Finding Home with You

by Claire Raye

  I indicate my turn off. “Ten minutes max,” I answer, ignoring the blast of a horn as I cut someone off. “You think our guy’s been made?” I ask, wondering if we’re about to walk into an ambush.

  Joe’s silent for a second before saying, “I don’t know, don’t think so, but I guess we’ll find out tonight.”

  “Fuck,” is all I can say, knowing this could turn into a total shit storm. We should abort, this is far too rushed and as capable as my team is, this won’t give us enough time for a proper strategy meeting before we walk into what could potentially be a fucking disaster. “I’m pulling in now,” I say as I turn into the parking lot. “I’m gonna head straight to the locker room to get geared up. Make sure everyone has their vest on and plenty of clips, we’ll move out in ten, briefing on the road.”

  Thirty minutes later and two black vans containing my team and two others are parked a short walk from the warehouse this is all supposedly happening in. I’m still in the jeans, boots and a sweater I drove down in and even though it’s freezing outside, I’m sweating under my vest right now. In my hand is a large black flashlight and in my shoulder holster, my Glock is loaded and ready to go. I have another strapped to my ankle and four clips of ammunition in my pockets.

  And in my chest, my heart is pounding like a motherfucker.

  There’s something about tonight that has me feeling really uneasy. I can’t work out if it’s the adrenaline of knowing there are likely to be arrests and possible shootings or the fact that it’s all suddenly happening a lot earlier than we expected.

  I pull out my phone to make sure it’s on silent and notice a text message from Erin. She must have sent it when I was getting organized back at the station. I check the time on my watch before quickly opening it.

  Erin: Let me know that you got back safe. Next time I’ll come to Boston – it’s not fair you have to keep doing all the driving x

  Her words make me smile, despite the shit storm that’s about to go down. I love that she not only wants to see me as badly as I want to see her, but that she’s prepared to come down here for the weekend, even knowing I’ll have a shit ton of work. Just the thought of being able to come home to her warm body in my bed would be amazing.

  “Let’s move out,” comes the sharp order through my earpiece, snapping me back to the present. I shove my phone back in my pocket without responding and signal my team to get their asses outside and ready to go.

  In silence the six guys from my team and I all walk toward the far side of the warehouse. None of us knows exactly how many will be inside. We’d thought this was happening in two weeks and we’d have more information by then.

  “I want complete silence at all times. No one speaks unless it’s to relay or respond to an order, got it?” I say into my mic.

  The guys all respond quickly, and I know I don’t even need to say these words. The team is good, they’ve been trained by Beck, and I know I can rely on every single one of them to have my back tonight.

  When we’re in position, we sit and wait as the first team storms the front of the warehouse. At first nothing happens, but suddenly all hell breaks loose.

  “Get the fuck in here,” someone barks through our earpiece. “It’s a fucking ambush, multiple targets, shots being fired…”

  Right on cue, the sound of gunfire rings out and I’m ordering my team inside. The rear entrance is dark and there are boxes everywhere, allowing us to sneak into where the action is.

  Inside, it’s fucking chaos and I can already see two bodies lying in pools of blood beside boxes of guns. Evidently the deal was going down tonight, but somehow, they also knew we were coming. I knew this didn’t feel right, but right now I don’t have time to think about any of that.

  “Take up positions, flanking and cover for team one,” I say to my team. I move to the front, sliding behind a box that puts me up close with the action. Across from me, I see Joe and the rookie, Pete, do the same thing and when Joe glances at me I give him a quick thumbs up to let him know we’re all set.

  The third team storms from the side, and before anyone knows what’s going on, the targets have been pushed back so they are all now in our line of sight. I see Joe stand and give away his position, his gun trained on the back of one of the gun dealer’s head.

  Just as he says, “Drop the gun, fucker,” I see another dealer take a step toward Joe and level the barrel of his gun at Joe’s head.

  “How about you drop yours?” he says, a grin on his face that tells me he isn’t afraid of putting a bullet in a cop.

  Neither of these guys has seen me, and as I glance at Joe again, I see him give me the subtlest of nods, letting me know I should take the shot. Taking a deep breath in a bid to calm my nerves, I force my brain to focus, remind myself that I’ve shot a target dead-on at this distance a thousand times before.

  Without saying a word, I stand; take two steps toward the dealers and Joe, my finger on the trigger.

  “I won’t say it again, cop,” the guy with his gun on Joe says. “Drop the fucking gun.”

  Joe actually grins before he says, “Too late, buddy.”

  I squeeze the trigger and before I can exhale, the bullet enters the guy’s left temple; a spray of blood covering his buddy before Joe quickly moves and disarms him. The guy I shot, falls to the ground with a loud thump, his gun clattering beside him.

  By the time I glance at Joe again, my heart is pounding in my chest, going a million miles an hour as I desperately try to maintain a level of calm. As soon as I register that Joe has got this guy’s weapon, I turn and take in the rest of the room. Our two teams have pretty much incapacitated everyone by now and a number of the guys are already in cuffs.

  I holster my weapon and walk toward Joe. He’s handcuffing the guy he was previously holding a gun to and reading him his rights. As I come to a stop in front of him, I cross my arms over my chest and say, “Anything you want to tell us about tonight?”

  “Fuck off,” he shoots back at me, pulling on the cuffs. Joe yanks his arms back harder and the guy grunts as he practically falls against him.

  “Who’s in charge here?” I ask him. “You start talking and it’ll make your life a hell of a lot easier later.”

  “Fuck you, pig,” he says spitting at me.

  It’s the perfect diversion, because as I’m watching this all unfold, the guy somehow manages to pull away from Joe and jump through his handcuffed arms so they’re now in front of him. It happens faster than I could have expected, and just as I’m reaching for my gun, this guy is bending down and grabbing his from the ground.

  He straightens and levels it at my chest at the same time as I whip mine around so it’s aimed at his forehead. Joe, who is directly behind this guy, quickly moves to the side, his gun now trained on him, too.

  “Drop the fucking weapon,” Joe shouts at him and I can hear the nervous edge to his command. He wasn’t expecting this guy to pull a move like that, and I know he’s going to feel bad that he let it happen.

  “Fuck you,” this guy says again, his eyes never leaving me.

  “I’d do what my partner says if I were you,” I say, my voice level and calm despite the adrenaline that’s surging through me.

  The guy laughs. “I don’t think so, pig.”

  “Hey, asshole,” Joe tries again, this time kicking the dead guy’s gun across the ground.

  It’s just enough to make this guy glance down and when he does, I take the shot, not even stopping to think about it. The bullet enters his forehead and even though he returns fire, it’s an impulse shot, brought on by the shock of getting hit, and the bullet is off target.

  “Fuck,” I bite out as it still shears the side of my left arm.

  The guy falls to the ground now, his gun beside him. “You alright, sir?” Joe asks, never taking his eyes off the body.

  “Yeah,” I say, turning to look at my arm. The bullet has torn through my shirt, the blood already soaking the material. It
’s a superficial wound, nothing serious, but it still hurts like a bitch. “Fucking great.”

  An hour later and I’m sitting in the back of an ambulance getting my arm bandaged up. The medic wants me to go to the hospital, but I shrug him off, just asking him to patch me up so I can get back to the station and start questioning the guys we caught.

  “Alright, that’s as much as I can do,” he says, ripping off the blood pressure cuff. “I still think you should get it checked out, I’m pretty sure you need stitches.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, standing. “Thanks.” I turn to walk away and see my captain standing in front of me, a look on his face that suggests he’s not happy. “What?” I ask, glancing at the warehouse behind him. The guys are removing all the boxes of weapons and ammunition we’ve found, loading them into the police vans that have arrived.

  “I think you should head to the hospital, Summers,” he says, taking a step sideways so he’s blocking my view.

  “I need to question these guys first,” I respond, grabbing my jacket from the back of the ambulance.

  “Ryan,” he says, voice serious as he stands with his hands on his hips and stares at me. “You need to get your ass to the hospital,” he repeats, gesturing toward my arm. I glance down; notice the blood that has already started to seep through the bandage. “The questioning won’t happen for at least an hour or two,” he adds. “They’ll have to be photographed, printed and processed, there’s plenty of time.”

  I take a deep breath, knowing he’s right. My arm is throbbing, the paramedic only able to offer me a couple of painkillers while he attempted to clean up the wound. “Fine,” I finally concede. “But I need to be there for the questioning, okay? It doesn’t start without me.”

  The captain nods, gesturing for Pete to come and drive me. “Look Ryan,” he continues, hands sliding into his pockets now as though he doesn’t want to come off too confrontational. “About what happened tonight, the shooting…”

  “It was all above board!” I shout, running a hand through my hair. “They were threatening my team,” I point out to him. “Everything was legit here.”

  The captain holds up his hands. “I know, okay? I know this was all in the line of duty and I’m not saying you did anything wrong. But,” he says, meeting my stare, “you know there’s going to be an investigation into this. It’s protocol, regardless of the circumstances.”

  “Fucking hell,” I say, adjusting my left arm in the sling the medic forced me to put on. “This is total bullshit.”

  “Ryan,” the captain says, his hand on my good arm now. “You haven’t done anything wrong. From what Joe has already said, it was a good hit, clean and by the book, but you know this is something we have to do.”

  “Whatever,” I spit out. “You better not be taking me off the case though,” I add, fuming at what I know is going to be a nightmare couple of weeks now. Despite all my years on the job, I’ve never actually shot someone before. I know what’s going to be expected of me, though. There’ll be an investigation into what happened tonight. An independent team who’ll make sure everything was legit. And while that happens, I’ll be watched like a fucking hawk, not to mention ordered to get some bullshit counseling so I don’t break down or some shit. Fuck that.

  “That’s not what’s happening here, Ryan,” the captain says. “You’re officially still on the case,” he adds in case that’s what I was worried about. “You will be required to report to Internal Affairs for some questioning at some stage, but no one’s out to get you here, okay?”

  “Fine.” I snap my fingers at Pete now, itching to get out of here so I can get my arm stitched and down to the station and start the questioning.

  The captain says nothing more, perhaps realizing how close I am to losing my shit. Pete and I drive to the hospital in silence. I know I should say something to him, maybe check he’s actually okay after everything that happened tonight, but I’m too busy turning over tonight’s events in my own head.

  None of it makes any fucking sense. Well, I mean the deal getting moved was likely an attempt to lure us in, set up the ambush, but how the hell did they even know we knew about it in the first place? Joe says the informant hadn’t been made and I gotta say, from everything he told me on the ride over, I believe him.

  I shake my head as we pull into the hospital emergency bay, knowing I’m don’t stand a chance of trying to work any of this out until I get back to the station. Pete parks in one of the emergency vehicle bays, the advantage of taking a cruiser. Inside, I’m admitted straight in for treatment, the advantage of having a badge and smile.

  Less than two hours later, I’ve got fifteen stitches and am back at the station, the adrenaline of everything that’s happened finally starting to wear off. My left arm is numb and feels like a dead weight as I grab a stale coffee from the pot and walk straight into the situation room.

  “Shit, what are you doing back here?” Joe asks as I walk into the room.

  “My job,” I throw back at him. “Get me up to speed.”

  Joe ignores my pissed off attitude as he runs through where we’re at. In total, eight guys were picked up at the warehouse, another four sent to the morgue. We’ve got a shitload of guns now bagged and down in evidence and a folder of info, including a ledger of buyers and all their sordid details.

  It’s better than any of us expected and it almost makes everything that happened tonight worth it, even if none of us can work out how it is that they knew we were watching them.

  “Alright,” I say, swallowing a mouthful of cold, bitter coffee. “Who’s first up?” It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning now, but none of us are heading home anytime soon. We have eight guys to question and it’s likely to take the rest of the night and the better part of tomorrow.

  “Boss,” Joe says, standing. “There’s one other thing.”

  “What?” I ask, shooting him a glance.

  “This,” he says, sliding a photo across the table toward me.

  My fingers land on it just before it slides off. It’s an old color photo, grainy and worn as though it’s been looked at and tucked away a lot. In the picture is an older man and woman, a couple, although if I was to hazard a guess, not exactly on great terms. Beside them is a younger couple, the body language between these two painting a totally different story; one that screams intimacy and closeness.

  “It was found on the floor,” Joe says. “Likely dropped by someone,” he continues, oblivious to what’s running through my head as I pick the photo up from the table for a closer look. “Probably means at least one guy got away, but I don’t think that’s the biggest issue here,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Ryan, you know who that is, right?”

  I stare down at the picture, not saying a word as the image sears itself into my brain.

  “It’s William Fitzgerald,” Joe says. “The fucking mob boss, William Fitzgerald. He must be connected to all this, he must be involved. I mean I know he’s about to go on trial, but why else…?”

  But I don’t hear anything else Joe says, because as much as I know who William Fitzgerald is and what this now means for the case, that’s not what’s bothering me about this photo.

  No, my issue is with the young redhead that’s standing beside him.

  Chapter Ten

  Erin

  I wake up the next morning with Finn asleep beside me, but it’s early. I roll over and hit the center button on my phone, the light nearly blinding me in the darkness of the room, but as my eyes adjust I notice it’s a quarter past five.

  I told Finn he didn’t have to stay, that I’d be okay, but he insisted. I fell asleep almost immediately, which I don’t think would’ve happened had he not been here. Ever since the most recent phone call things seem off or maybe I’m just obsessing.

  Last week there was a black car with dark tinted windows that sat at the end of my street. I watched it for hours; probably a boiler stolen and ditched later with its random Rhode I
sland license plate, but nothing ever came from it.

  But even more than that, when I arrived home from work just a couple of days ago there was a man on my porch. I stopped short of pulling into my driveway, and slowly drove by, and for a split second I swore it was him.

  Same build and dark blonde hair, but he stood a little taller, looked a little rougher, but on my second pass by my house he was gone. That’s the part that scared me more than anything.

  Was he ever really there? Standing on my porch, looking though my window? Did my father send him or did he come on his own? Was he in my house now?

  I went straight to the police station, but under the guise that I was just there to shoot the shit with Finn. I know he saw right through it.

  All that paranoia led to me fearing the process server that appeared on my doorstep. It also led to me accepting the fact that Finn sleeping in my bed was a better idea than sleeping alone.

  I don’t want to wake him, so I slip from the bed quietly, grabbing my laptop as I leave the room. I put on a pot of coffee because god knows I’m going to need it. I have a few hours before I need to be at work, but there’s one thing I need to do even though everything in me says not to.

  I sit down at the kitchen table with the sound of the coffee pot brewing in the background; I open my laptop and type his name into the search bar.

  When I left at eighteen I told myself I wouldn’t look back and that included never running something as simple as an Internet search. I couldn’t take the risk of connecting myself to any of this, and by leaving any kind of digital footprint I would.

  But, my anonymity is gone now.

  I look at the name floating in the search bar, and swallow hard before hitting enter. I know there’s no going back.

  The links begin to pop up, each bringing what I thought they would and loaded down with words like racketeering, weapons, extortion, money laundering, and the one I hoped wouldn’t appear is there, glaring and loud: murder.