blown off.
Jagger (Steele Shadows Investigations) Page 6
