by Eden Ashley
She stopped several yards from his position. A safe distance away, she hoped. “What do you want?”
His reply was so low she could barely make it out. “I needed to be sure.”
Davey’s heart was thudding out of her chest. Had he seen her dealing? “About what?”
“That you were okay.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t expected that. “If you were so worried, why didn’t you stick around?”
“The directive tonight was recon only.” Remington took a step closer. “I think I may have compromised it by causing a scene.”
Weirdo alarm bells ringing at full volume, Davey took two steps back. “I’m sorry saving my ass messed up your mission. Thanks anyway.” Going in the other direction would get her away from him but also make the trek home thirty minutes longer. It really didn’t seem like a bad trade off.
“What did that guy want from you?”
“It’s none of your business.” Davey quickly started walking.
Remington followed. “You could have been hurt.”
“Again, none of your business.” She doubled her stride, but he kept pace effortlessly. Forging ahead for about fifty feet, Davey stopped. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m escorting you home.”
Flabbergasted, her mouth opened and shut. “Why?” she finally asked.
Remington watched her for a quiet moment. His features were oddly attractive in the glow of the streetlights. “I swore to serve and protect. It’s my job to keep you safe.”
Unconvinced, she gestured toward the house where the party raged on. “So a cop is going to show up and escort every one of those kids home too?”
“No.”
She folded her arms. “Then why are you following me?”
Remington shifted. “I don’t know.”
It wasn’t really an answer, but the way he spoke, as well as the manner of his movements, made the words seem true. Plus, Remington hadn’t appeared comfortable admitting them.
“What’s your name?”
“Officer Remington.”
“Well, I don’t like cops. Give me something else to call you.”
“Like what?”
Davey rolled her eyes. “Like your first name.”
“Oh.” Remington smiled. The expression transformed his features, and she thought he should do it more often. “Ethan.”
“Okay, Ethan. Walk me home.”
7
Sounds of the night drowned out the silence between Davey and her strange companion. He was less of a talker than she was. Even his footsteps were abnormally quiet. A phantom would have made more noise walking beside her. But Davey never forgot Ethan was there. She found herself actually wanting to know him, to draw him out and hear his story.
“Tell me what brought you to this shitty town.”
“I was assigned here for training.”
“Why here? I’m sure you could have gotten loads more excitement in a big city.”
Ethan glanced sideways at her. “A small town setting is ideal for my situation.”
“Are you a perpetual screw up or something?”
For a moment, his expression was pained. Then it smoothed into sad lines. “I don’t remember.”
Davey stopped walking. “You don’t remember.” Her voice held more than a twinge of doubt. Ethan averted his eyes, staring quietly at the pine needles beneath their sneakers. She touched his arm. He looked up, and something transferred between them. Davey felt a buzz at her fingertips, like the static buildup just before a big shock. Jerking her hand away, her next breath caught sharply within her chest. Ethan took a step back. Davey couldn’t interpret the look on his face. “Ethan?” she said softly.
“I wasn’t honest with you when I said I came here fresh from the academy. The truth is…there was an accident.” Ethan turned his head to the night sky. “I emerged from a coma with a mind that was fractured at best. A good chunk of my memory is gone and what remains is jumbled. Things are out of order. Sometimes I think I remember things only to later find out that those memories never actually happened.” His eyes finally came back to her. “When I woke up from the coma, I couldn’t talk and suffered through several months of therapy to fix it. Luckily, all of my physical training and cognitive skills remained in intact, so I was still useful to my employers. They just weren’t sure whether I could be trusted. They still aren’t.”
“So, they sent you here to prove yourself again.”
He nodded.
Guilt dragged at her conscience like a heavy anchor. “Did tonight—what happened back at the party—did it mess things up for you?”
“I don’t think so.” He started moving forward again, and she fell into step next to him. “Will you tell me why that guy attacked you?”
The backpack with the drugs inside instantly felt like a two-ton weight on her shoulders. She readjusted the strap. “Who’s asking—the cop or the boy walking me home?”
“The cop.” Ethan smiled, but the expression was so stiff and forced that it almost looked painful. “Since the accident, I don’t really know how to be anything else.”
A constant stream of light cut softly across the trail near the bend ahead. It meant the Resting Pines trailer park—home—was close. Silent until they reached the front porch of trailer number six, Davey wouldn’t risk touching Ethan again but tried to make her tone gentler. She was low on practice. “Tonight, you walked me home.” Her lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile but came very close. “It’s your new start to being someone else.”
Ethan reached out and touched her hair. This time, she only flinched a little.
*
5:45 a.m. It was when Solomon’s police cruiser arrived at the end of his partner’s driveway each morning. Remington was always there, rain or shine. Solomon would see the young man’s silhouette poised and waiting, like a soldier. Discipline practically oozed from his pores. The kid was about as loyal as a German Shepherd and probably just as dangerous.
As he opened the door and climbed in, Solomon gestured to a steaming cup in the console while holding his own thermos to his lips. “It’s for you.”
Remington’s eyes widened a bit. “Thanks.”
Solomon understood. He had never brought his partner anything. Making his usual purchase that morning, he had surprised himself when he’d asked for a second cup. Maybe the kid was growing on him.
Remington buckled his seatbelt, and Solomon shifted the gear into drive. “How did last night go? Tell me you got a name, or I’m taking the latte back.”
Remington quickly snagged the cup from the holder. “The guy we’re looking for—he’s called Marx.”
“Last name?”
Remington shook his head. “No.”
“What does he look like?”
“He wasn’t at the party. All I got was the name.”
“So, how do we find him?”
“I’m still working on it.”
Solomon grunted. It didn’t sound like the kid had much to go on. Rookies could take the smallest bit of information and mistakenly see it as the golden thread to rip open an entire case. Senior officers knew better. Dead ends were much more likely than smoking guns. Still, Remington had a good head on his shoulders. It was possible he might come up with something worthwhile.
Solomon felt obligated to let him know what he was up against. “Marx could be a nickname, middle name, first name or last. Run it through our database for criminals known for drug related activities.”
“I have. There were nearly one hundred hits for this region.”
“Alright. Let’s put our heads together, run a few variables, and narrow one hundred down to some choice suspects.”
“I’ve narrowed it down to nine likely candidates based on criminal activity, known associates in this area, and prior records.”
It was Solomon’s turn to be surprised. He couldn’t imagine when Remington would have had time to do the necessary research between last night’s recon assi
gnment and morning coffee. Maybe the kid didn’t sleep. “Good work.”
Solomon had finished his bacon, egg, and cheese breakfast sandwich and was nearly done with the coffee when their first call came in.
“Assault in progress on Route 39 and number one bypass. Second suspect reported fleeing the scene. Closest units please respond.”
He and Remington were only five minutes away from the area, but Solomon didn’t make a move. Instead he looked at his partner and gave a slight nod. Remington reached for the radio. “This is unit two-two-six. We are en route and four minutes out. Over.”
“Two-two-six, be advised, weapons were reported at the scene.”
“Roger that.”
Route 39 and the number one bypass intersected at Horry Hill Square, a small shopping center anchored by a big department store and produce market. Several small and local businesses filled in rented retail spaces. The area wasn’t known for a high crime rate. The most serious offenses law enforcement responded to were shoplifting and public nuisance via loud music from big SUVs driven by men old enough to know better.
A crowd had gathered in the parking lot directly in front of the market. Solomon aimed the cruiser there, making a safe bet it was where he’d find the trouble. Remington was on the radio again, requesting an ambulance. Just as Solomon was about to call the kid out for making a premature move, the crowd shifted and Solomon got a clearer view of the scene. A man was lying on the ground. One of the bystanders knelt beside him, applying pressure to multiple wounds, but the victim was losing a considerable amount of blood.
Solomon’s knuckles turned white against the steering wheel. “Better tell them to hurry.”
8
Palmer was frowning. “What happened to you last night?” He was angry at Davey for leaving the party without telling him.
Davey didn’t have a cell phone. Her parents didn’t think she needed one. Hell, Davey didn’t think she needed one. The people she talked to comprised a very short list. So after the rave, Palmer had wasted an hour searching for her, asking around to find anyone who might’ve seen her and then spent the rest of the night worrying.
“The cash is fine. The merchandise is fine.” Davey leaned against the wall with her arms folded. “I’ll get everything back to you later.” She had been headed to her next class when Palmer caught up to her. Looking pretty freaked, he cornered her in a divide between two lockers, dragging her out of sight where no one could see them talking.
She was surprised to see him. It wasn’t the first time Palmer had sneaked onto campus, but he didn’t do it often. Him getting caught would certainly raise questions—questions Palmer definitely didn’t want to answer.
He shook his head. “I don’t care about the drugs or the money.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I needed to make sure you were okay.”
The concern in his eyes was unmistakable. Feeling unsettled, Davey felt a need to change the subject. “You shouldn’t be here. It could cause problems.”
But Palmer moved closer, pressing into her space. If she was going to be ice, then he would try to melt her. “Don’t worry about me, babe.” He lowered his voice, zeroing in on the patch of skin where Davey loved to be kissed. “I had to see you.”
Nudging her backward until she touched the wall, Palmer lowered his lips to Davey’s neck and worked them slowly against her skin. When she trembled beneath his touch, he got excited. Squeezing her ass, he lifted her hips to meet his.
Davey moaned softly and wrapped her legs around him. It hadn’t taken Palmer long to figure out how to touch her. And after he’d learned, he’d never forgotten. Her eyes drooped shut as he kissed her again. His fingers eased into the waist of her pants, making her breath come faster. His hand moved urgently at her zipper. “No,” she said, stiffening to pull away.
He kissed her mouth. “You don’t mean that,” he whispered huskily. “Let’s get out of here.”
Davey kissed him back. She couldn’t help it. But when she opened her eyes, it was Ethan holding her and Ethan who kissed her. A startled noise clung to the back of her throat as her heart slammed against the inside of her chest. Shoving Palmer away, she grabbed her backpack and ran out into the hall.
Palmer followed. “Davey, what the hell?”
“Leave me alone.”
He caught up to her easily. But as he tried to grab her arm, Davey spun around. Anger like she’d never felt before burned from the inside out. It must have shown on her face because Palmer abruptly stopped in his tracks. “Davey?”
“Leave me alone,” she said and turned away before he could see the betrayal of tears spilling from her eyes.
*
Wiping the sweat from his brow, Solomon crouched lower between two dumpsters that reeked of fermented garbage. Armed and extremely dangerous, the suspect had entered the alley before being cornered by Solomon. Left up to him, the guy back there choking on his own blood would not have been the only victim. Earlier, the suspect had fired two bullets at Solomon, forcing him to take cover between the dumpsters.
But every coin had two sides.
It was by following a trail of blood droplets that Solomon tracked the suspect into the alley. Maybe the victim had put up a fight against a robbery and somehow injured the shooter. A stupid argument over a parking space could have escalated. Or it was possible both men were criminals and whatever business they’d conducted had gone sour. Solomon could have speculated on endless variables, but the answers would not be known until the right questions were asked. In order for an interrogation to happen, this dirt bag needed to be off the streets.
Solomon wiped his face again and readjusted his grip on the Glock. Fatigued by the weight of the sun and from running in pursuit, Solomon regretted so many missed sessions at the gym in the past month. His wife’s illness had made inroads into every aspect of their lives and something had to give. Solomon shook his head. It wasn’t the time to think about problems at home. There was a little shit in the alley with a gun aimed at him, waiting to take another shot. He needed back up.
Solomon clicked on the radio clipped to the front of his shirt. “Remington,” he whispered somewhat breathlessly. “What’s the status on the other unit?”
After a stretch of silence, the rookie answered. “Back up is five minutes and twenty-nine seconds out.”
Solomon rolled his eyes. The kid was always so damned precise. “I can’t wait that long. This guy is restless.” Hearing movement, he paused. “I think he’s getting ready to make a move.”
“I’ll come assist.”
“Is the bus with the vic?”
“Negative.”
Solomon shook his head. “Don’t leave until the paramedics get there. Do you understand?”
Again, several beats of silence followed before Remington responded. “Yeah. Got it,” he said.
Hearing a loud crash from up ahead, Solomon’s attention snapped to the end of the alleyway. He stuck his head out far enough to see several cardboard boxes tumbling down from wooden pallets stacked next to a chain linked fence. At the top dangled a white male of average height. Sagging blue jeans and one missing shoe made his climb much more difficult. To free his hands, the suspect had tucked the gun into his waistband, giving Solomon the opportunity he needed.
“This is the police!” he shouted and stepped out from cover. “Stop where you are!”
Ignoring Solomon’s order, the suspect continued to climb, so Solomon pointed his gun into the air and fired. The man froze. “Don’t shoot!” he called over his shoulder.
“Come down from there.” Keeping the gun trained over center mass, Solomon approached the suspect cautiously. “Turn around slowly,” he said when the man’s feet were on the ground again.
It turned out the man was just a kid. Twenty at most, he’d probably dropped out of high school and never attended college. The promise of easy money from selling dope and guns had probably lured him into making a lot of bad choices. Now he was bleeding in an alley, standing at gunpoint, an
d looking at serving years in prison for attempted murder.
Solomon did a quick appraisal of the young man’s wound. It was a gut shot, just above the liver. Adrenaline had to be the only thing keeping this kid on his feet. “You need a hospital.”
“Don’t shoot, man.”
“No need to. Someone has already done a good job of that.” Solomon pulled the cuffs from his back pocket with one hand. “Turn around and face the fence. Then I want you to back up toward me slowly.”
The kid started to look really anxious then. “Don’t shoot, man. Please.”
“No one is going to shoot you.”
Solomon was surprised when the kid started crying. “P-please don’t shoot. I didn’t know Marx sent him. I-I didn’t know.”
As Solomon frowned in confusion, several things happened in rapid succession. A gun went off. The kid’s body jerked backward and blood began pooling from his chest. Solomon reeled, but another shot sounded before he could complete the turn. At first, he thought he was hit. He didn’t feel it, but he had to be shot. Then Solomon’s eyes focused on two figures who hadn’t been in the alley a minute ago. One wore a navy blue uniform and was kneeling in the dirt. Remington. The other was dead on his back with eyes wide and unseeing. A gun lay a few inches from his outstretched hand.
Solomon’s heart pounded even faster with the realization of what had almost happened. He stared at his partner. “You saved my life.”
Remington walked over to the body, kicking away the gun before reaching to feel for a pulse. “I owed you for the coffee,” he said flatly, and Solomon couldn’t tell if he was joking.
Finally looking at Solomon, Remington shook his head.
“So much for questioning either of these two.” He sighed. “What about the vic?”
