by Tina Whittle
I saw the confusion in his face. He wasn’t a cop anymore. No more vows to protect and serve, no more wading into the fray. He could put the gun away and stand down and let the consequences play out. I’m not responsible for other people’s bad choices, Hope had said. Maybe she was absolutely right.
“Boone’s calling Kendrick,” I said. “He’ll respond.”
“If he gets the message. If he gets there in time. If not, Jasper will kill her.”
“That’s not our problem.”
“Nonetheless.” Trey pocketed the mag, reached for another. “You stay on the boat, I’ll—”
“You’re not serious.”
“Of course I am. You can’t—”
“No, Trey, you can’t. You can’t do shit right now!”
He swallowed, eyes on his weapon. “But I have to.”
And he did. This wasn’t a choice for him, not like going down to the courtyard or not. This was Life or Death. He was trapped in the web of the right thing to do, and he could not get out, not even if he tried.
I licked my lips. “What if I told you not to?”
“Tai—”
“What if I begged?”
He flinched, his expression unreadable. “Please don’t do that.”
I wanted to scream. He’d stop if I told him to. He’d crawl into the box and close the lid, and I’d crawl in with him and we’d be safe forever and ever. There were lots of ways to die, and suffocating on your own safety was a slow but sure one.
I kicked the console, then kicked it again. “Aw, fuck.”
“Tai?”
I exhaled sharply, then pointed to the map above us. “I’ll dock here. The meeting place is a few hundred yards from there, down the side alley. I can make that pretty quick even lugging all this hardware.”
“But—”
“We’re in this together, Trey, or we’re not in it at all. You know this.”
He almost toppled, caught himself. Then he got his footing, and after only a second’s hesitation, he handed me the Sig. “It’s loaded, extra mags here.”
He was all resolve suddenly, all plan and organization. He was saving someone in need, someone who didn’t deserve it, but who would die otherwise. This was what he did. And it was the truest, realest part of him.
I shoved the gun into my empty pocket. “Thanks. Now hang on.”
We were taking the curves as fast as the boat could go. The wind and rain combined into a gray-sharded onslaught.
Trey peered at the speedometer. “Can you go faster?”
“This thing draws four feet. This is the best we can do.”
“Will we get there ahead of Jasper?”
“It’ll be close. The road’s faster, but we had the head start.”
“When we get there, you go find Hope. I’ll secure the boat and follow as quickly as I can. If there are authorities on the scene, don’t engage. If it’s Jasper, same response. If it’s clear, then get Hope and bring her back to the boat.”
This was the plan, and there wasn’t an ounce of give in it. Things were simple for Trey now—no moral quandaries, no confusion, no competing priorities. He wasn’t my boyfriend anymore. That guy wasn’t showing up for a while. Which was just as well—we didn’t have any room for him.
I grabbed the wheel. Drive, Tai, drive the fucking boat.
Chapter Forty-four
We pulled up to River Street, next to the floating dock. The storm had emptied the area, especially the west end where the tattoo shop was. I searched for cops. None, not even a patrol car.
I threw the line over the cleat. “Finish that for me, the other line too. Nothing finicky. We have to be able to untie quick.” Then I handed Trey his familiar H&K. “Here. It’s two bullets down.”
“I’ve got spares.” Lacking a holster, he jammed it in his waistband at the small of his back. “Go. I’m right behind you.”
The boat bucked in the water, almost pitching me into the river. I jumped onto the dock, then scrambled into a run, my sneakers slipping when I hit the treacherous stone and concrete. River Street felt post-apocalyptic. Blurred lights, the ponderous rain-chilled darkness, the wind’s unbroken yowling.
I ran for the tattoo shop, for the alley beside it. I stopped at the entrance and peered into the darkness, wiped my hair from my face, shielding my eyes with my hands. But I could see nothing at the other end, only shadows.
I looked behind me. No Trey, not yet.
I took the alley at a slow jog, my brain throwing horrors at me. Jasper waiting, gun pulled. Hope dead already, her blood a cooling puddle on the cobblestones. I reached the larger connecting passageway, open to the right and left, blocked in front by a sheer limestone wall.
And then I spotted Hope huddled under the shop’s awning. She wore a gray sweatshirt over her dress, the hood pulled over her head, her bare white legs ghostly in the dim light.
I ran up and grabbed her arm. “We have to leave! Now!”
She snatched free. “I’m not going anywhere with you!”
“Jasper’s coming. We have to get back to the boat!”
“What boat?”
“The one on at the floating dock. I—”
She looked over my shoulder and screamed. I spun around.
Jasper stepped from the shadows of the passageway. His gun glinted oily black even in the darkness, and he was wet and mud-pocked and lacerated from his tumble in the oyster beds.
He pointed the gun at me. “Stop right there, both of you. Hands in the air.”
I did as he said. I thought of running, but there was nowhere to go. I thought of screaming, but he’d kill me where I stood.
“Take whatever you want and go,” I said. “We won’t stop you.”
He shook his head. “Too late.”
“You don’t need us. All you need is that document, right? So take it and go!”
Jasper took two steps closer. I saw his next move coming, and I knew I’d have only one shot. I opened my hands, trying to remember the rules—eyes on Jasper, not the gun, don’t give away the move—but I couldn’t stop the tremors, everything spastic and surreal.
And then, in the mouth of the alley to Jasper’s right, I saw the shadow materialize. I saw it in the corner of my eye, smooth and silent and inevitable, an assassin’s shadow. I didn’t look, though. I kept my eyes on Jasper. I didn’t give a single thing away.
Trey’s voice came from the threshold, soft and full of authority. “Jasper.”
Jasper whirled, and the gun whirled with him. “Stop right there, or I’ll—”
Trey fired, one-two-three. The first bullet hit Jasper’s wrist, the second his shoulder. The gun flew from his hand as the third took out his left knee. He pitched to the ground, screaming. It was over before I could hit the cobblestones, but I hit them anyway, hands over my ears.
Trey closed the space in five steps and kicked Jasper’s gun behind a stairwell. Then he pressed his own gun into the back of Jasper’s neck and pushed him on his stomach.
Jasper went down. His bloody hand snaked toward Trey’s ankle, but Trey slammed his bare heel down on Jasper’s shredded wrist and twisted, hard, all of his weight behind it. Jasper screamed and tried to roll to his back, but Trey kicked him in the head, one solid strike that spun him on his back. He didn’t move after that.
I lifted my head, but kept my belly against the ground. “Trey?”
He didn’t answer. He was breathing hard, his gun trained on Jasper’s chest. He cocked his head, evaluating, examining. I stood up and went to him. Hope remained slumped under the awning, sobbing, incoherent.
Trey looked my way. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Are you?”
“No.”
Trey turned back to Jasper, who was sprawled unconscious on the cobblestones. He kept his hands wrapped around the gun.
I put a hand on his shoulder. “Trey?”
“Do you have your gun?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He placed his own on the ground. “
Keep him in your sights, finger off the trigger. And call an ambulance. Jasper needs an ambulance. I probably do too.”
He dropped into a sitting position on the wet cobblestones, legs bent, arms folded across his knees. He looked on the verge of passing out—shivering, pale, eyes closed.
I knelt beside him. “I’ll do it. You take it easy.”
His voice was weak. “And call Garrity, please. Would you do that?”
“Of course. Now be quiet.”
“Where’s Hope?”
I looked. She’d vanished. I cursed. In the distance, I heard a wail of sirens. Police and ambulance and maybe even a fire truck from the sound of it. Please let that be Kendrick coming to the rescue, I thought. Please let Boone have called a cop this one time in his life.
I returned my attention to Trey. “Hope’s run. Again.”
“Oh.”
“But help is on the way.”
I lifted his head and pushed the hair from his face. His skin was ashen, and he shook like he had a fever. I put two fingers to the side of his neck. His pulse beat fast but steady.
“Tai? I’m going to lie down now. Is that okay?”
I stroked his forehead. “Lie down, boyfriend. I’ve got everything under control.”
Chapter Forty-five
The next hour passed in a blur of official activity. The EMTs did a load and roll on Jasper, transporting him immediately to Memorial where a police team waited at the ER. The rest of us weathered the storm in Train’s empty tattoo shop—the remaining EMTs, plus police, plus all the lawyers Marisa could drag out of bed at one a.m. on a Saturday night.
She’d arrived not long after the cops, still in her ball gown. She’d carried Trey’s medical files under her arm, the thick documentation of all his now-normal abnormalities. Eventually she joined me in a relatively quiet corner of the shop, next to the stained glass window. Out back, we could see crime scene techs working under a white tent. Across the room, Trey sat on one of the leather stools, hidden from our view by a cluster of uniforms.
“He insists he doesn’t need the ER,” I said.
“I know.”
“He wants to finish his interview with the detectives. He says he’s fine, that he knows a non-displaced rib fracture when he feels one, and that all he needs is some pain medication and an incentive spirometer, whatever the hell that is.”
“I don’t care, he’s going. As soon as the police get finished with him, that is. And they’re taking their own sweet time.”
“He’s their best evidence now that the crime scene’s a lake.”
“I don’t care about that either. We need to establish self-defense, which means we need to get him to the hospital ASAP and get his injuries documented.”
“He’s got a different priority for the time being.”
Marisa blew out a breath of frustration and checked her phone. Back in Atlanta, she had Phoenix’s tech support guy accessing Trey’s phone records and doing a forensic reconstruction of the surveillance audio from the hotel room. She’d also contacted the company monitoring the surveillance cameras in the alleyway and had the footage being sent over by courier. She’d probably get her copy before the police did.
I’d told her what the video would show. She’d nodded in approval, then told the responding officers all about it. She’d used the phrase “former law enforcement officer” seven times, the words “highly decorated” three.
She shook her head in his direction. “He can’t resist being a part of the investigation, can he?”
“He absolutely cannot. The men who did this to him are racist, murdering rogue cops. He’s not going anywhere until he’s shared every pertinent detail.”
“But they have them all in custody! They caught two on the river, and there’s one in the ER with Jasper, the one your uncle shot.”
“Doesn’t matter. In Trey’s mind, it’s the worst kind of betrayal, and he’s going to help until he can’t help anymore.”
“God, I wish he’d stop thinking like a cop.” She checked her phone again, texted a quick response, a frown on her face. “Speaking of, I heard Detective Garrity is on the way.”
“He is.”
“Good. Maybe he can talk some sense into him.”
For the first time, I glimpsed the woman underneath the make-up, which was splotchy, and the perfect hair, which was falling in straggling wisps about her forehead. Her real face showed through the crumbling layers—plain, hard, weary. But she was a fighter, pragmatic, as unsentimental as gunmetal. And she was on Trey’s side.
“Thank you,” I said.
She didn’t look up from her phone. “No problem.”
The crime scene techs had already put him through the official gauntlet, right down to testing his hands for powder residue. I’d gotten the same treatment.
Marisa put the phone away. “I need to get ready for the press. You keep an eye on him, okay?”
I managed a small smile. “Like anybody could stop me.”
***
Thirty minutes later, Garrity blew into the shop, looking more official than I’d ever seen him. His hair was a wet red mess, but the rest of him was suit-and-tie. He had a similarly dressed companion, a wholesome-looking young man, brisk and bureaucratic. Garrity flashed his badge at the officer manning the perimeter, and the two came over.
I looked up at him. “I can explain.”
“Shut up.” He took me by the chin and examined my bruises. “Are you okay?”
I pulled away. “I’m fine, but I swear to God, Garrity, if you yell at me—”
“I’m not going to yell at you.”
“—I will start bawling and fall to pieces in this floor, and I can’t do that. Not yet.” I squinted at him. “How did you get here so fast? Atlanta’s four hours away.”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“What neighborhood?”
“Brunswick. Now hush and let me look at you.”
He examined me critically, cataloging every bruise and scrape. Behind him, the newcomer pulled out a fancy phone. He had the wide-eyed earnestness of a puppy, tempered by the service piece on his hip.
“Agent Garrity?” he said.
Garrity jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Check in with the officer in charge. I’ll be there in a second.”
The young man did as he was told. Garrity turned back to me. The shield clipped to his belt said Atlanta PD, but the spanking new suit told a different story. As did his being in Brunswick, headquarters of the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center.
I widened my eyes. “Agent Garrity?”
“A courtesy title.”
“So you’re a feeb now?”
“No, a liaison to the feebs. That’s Bryan, my new partner. He’s a little eager-beaver, but smart as a firecracker. Plus he does whatever I tell him.”
“Does this mean—”
“I’ll explain later. Where’s Trey?”
I pointed, and saw Garrity stiffen. “Sweet Jesus.”
“Broken rib, cuts and bruises. He took several hits with a stun gun. The EMTs pronounced him concussion-free, however.”
“What happened?”
I gave him the quick and dirty. Marisa’s legal assistant moved in circles around Trey, who let her snap photos without complaint, his gashes and contusions lurid in the bright camera flashes.
“Marisa says Phoenix needs to document his injuries,” I explained.
“She’s right. He needs all the protection she can give him right now.”
My temper flared. “Are you serious? Trey could get in trouble for this?”
“He’s already in trouble.”
“But—”
“He’s not a cop, Tai, he’s a civilian, so yes, he’s in trouble. Which is why we’re going to let Marisa get him out of it. She’s covering her ass, which means Trey’s ass gets covered too. And I may not like the woman, but she’s fierce, smart, and thorough.”
The camera flashed. Trey winced. When the assistant pulled his head around,
he blew out an abrupt exhale of pain. I bit my lip to stop the tears.
“There’s security footage. It will prove he’s telling the truth.”
“Good. But I wish we had another eyewitness.”
“There’s only Hope, and she’s long gone. And good thing too, or I’d kill her myself. And I don’t think even Marisa’s team could acquit me.”
Across the room, an EMT wrapped a bandage around Trey’s forearm while the second held a stethoscope to his chest. Trey ignored them; he was explaining something to a uniformed officer, who was taking copious notes. Trey eventually took the clipboard from him and sketched a quick precise diagram, emphasizing some pertinent detail by tapping the pen against the paper.
“How is he otherwise?” Garrity said.
“I don’t know. He seems calm now, but I swear, Garrity, I’ve never seen such…”
“What?”
“Fury. Kicking things, cussing, screaming at me. He said the ‘fuck’ word.”
“He knows worse words.”
“It’s not that.”
“What is it then?”
I shook my head against the memory. The anger burning out and cooling into efficient ruthless purpose. Trey’s utter lack of hesitation, three bullets like a trip hammer, bam-bam-bam. Then the cracking open, the collapse.
“He shot Jasper three times—once in the knee, once in the shoulder, once in the wrist.”
Garrity considered. “That could be either bad aim or expert accuracy.”
“He had a lethal shot, the…what do you call it?” I rubbed my finger between my eyes. “The T-zone. Jasper was looking right at him. He could have gone for the heart too, clear shot at center mass. But he didn’t.”
“Not exactly a SWAT response.”
“Not a vigilante one either.”
We looked at Trey, exhausted but surprisingly alert. He was shirtless, his hair sticking up, a plastic ice pack pressed against the swollen rawness of his eye. He looked our way and cocked his head.
I turned to Garrity. “He asked for you, you know.”
“He did?”
“Yes. When it was over. He said to call you. He said ‘please.’”
Garrity froze. I saw the diamond flash of tears in his eyes, but he blinked it away fast. He started moving in Trey’s direction.
