Tactical Pursuit

by Lynette Mae

  “Listen, based on that interview, I think everything’s gonna be fine for you.”

  “Why do I feel like there’s a but?” She watched him closely.

  “The kid’s mother came in with her attorney and delivered a pellet gun that she said her son was carrying that night. The lawyer says there’s gonna be a wrongful death lawsuit. The Chief was at a community meeting in West Tampa last night and took a beating over this. He assured them that if the investigation revealed any wrongdoing on your part that the department would take appropriate action.”

  “What? They aren’t caving in before they even get the facts are they?” She paced in a circle around him. This was not good. It was bad enough that she’d shot a kid, but now they were alleging the kid had a toy gun? The kid had shot at her, but without the actual weapon how was she supposed to prove otherwise? Holy shit.

  “Listen,” he put a hand on her arm. “Don’t lose faith. This will be fine. After all, in the dark, with poor lighting, the kid pulls out what looks like a real pistol? Don’t forget, Devon, for you this is about perception. You were in that crowd alone, it’s dark, someone yells, ‘gun’, the kid pulls it out and you react. Don’t worry about this lawsuit thing. If you performed according to training and policy—and you did—you’re covered.”

  Devon sighed.

  They walked to the elevators and the union rep continued to offer encouragement. “Devon, I don’t know how else to tell you not to let this get to you. You’ll be released back to duty within the week, I’m sure of it. The rest is the price of doing business in policing.”

  She could only stare at him. The price of doing business? “A kid is dead.” She spoke slowly, working to control her emotion. How could this guy be so damned flippant about that? “I don’t consider a kid’s life ‘the price of doing business,’ as you say. I know he would have shot me if he could. I know I performed according to training, but it’s still not something I’m comfortable with.”

  He patted her shoulder. “It will get better.”

  The elevator doors opened and the Chief stood looking at them.

  “Chief.”

  “Corporal.”

  They rode down to the ground floor in silence.

  THIRTY MINUTES LATER Devon pushed through the door into the locker room at the police academy. The endless hours in Internal Affairs had frayed her nerves and she anticipated a long, physical workout to burn off some stress. Especially after the union rep had implied some members of the police staff questioned her actions that night. Were they actually buying the lies being told by so-called community leaders who wanted the public to believe she had wantonly gunned down a child with a toy gun? How the fuck was she supposed to be able to tell in the dark, in a split second? And, who’s to say the toy gun the attorney was trying to turn into exhibit A was the one the kid had that night? As if dealing with a shooting wasn’t stressful enough, they had to add to the critiques.

  “Fucking bureaucrats,” she grumbled.

  What the hell did they want from her anyway? She’d done everything she could that night on the street, even giving first aid to the kid until the ambulance arrived. They’d sent her to see the department shrink. What a joke. He asked her a couple of superficial questions about the shooting and whether it was causing her any emotional problems. Truth was, she wasn’t sleeping very well lately, but it had nothing to do with this shooting, exactly. The dream she’d had a couple of days ago was a lot like her nightmares after Beirut. In this new manifestation of her fucked up psyche, everything turned into the scene in Lebanon, right after the terrorist bombing when they’d found Alex’s body.

  What exactly did that mean? She wasn’t stupid enough to bring it up with the shrink, especially since he didn’t mention her military service. Besides, what would she say? “Hey, Doc, I’m having this dream that the kid I shot turns into my dead lover and we’re suddenly in the desert, not the projects.” No. That would get her committed, not cleared for duty. Anyway, the dream hadn’t repeated like the old ones used to, so it wasn’t really a big deal. Nothing she hadn’t handled before.

  “A few more days and it’ll all be over with,” she told herself, pulling on a pair of shorts and a black t-shirt with a departmental logo on the left breast and TPD SWAT emblazoned in large white letters across the back. After lacing up her sneakers, she stowed her uniform in a locker and crossed the hall into the gym.

  Thankful that the room was quiet and empty, Devon tuned the boom box perched on an old metal chair to a classic rock and roll station she loved. The powerful sounds of her favorite Rush song filled the space and simultaneously lifted her spirits. Neil Peart’s hard-driving percussion riffs never failed to amaze her.

  Half of the gym sported the newest Nautilus equipment, donated by a wealthy local businessman, and on the other side of the gym were racks of old-school dumbbells she would utilize today. She made her way to the back of the room toward the free weights, lapsing into a decidedly off-key rendition of the chorus while slapping out a corresponding rhythm on her thighs. A woman’s head popped up from one of the weight benches in the corner. Devon jumped slightly and flushed.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know anyone was here,” she mumbled, taking in the long muscular legs straddling the bench and the equally toned arms resting on the tops of the woman’s thighs. The sight of the woman’s sleek body slick with sweat from her workout, made Devon’s stomach clench in a primal response. The woman raised her head, revealing deep green eyes and a face framed by a mane of shoulder length hair the color of dark chocolate. She smiled and Devon’s heart stopped in her chest. Nonplussed, she stood staring dumbly at the woman. She looked at Devon as if they knew each other, but that was impossible. Devon was certain they had never met, and doubly certain that she would have remembered this woman if they had.

  “Excuse me, Corporal. I’ll just get out of your way.” Quickly, the woman stood, gathering her towel and gloves from the bench and shoving them into her bag on the floor. “Have a nice day.”

  “No, it’s all right. I—” Devon found her voice, apparently too late. Leaving no room for discussion, the young woman hurried past her, weaving swiftly through the equipment and out of the gym without looking back. Devon stared after her as the door slowly closed, wondering who the beautiful woman was and what she had done to make her run off so fast.

  Chapter Two

  “UNITS BE ADVISED,” the dispatcher began, “a signal twenty-three hold up just occurred to the Southern Savings and Loan, at Kennedy and MacDill. Three male suspects armed with a shotgun fled in a black Chevy eastbound from the bank.”

  “Adam Four en route,” Devon said. She flipped on her overhead emergency lights and stomped on the accelerator. The robbery had occurred in the next sector, and she headed toward the interstate on a hunch. The suspect vehicle matched the description of one used in a similar crime in her area. Word on the street pegged the suspects as a couple of wannabe gang-bangers from the projects. She hoped to intercept them if they came her direction and switched her in-car radio to the frequency of the adjoining sector to monitor the response.

  “Air One responding.” The calm voice of Mac McKinley, the police helicopter pilot on duty, came across the radio.

  Devon grinned at the sound of her friend’s voice. “Gonna be just like old times, Mac,” she said aloud, feeling even better about the prospect of catching these suspects today. Mac was the most experienced pilot in the department as well as being Devon’s best friend. They’d served together in the army, through a combat tour in Beirut, and there was no one she would rather have as air support on a potentially volatile call like this.

  “Air One?” the dispatcher called. “Units on frequency two have a vehicle matching the suspect’s, northbound on Armenia Avenue. Looks like they’re heading for the interstate.”

  “Ten-four,” Mac said, “switching to two.”

  Devon listened as the units radioed their locations. Sure enough, the suspects appeared to be heading to the projects
in her zone. It would only take a couple of minutes for the cars to reach her at the speed of the pursuit. She radioed for additional SWAT officers to respond to the area. It would be helpful to have them standing by, since they already knew that these thugs were armed and dangerous. If they were lucky, the pursuit would end and officers would make the arrest without incident. But, these types of criminals often wanted to go down in a blaze of gunfire, or worse, barricade themselves with hostages. Having the SWAT guys and their extra firepower around would be advantageous.

  “Air One here. We’re overhead. Have the ground units back off. We’ll take the lead now.”

  Okay fellas, now you’re screwed, you can’t outrun that bird. Devon felt adrenaline pump through her veins at the sounds of the sirens approaching in the distance. These were the calls that cops lived for—the chance to chase down and apprehend real bad guys.

  “Adam Four?” the dispatcher called.

  “Adam Four.”

  “Air One is requesting you on the tactical frequency.”

  “Ten-four.” Devon switched over for Mac. “TAC Nine to Air One.” Devon used her SWAT call sign on the tactical channel, in case other SWAT members tuned in.

  “Air One," Mac said. "TAC Nine, are you monitoring the pursuit on two, reference the robbery suspects?”

  Devon said, “Ten-four, I’m en route to the area now with several other team members. I’ll be Adam Four on freq two. ETA less than five.”

  “Ten-four. Looks like they’re heading for the projects. They just got off the interstate at MLK. Kenny’s my flight observer tonight. He’ll keep a close eye on you. We’ll see you there.”

  “Perfect. TAC Nine out.”

  Switching back to frequency two, Devon accelerated around the corner of Florida Avenue onto Martin L. King, Jr. Boulevard just as the pursuit screamed by. The suspects careened south on Central, into the heart of the public housing area at breakneck speed. Sparks flew when they hit a dip in the road at the next intersection. The vehicle was airborne for a moment, and the driver lost control. The car slid sideways one hundred eighty degrees and struck a cement utility pole at the corner, wrapping around it like a huge metal twist tie. Incredibly, two suspects bolted from the wreckage.

  “Suspects fleeing on foot, southbound toward Baker,” Kenny called out to ground units. His job was to operate the on-board camera and keep the suspects in sight long enough to direct officers until the arrest was made. “Black males, one with shoulder length dreds. The other has real short hair. Both are wearing white t-shirts and dark pants.” Kenny calmly recited the suspects' next movements. “They’ve split up. The one with the short hair is now westbound through the alley toward Avon.”

  Devon swung her car around the marked units stopped in the street near the wreck, jumping the curb to get by. She gunned the engine, accelerating toward the next corner to intercept the fleeing felons. When she reached the turn, a lone figure ran in the shadow between the buildings. Dead end. Devon slammed the police car to a stop near the end of the street, just behind the suspect, and launched from her vehicle into a full sprint across the crowded parking area. She narrowly avoided a collision with a child on a tricycle as she charged between two parked cars.

  People stood on their small porches watching the drama unfold. She couldn’t see if the guy was armed, but because he was moving so freely, she knew that he didn’t have the shotgun used in the robbery. If he were armed, it would be with a handgun of some type.

  “Police! Stop!" Devon shouted. "Get on the ground!” She continued her chase between the apartments, ducking and weaving around umbrella clothesline racks, watching for holes or other obstacles as she ran. They were fast approaching an eight-foot fence that surrounded the exterior of the complex. Devon’s brain vaguely registered the reassuring sound of the helicopter’s rotor blades thumping overhead. Her target was running out of steam and Devon knew she would close the distance before he reached the fence. He lunged for the chain link. She grabbed two fistfuls of his t-shirt. Jerking him towards her, she stepped back and to the side, using the momentum and weight of her own body to sling him in an outward arc to the ground.

  Devon pinned the suspect to the pavement with her right knee in his back. The helicopter hovered above, Mac and Kenny witnessing the drama below. The chopper steadily circled with the flight observer relaying information regarding Devon and suspect.

  The suspect was strong. He kicked and rolled and wouldn't stay still long enough for her to cuff him. She heard Kenny transmit her location and radio for additional backup to assist with the arrest. That was good because she couldn’t get to her shoulder mic to request help for herself. The guy refused to give up without a fight. He struggled, working his legs under him to push off and escape. She dropped her shoulder into his back to regain leverage and tried to ignore the pungent smell of body odor that nearly gagged her when her face ended up inches from his armpit. He was lean and muscular, taller than Devon, and outweighed her by thirty pounds, but he was also winded from the sprint and that evened the odds a bit. With a jerk, he shifted under her, and she realized that her weight alone couldn’t keep him down. Devon drove her left knee into his side and then his outer thigh, where she knew a nerve strike would temporarily disable his leg. She dug beneath him trying to get his hands from under his body, bu

  “Get down!” she yelled with each blow she delivered. The third knee strike succeeded, and he fell back onto the pavement. Devon secured a cuff on his right wrist but he struggled against her again. She held him in place with her upper body pressed between his shoulder blades and used the handcuff to push his arm upward unnaturally, a technique that caused a great deal of pain. He screamed a string of expletives and fought harder to escape.

  A second officer, Stephanie Ramirez, arrived to assist. The perp continued to fight and Devon again drove her knee into his side. Steph pulled the robber’s left arm free, and they finished cuffing him.

  Another group of officers had located the second suspect nearby and arrested him as well. Once they were both secured in police cars, Devon returned to where the getaway vehicle was wrapped around the light pole. The classic, box Chevy four-door was certainly on its way to the scrap heap after this wreck. She looked at the scene in disbelief, still catching her breath from the foot chase and fight with the suspect.

  “That crash would have killed one of us, but not these bastards,” she said aloud.

  The officer who had assisted Devon with the arrest stepped up beside her to survey the scene. “No doubt,” she said.

  Devon smiled sideways at her. “Thanks for the help over there, Steph.”

  “No problem.” Stephanie grinned back at her. “See what happens when we ride separately? You get into all kinds of trouble. Welcome back, by the way.”

  Devon shoved her playfully in the shoulder. “A week off was more than enough, trust me. One more day of desk duty and I would have gone insane.”

  “You’re just an adrenaline junky.”

  “Guilty as charged.” She winked at Steph.

  “Air One to Adam Four,” Mac called Devon on the radio.

  “Adam Four. Go ahead.” Devon automatically looked skyward at the helicopter still hovering above.

  “You all set, Corporal? We need to get back to the hanger and refuel.”

  “All set, thanks for the help, Air One.” She gave thumbs up and a wave in the air. The chopper banked to the west and was gone.

  FROM THE ENTRANCE Devon scanned the dining area of a small Cuban restaurant and soon spotted the unmistakable muscular form she searched for. Tonight the place was crowded. Faithful immigrant regulars mingled with the newer converts to the cuisine and packed the restaurant.

  In the early 1900s, Tampa had mostly been built on the labor of immigrants from Cuba and other Latin American countries. Ybor City, the central city’s Latin district, was founded by hardworking people who came to their new country to work in the cigar factories and brought with them their vibrant history and culture. The smells
of café con leche, a strong Cuban coffee, and of freshly baked bread and rich, roasted pork floated in the air.

  Devon’s stomach rumbled in response. A tiny woman with jet-black hair and twinkling eyes smiled up at Devon. She motioned in the direction of the booth across the room.

  “He’s at your table, la miel. I bring coffee right now.”

  “Gracias, Señora Gutierrez.” Devon smiled at the owner’s term of endearment. They'd met during Devon’s rookie year when she investigated a burglary of the Gutierrez’s home a few miles away. Recently widowed, the poor woman had been terrified that whoever broke in would come back again. Devon made a point to patrol her neighborhood more frequently after that. Over the years they had become close and Devon often visited her at home and the restaurant just to see how she was doing. Tonight she craved the recipes passed down through generations of Señora Gutierrez’s family. Her mouth watered in anticipation, savoring the aromas wafting from the kitchen.

  Devon dropped into the chair across from the muscle-bound guy studying the menu as if he didn’t eat here at least once a week. She playfully slapped the laminated page into his face eliciting a startled glare before he recognized who had done it. She grinned at him and balled up a fist to ward off his imaginary attack.

  “They haven’t changed the menu in thirty years, Nate.”

  Nathaniel Spencer visibly relaxed and returned her grin with a wide smile of his own. His deep dimples creased his cheeks just below the corners of his dark moustache. “You never know…”

  He had obviously gotten a haircut in the last couple of days because his nearly black spikes were only a quarter-inch high and the skin along the new hairline was pale compared to the rest of his tanned neck.

  “Not to mention,” Devon continued teasingly, “that you order the chicken with black beans and yellow rice every time.” The waiter appeared at the table with two heaping plates of the Spanish dish in question. Señora Gutierrez placed a glass of water and a Cuban coffee in front of her. Devon laughed when Nate looked at his plate like a kid on Christmas morning. She loved the familiarity of their routine. “See what I mean? They didn’t even wait for you to order. They know.”