“No, not yet. Sit tight. That’s an order.”
He clutched the gun and stared wild-eyed at me. No way he’d let it go. The door behind me pushed open. I saw a gun ease out, and then Carla. Why did everybody else have a gun?
“Sergeant, you cover that entry until backup arrives.” The inspector wanted both entrances to the vestibule covered. He was defensive now, no sign of fight in him. I crawled to the shattered doorway. I could see a gun near Blair’s head, blood spreading toward it.
“Neville, get back.”
I rose into a crouch and dove through the opening to the gun, grabbed it, and rolled away from the bodies, coming up in a shooter’s stance. The gun felt sticky as I held it forward, gripped tightly in my right hand, the butt cradled in my left. I wished for the familiar feel of the C7 that had saved me in firefights in Afghanistan. The handgun would have to do. I moved my outstretched arms, my eyes glued to the sight at the end of the barrel. Nothing. I raced to the back of the elevator tower and around to the other side, peering over the barrel to the empty parking spaces. I circled around to the front, and back to the scene.
“Clear,” I shouted as I ran to help my brother and my partner. I dropped the gun as I knelt beside them.
Greg looked so small sprawled on top of Blair. Neither moved as I lifted my brother away, rolling him gently over into my lap. Carla was beside me now, her gun still in her hand as she reached down and felt Blair’s neck.
“He’s alive,” she said as she moved to Greg.
I should have felt some hope, some relief in those words, but all I felt was death. I’d handled dead bodies before and knew I was holding one now.
Carla looked up at me. “Put him down. We can save him.”
I knew we couldn’t, but I eased him to the floor anyway. She ripped open his shirt to check the wounds. His chest was gone, bone fragments sticking out of a red pulp of shredded skin. She knelt beside him, looking up at me.
“CPR. I can’t, I don’t think.” She froze.
I leaned over Greg and placed my hands into the bloody mess where his chest should be. I pressed and released as bubbles and blood oozed through my fingers. Carla regained control, leaning over and blowing air into his mouth. We continued our dance with death as I heard sirens in the distance. I felt something sharp under my palm as tears blurred my vision. I thought it was a bullet fragment, but then I recognized it. The crucifix. Sobs came hard now, and I couldn’t force my will into his dead heart any longer. I stopped the compressions and looked at Carla.
“Help Blair” was all I could manage.
She moved away. I reached into my dead brother’s chest and took hold of the crucifix. I ran my fingers along the chain and felt for the clasp, again. I undid it, my fingers slipping in blood, again. I could see traces of gold but mostly blood as I held it in front of me. For the second time, I slipped it into my pocket and made a promise over a dead body.
I stood as the paramedics moved in. They paused at Greg and then scrambled over to Blair.
“He’s got a vest on. Lot of hits on it, God, so many, but I don’t think they went through. Holy shit.” I heard the words and remembered his slow movements in my garage. Those busted ribs might have saved his life. Maybe Phil Murphy did him a favour. A beating, a blessing. Life can be like that. I wiped my eyes with my sleeve and looked down at Greg. So small, so helpless. Kid never had a chance. Our father hated him; his mother dumped him and ran for the nearest needle. His grandparents forced so much guilt into him it was a miracle he survived his childhood at all. I watched the paramedics ease Blair onto a stretcher. Why had I asked him to question Greg? Didn’t I have the balls to question my own brother? Had I killed Greg and another partner?
Inspector MacIntosh was talking to two uniformed officers. Both had the yellow stripe down the side of their pants. Mounties. His chest out for his subordinates, his shoulders swaying as he surveyed the scene. A man in command of the situation. Probably saw a promotion in it. Carla was standing near him now, watching the paramedics lift Blair. I heard the inspector describe a black Escalade. He said it rode very low on an altered suspension, had oversized tires on shiny black rims with chrome accents. Heard him say the gunman and driver wore masks.
One of the uniforms, a pole-thin guy with stubble for a haircut, relayed the information using the radio transmitter clipped to the chest pocket on his vest. His Adam’s apple popped as he spoke. A BOLO would go out on the Caddy in seconds. The second officer, shorter, with a belly pushing his own Kevlar, listened to the inspector. His eyes never left Greg. Inspector MacIntosh’s gun hung at his side, the barrel banging slowly into his leg as he spoke.
I stepped over Greg to MacIntosh and grabbed the gun from his hand before he could react. I racked the slide back and saw the chamber was empty. I popped the clip and saw it was full. Smelled the barrel.
“What do you think you’re doing, Constable?” MacIntosh asked, cowering slightly.
“You saw them,” I said. “You saw the shooter, the car, you got a good look. You had time, and you didn’t take a shot. You ran into that elevator and left them here to die. What the fuck is wrong with you?” I slammed the clip back into the gun and dropped it on the floor.
“I know you’re upset, so I will forgive you that tone, but only once. Now suck it up and act professionally. I handled it by the book. Officer safety is paramount, and I took the necessary steps to ensure mine so I could coordinate a response. You disobeyed a direct order and damn near got yourself killed. Sergeant Cage witnessed that. Sergeant?” The inspector’s chest puffed out, his sense of command back as he turned the focus on me.
Carla looked at me as she spoke. “I saw an unarmed officer run into a gunfight to protect his fallen partner and his brother. Bravest thing I’ve ever seen.” I saw tears on her cheeks. Her hands shook at her sides.
“That’s the kind of cowboy bullshit we don’t need or want,” said MacIntosh. “Discipline is the key in these situations. We have procedures, and we must adhere to them, damn it. For Christ’s sake, Neville, you’re not in some criminal gang anymore. You have to act like a professional at all times. You failed to meet that standard here. By a long shot.” He looked at the two Mounties to emphasize the point. Neither looked at him.
I did look at him but said nothing. What could I say? The two uniforms looked at Carla and then at me. The heavyset guy nodded when he caught my eye. Every uniform on shift tonight would hear her version, not his. It was bullshit. I didn’t do a damn thing that mattered. I ran through an empty garage when the fight was over. Accomplished nothing, saved no one. My brother was dead, and my partner was chasing him.
“Neville, we are the best police force in the world. As such, we have the best training.” MacIntosh pointed to the RCMP uniforms. “At times like this, you must revert to that training. I know you’re not a member. But still, the regional force has improved its standards, and you did not meet them here.” That holier-than-thou Mountie bullshit again. “I can only hope you didn’t destroy any trace while you traipsed around out here.”
He was in full command now, all his confidence back. He’d turned his cowardice into proper procedure and my feeble attempt into substandard policing. Fine, I felt two grades below substandard.
“Sergeant Cage, let’s snap into it here,” MacIntosh said. “Seal off the scene for your team. We’ll catch these guys, and when we do, what you find here will put the nails in their coffins. If you screwed up that evidence, Neville, it’s all on you.”
He locked eyes with me. What I saw was hate, pure and simple. I wanted to think it was fear, but it wasn’t. It was hate, fuelled by an overpowering sense of superiority. I wasn’t good enough to make the grade on his beloved force, and that meant not good enough to be called a cop. At the moment, I didn’t care; maybe he was right. Why the hell did I ever become a fucking cop? If I had stayed in the club, Greg never would have become a police chaplain, and
I never would have met Blair. I sure as shit would never be taking orders from some asshole in a white shirt. Guy like MacIntosh would have been buried before he got any rank in a club. Fuck, guy like MacIntosh would never make the grade in any real club.
I watched the ambulance doors close. One paramedic stayed inside with Blair, the other ran around and jumped in behind the wheel. The big truck was moving before his door was shut. Another team of paramedics stood beside a second ambulance. They were looking at Greg’s body, wanting to take him away but knowing he was evidence now and had to remain where I’d left him. I looked back at the inspector, his glare still directed my way, a smile on his face now. My right hand seemed to enter the scene on its own. I watched it connect with his chin. A clean shot but a cheap one. MacIntosh dropped. It should have felt good. It didn’t.
The highway between Bedford and Halifax was filled with lights, sounds, and sensations, familiar and surreal. I rode hard, grateful I had the bike. I needed the solitude. I kept seeing Greg’s open chest and my hands inside looking for life, finding none. Images blurred in my mind. Pulling the crucifix from Ronald, pulling it from Greg. Blood. More blood. MacIntosh falling. Ropes in the air, coming down fast. Pain. I remembered how, after the worst beatings in Pakistan, my mind would somehow leave my body, and nothing would feel real anymore. I had that feeling now, like everyone else knew what was happening, but I was lost, drifting.
The scene inside the hospital didn’t help. I leaned against a wall and watched the chaos. Cops filled the corridor and the tiny waiting room beside the intensive-care unit. Most wore street clothes. Many were from the major-crime team, others off-duty patrol officers who had come from home after learning one of their own was down. No one approached me. Word of my attack on the inspector had travelled fast, and none of these cops was about to buddy up to me. Fuck them all. The only good cop in the building was in surgery. The hospital was in lockdown mode, standard after a shooting. Shooters have followed their victims here to finish the job. Security guards wearing bulletproof vests stood outside the intensive-care unit, others in the parking lot. Vests but no weapons. Targets. The badges clipped to the belts in the hallway meant they weren’t needed. Sue Christmas ran down the hall toward me. She grabbed me and looked up with terror in her eyes. Her pain pulled me back.
“How is he? What happened?” She looked at the blood on my hands, my shirt, my face. “My God, are you hurt, too?”
“It’s not mine. It’s Greg, he’s…” I couldn’t finish.
“He’s what? Is he hurt, too? How can that be? God, Cam, talk to me.”
“He’s dead, Greg’s dead.” I heard the words come out, couldn’t really believe them. “Blair’s going to be okay, Sue. I’m sure of it. He was wearing his vest.”
“Oh my God. He didn’t want to wear it. I made him. For his ribs. I told him it would help.”
“Well, you saved his life. Most of the bullets hit the vest. One went through his neck though, and he was hit in the leg, too. He lost a lot of blood, but he’s going to make it. I know it.” I needed her to believe it. I needed to believe it.
She raised her hand to her mouth and looked at me. The sparkle that normally danced in those eyes was gone. It was the moment every cop’s wife dreads, not a fear or a nightmare now. It was real. Her shoulder-length brown hair framed the soft features of her face. She looked like an angel, and my heart ached for her. I’d kill for her, and now I couldn’t help her when she needed it most. I pulled her into my arms and held her. It was all I had.
Chief Simon Davis stepped off the elevator. Superintendent Lynn Surette was with him. The two highest-ranking police officers in metro were a contrast in styles. She had close-cropped black hair, a stern face, and ramrod posture. Her dress uniform was creased and spotless. The gold buttons gleamed on the front of her tunic, the braids on her shoulders just as bright. He was wearing blue jeans and a pullover sweater. It hung on him loosely. He stood a head above her, his shoulders twice as broad. The ball cap on his head showed a police crest, the only hint that he might be a cop. They headed toward us, but stopped as Inspector MacIntosh stepped out of the waiting room to intercept them. The chief locked eyes with me for a moment. His nod was all compassion. I knew that was about to change.
A nurse stepped out of the glass doors from the ICU. She looked at Sue and stopped.
“Are you Mrs. Christmas?” Her voice was soft, caring.
“Yes, how is he?” Sue stepped away from me.
“He is out of surgery. He made it through okay. They stopped all the bleeding. Now, we wait. He will stay in recovery upstairs for now. They will bring him here to ICU in an hour or so.” She looked at the crowded hallway. “I can take you inside the unit now. It is quieter, and you can wait with us. The doctor will be down to speak with you in a moment.”
She led Sue back through the glass doors. I wanted to follow, to help her, but there was nothing I could do. I had to face the music. Chief Davis walked up as Sue disappeared behind the frosted glass.
“What’s the word?” the chief asked.
“He’s out of surgery now. Looks like he’ll make it.”
“What the hell happened?”
“Don’t know, Chief. This makes no sense. We thought Bobby Simms or maybe Samuel Gardner might be good for the murders. But this, neither of them could do something like this.” I said. “Last night, Blair got into a scrap at The Fog Bank when he went to question a stripper. Her name was in Gardner’s day planner, or we think it was her name.”
“A stripper. How does that play?”
“I don’t think it does. We both saw it as a long shot. Maybe this is in retaliation for the fight and has nothing to do with the murders. I can chase that down.”
He put his hand on my shoulder, shaking his head.
“No, no, Cam, you can’t.” I don’t think I’d ever heard him use my name, always rank. “I’m sorry about Father Greg and I know you want to avenge that. You’re too close now.”
“Look, Chief, we both know I can get information that no one else can get near. The Fog Bank is a Stallion club.”
“Doesn’t matter. They won’t have it. I have to suspend you.” He nodded his head toward Inspector MacIntosh and Superintendent Surette. They were watching us. “You slugged him, Cam. I can’t let you walk out of here with that badge. Every uniform out there tonight is talking about two things. The shooting and the blue-stripe constable who dropped the yellow-stripe inspector. I can’t let that sit, and you know it.”
“Uniform stripes don’t mean shit out there, Chief. Too bad they mean so much in here.”
I looked past him to the two senior Mounties.
“Well, it matters more than you know. You have to sit this thing out and let me smooth it over with them.”
No way I was sitting on any sideline.
“Not going to happen, Chief. You know that.”
“It has to, Detective Constable Neville.” Being official now. “This is bigger than you. Bigger than Father Greg or Blair. We have a unique policing partnership here, but it’s fragile, and you just put it in jeopardy. This model is being looked at nationally now. It is a critical time. I’m sorry. I need to take that badge.”
I looked at the chief. I respected him. He’d bent the rules to get me on the force. Still, he was a bureaucrat first and a cop second. Had to be that way, I guess. Well, fuck that. Nothing slides, not a fucking thing. I was wearing my badge on a chain around my neck. I pulled it off and tossed it to him. Inspector MacIntosh ducked back inside the waiting room as I walked past.
I couldn’t find my bike in the hospital lot. Couldn’t remember parking it. A security guard approached me cautiously, saw the blood, and relaxed. Guess it looked like I belonged. He helped me find the bike, and I headed for the clubhouse. I’d find answers there. I still didn’t think the stripper was connected to the Sandy Gardner murder, but I didn’t care who had killed Gardn
er or why anymore. I needed to know if tonight’s shooting was connected to Blair’s fight at The Bank. The clubhouse held the answer. I thought about Greg as I rode from the hospital to the North End. Thought about his limp body. Thought about Blair and Sue. Sometimes when you ride, the wind pulls tears from your eyes. You get used to riding like that.
Ronald’s ghost rode with me. It wasn’t the first time. His limp body was still confused with Greg’s in my mind. Ronald was my brother over there. I remembered his last words, calling me an asshole with a hero complex. Laughing it off, flashing me the finger and then bleeding to death because of me.
I remembered hiking through the mountains, dragging those chains and feeling dead inside after my escape. I wore his cross then, heard his voice. I wished he’d talk to me now. That same blood-covered crucifix was in my pocket, and I felt dead again. My decision to stay on that ridge got Ronald killed, and I live with it every day. Was I responsible for getting Greg killed? Could I live with that? What had I missed? Did I set it all in motion?
I thought about Bobby. Simms could have been gunning for me and hit Greg by mistake. I pissed him off, pushed him hard to see if he would break. Did he? Could he have been the trigger man? Made more sense than a Stallion connection. I’d find Bobby. He’d talk. I rolled to a stop at the gates. A prospect stepped out of the shadows. He knew me, nodded, and slid the gate open. I rode inside and backed into a spot at the end of the line of Stallion bikes.
I could smell the pot before I even made it to the door. Inside the smoke was like a morning fog. I saw Gunner sitting with Snake and lifted my hand as he started to get up. Stopped him. Everyone in the bar was looking at me. I looked at my hands. They were shaking. They were covered in blood. I was covered in blood. Jimmy Williams stood behind the bar, he was bloody, too. His face was cut below his left eye. Looked like there’d been a little prospect training going on. I fought the urge to go break his neck. Snake would not allow it. I needed Snake now more than ever. If the Stallion was behind the shooting, I could not approach him as a cop. If the Stallion was not behind the killing, I needed him even more.
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