The Switch

by Jc Emery

  “Hey! You’ve got a problem—you get an attitude, you get it with me. Leave her the fuck alone.”

  Chase’s voice is raspy and sounds like it’s been dragged over gravel. I’m not entirely sure if this is as angry as he can possibly be, though I do know if it’s not, then I have no desire to see how angry Chase can get. Even though I reckon it takes a lot to really piss him off, I have no doubt the man before him has done that very thing. I can only hope that Chase can keep his cool, Victor can see reason, and Victor’s lackey doesn’t cause me more problems—or worse, cost Becca her life.

  A standoff ensues.

  Victor appears in the nearest hallway, a short shadow covering his tracks. In his right hand is the gun, his left hand behind him. Faint pleas for help, or even prayers for mercy, echo in the hole. I would know the sounds of those sniffles anywhere—it is Becca. As Victor walks beneath the overhead lighting, I can clearly see his face. His jaw is set, and his eyes are void of any compassion, love, or concern. Not that I would say our relationship ever had any love in it.

  “You don’t waste any time, do you, Shelby?”

  I hear something just barely come from Chase. It sounds strangled, angry. Feral even. From far across the warehouse, I don’t think Victor can feel the angry vibes rolling off Chase’s shoulders. It’s just as well. I’d rather not get into pissing contest right here.

  “Save it, Victor,” I say, about to go off on him. Victor never had a problem with how fast I moved when it involved him, but now he sure does. His ego has been bruised, and he is doing the only thing he can to save face—being the Victor Abraham who does business in warehouses, under the watchful eye of his lackeys, his own turf. It’s not really fair, but fair hardly matters to a man like Victor. He’s definitely the kind of guy who doesn’t care how you play the game, just that he’s the one who ends up winning. The term morally bankrupt comes to mind. But then, I try not to go around labeling others. People who live in glass houses . . .

  “Shelby?”

  Becca’s voice trembles in fear as she moves into my line of sight, just off to Victor’s side. I can’t see her face, but she’s bent over, and by how she wraps her arms around her torso, I can tell how difficult this is on her. I don’t know yet if she’s hurt.

  My heart breaks into a million little pieces. I never wanted to involve her, never imagined Victor would involve her—or rather, I never imagined Victor’s lackeys would be so stupid that they would take the wrong girl. Then again, I never imagined a breakup could end this poorly.

  Seeing Becca for the first time since the morning she was taken sends my stomach roiling. My eyes fill with unshed tears, and I stop thinking of myself for once. Becca has always been the good one of the two of us, never stepping more than a toe out of line. I was always the one who dragged her to parties in high school and then had to beg her older brother to come pick us up when we were too drunk to drive home or even to find a decent ride. She is the one who went right into the nursing program after high school, never looking for something easier or something better. She’s always been happy to work for what she gets, even if that means getting very little. But no, that’s never been me. I always wanted more, still want more. And I never think, or rarely think, about how my actions will affect others. And this situation is proof positive of that fact.

  I rush toward Vic but only get a few feet. Before I can blink, he pulls out a gun and aims it at my head. The second time today I’ve had a gun to my head. And the second time today that it’s been Victor’s fault. I stop in my tracks and the world begins to play out in slow motion.

  Behind me, I hear the cocking of a gun. In my head I’m doing some kind of awesome maneuver that blocks Victor from seeing the gun I know Chase has pulled. Oh, and I’m totally bulletproof. Unfortunately, in the real world, I’m not doing anything nearly as awesome. I’m standing here chanting no repeatedly in my head. Frozen.

  I hear footsteps from behind me. Chase walks up, the gun pointed at Victor’s head. His arm is steady, his breathing slow. But his jaw is locked, and the muscles in his thick neck are tight with the tension. I barely know him, but I already care about him, and there’s no mistaking how very bad this situation has become.

  “Behind me, Shelby. Now,” Chase practically barks at me.

  I look at him and then at Victor, who still has the gun at my head. To my surprise, Victor lowers the gun and smirks at Chase. He’s not surrendering—I know him well enough to know that. I back up and move behind Chase as Victor yanks Becca to his side and pushes the barrel of the gun into her temple. Instinctively I reach out and grip Chase’s waist. He barely reacts to my nervous pinch, not even a wince. If not for the ever so slight lean of his body toward mine, I wouldn’t think he’d even felt it.

  “You picked yourself a real hero, didn’t you?” Victor says.

  My eyes have welled with tears. I almost miss the footsteps as they approach. Nikolai is no more than a foot or two behind me, his gun pointed at Chase, no doubt.

  “I guess with an ass like yours, you can lead around any dick you like,” Victor says.

  CHAPTER 5

  Chase

  My name is Officer Chase Guilliot.

  THIS GUY IS a piece of work, a real prince charming. With every insult this asshole slings, Shelby’s grip on my side becomes a little tighter. I can feel her hand shake with what I assume is a mixture of fear and rage, but her grasp never falters. My side’s gone numb.

  “Put the gun down,” I say.

  “You’re not in a position to bargain with me. You have nothing I want,” he says.

  Shelby’s fingers dig into my flesh. He’s right. I don’t have the upper hand here. The girl, Becca, is crying. Tears stream down her face, and she has picked up a skipping rhythm when she breathes. If I don’t put down the gun, Shelby might have to watch her die. And it will be my fault.

  Slowly, I stretch my arms out at my sides and dangle the gun from my index finger. I bend at my knees and put the gun on the ground, then kick it toward Victor. It skids past him by barely a foot.

  “What is it you are going to do now, hero?” he says, jostling Becca and pushing the barrel of his gun even harder into the side of her head.

  I run through all of my possible options, of which there are few. I should have called for backup. I only hope this isn’t a mistake I’ll live to regret—assuming I live long enough to regret much of anything.

  Shelby’s death grip on my side intensifies. I hear her taking slow, steady breaths, forcing each ragged breath in and out. While standing here brainstorming, trying to figure out what to do next, it seems Shelby has already formulated a plan. She steps around me and sticks out her chin in a show strength.

  “Take me,” Shelby says, her voice breaking.

  I hear the words, but they don’t quite make sense in my head. Victor’s eyes leave mine and zero in on Shelby. I could’ve sworn it was impossible, that this guy could have held any affection for the woman at my side. But it seems he has. His eyes soften for only a moment before turning hard again, and his wrist curls in toward himself in a beckoning motion. I reach my hand out to stop her, but I’m too late. She’s fast, that one. I want to tell her this is a bad idea. I want to tell her that she doesn’t have to do this and get her out of here safely. But I don’t do any of those things, because they would all be lies.

  Nikolai walks around me, his attention focused on me. Smart. He catches up to Shelby in no time. Victor motions to Nikolai, who pushes his gun to the side of her arm. Her face is void of any emotion, like she always expected this is how things would turn out. It makes me wonder how she got here.

  With Shelby secure, Victor hands his gun to Nikolai. I clench and unclench my fists at my sides. I am unarmed, unprepared, and outmatched. Out of his pocket, Victor pulls the shiny hunting knife. The blade must be at least six inches long. Becca, who I have nearly forgotten about, wails loudly. Chaos breaks out.

  Nikolai slips Victor’s gun into the waistband of his jeans as Shelby stru
ggles to save her friend. I stand motionless, afraid to make matters worse. Victor brings the knife up to Becca’s throat, dragging it along her skin with the softness of a feather. Her thin frame trembles beneath the trail of the knife. I push down the encroaching fear and force myself to take stock of situation. I’m fresh out of the Academy—I should at least be able to remember something.

  “You hurt me, Shelby. Bringing him here. I could hurt you . . . but I want to keep you pretty.”

  With that, he presses the blade into Becca’s cheek. A thin stream of bright red blood slides down her creamy skin. I take a step forward. Nikolai notices immediately, shooting me a glare. He redirects his gun toward me. I know he’ll shoot me, but maybe I have one thing that can save me—or at least distract them long enough that I can save the girls.

  Shelby eyes me, aware of my every move. I divert my attention to her. She squints at me and then tightens and nods her jaw in several small motions. She’s trying to tell me something, but I can’t quite figure out what it is.

  I keep my face straight, but it’s my eyes that give me away. My mother always says I can never lie to her because all she has to do is look at my eyes to see exactly what’s in my heart.

  Unfortunately, Nikolai picks up on this rather quickly. He looks from me to Shelby, but it’s all the time she needs. She comes around his side, moving quicker than I could’ve imagined, and stands before him. It’s just a moment, a fraction of a second really, and her thin little knee flies out to hit him in the crotch. He bends over, a loud groan escaping. Despite his pain, his gun is still pointed forward.

  Victor stands, now without a gun, but he still has Becca and, of course, the knife. I have to act.

  I take off in a sprint and reach Nikolai before he can react. I reach him just in time, my fist slamming into the center of his nose, sending him reeling backward. I grab his arm with the gun and twist it away from his body until his bones nearly crack under the effort. The click, click, pop makes my skin crawl. The gun drops to the concrete floor and skids just an inch. Beside me, creating a wider distance, Becca’s cries fill the entire warehouse. Victor’s dragging her away, the knife still on her face, blood flowing down freely.

  I grab Shelby’s gun from Nikolai’s waistband and, wasting no time, slam it into the side of his head, just far enough away from his temple to avoid killing him. He’s out.

  I turn around just in time to see Shelby running toward Victor, Nikaolai’s discarded gun in her hand. The knife Victor is holding slowly slices into the tender flesh of Becca’s arm. I rush up behind her as she approaches Victor. She’s hesitant to shoot, doesn’t have it in her. Not that I’m surprised. She couldn’t shoot me, either.

  “Put down the knife, Victor,” I yell. I have one final trick up my sleeve. The truth. “My name is Officer Chase Guilliot with the New Orleans Police Department. Put down the knife, Victor.”

  He pauses, Becca cries louder, and Shelby lunges at Victor. I watch in near horror as Victor lowers the knife and places it between himself and Shelby. He flings Becca aside and slashes the knife in front of him in an effort to stop Shelby’s advance. She pulls back on the trigger, but it makes a clicking sound. The safety is on. Shit.

  I fire a warning shot above Victor’s head. He looks over his shoulder and backs up. Shelby places herself between Becca and Victor. Her hands are shaking. I rush up as quickly as I can, but it’s too late.

  Victor swings out and jabs the knife into Shelby’s outer thigh. She cries out and swings the gun at him blindly.

  My heart stalls. I fire the gun in pursuit of Victor, fearing the worst for both Shelby and Becca, who is in the corner now. Victor rushes to the corner and grabs Becca. I’m torn—where do I go, who do I help? Becca or Shelby. Becca or Shelby.

  I bend down at Shelby’s side and eye her wound. Blood is slowing streaming from the puncture wound. It’s deep, but it looks like the knife missed any major arteries. Immediately, I put my hand over her wound and apply pressure. Her breathing is shallow and her eyes are unfocused. I look up and see Victor dragging Becca away, but I can’t bring myself to leave Shelby’s side.

  I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and call the sarge. My hands shake as I bring the phone up to my ear.

  “You find out about the girl, Guilliot?” he asks.

  I take a deep breath, blow it out, and then tell him—in short—what the fuck just happened. Because really, I’m not even sure I know what the fuck just happened.

  “Shit. You ID’d yourself?”

  I nod my head, forgetting he can’t see me. Finally, a heartbeat too late, I mumble my confirmation.

  “You just made yourself a target, son.”

  Shelby’s eyes flutter closed and her breathing slacks. Terror rises in my chest.

  “Sarg, Shelby’s been stabbed. I have to get her to the hospital.”

  “Make it a hospital out of town. You take her in town and you’re looking at a lot of questions and involving a lot of brothers in blue, some we may not know which side they’re on. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yeah,” I say and hit the end button on the screen.

  I shove the phone in my pocket and scoop Shelby up as gently as I can. I remember that I’m supposed to apply pressure to an open wound for it to stop bleeding, so I make sure her knife wound presses against my abdomen. She doesn’t respond, not even a flinch, which makes me nervous. I glance at Nikolai, passed out cold on the floor, and then carry Shelby out of the warehouse.

  It’s late afternoon, and the burning summer sun is in full effect. I’m momentarily blinded by the brightness and the all-consuming heat. I walk quickly, ignoring the stares of tourists and the annoyed locals. I fight off the urge to snap the heads of a few particularly disgruntled passersby. Shelby’s sprawled frame is taking up the entire width of the sidewalk, and the streets are crowded with parked cars. I make it to my truck—three blocks away—in record time.

  I struggle to pull my keys out of my pocket and unlock the truck. I’ve been considering an upgrade the last year or so, but with getting into the academy and not being sure if I’d have a job afterward, I haven’t wanted to risk being able to make the payments. Last weekend I made a trip to the Chevy dealership and nearly broke down, but I held off. Until this moment, I never gave much consideration to electronic key fobs. They always seemed like an unnecessary add-on, but now as I struggle to unlock my old, beat-up truck with its rusty keyhole, I see it in a different light. The woman in my arms hasn’t responded in the last five minutes. Every second counts.

  I should have just bought the fucking Silverado with the key fob and remote start.

  I slide Shelby into the passenger side and buckle her in. I hop in the driver’s side and eye her knife wound. She’s still dripping blood. Quickly, I pull my shirt over my head and wrap it around her upper thigh, hoping to stop her from losing any more blood. She has a thin frame, and I can’t imagine she can afford to lose much more.

  Barely taking the time to deal with my seat belt, I turn the ignition over and fly away from the curb, nearly slamming the old truck into a shiny new SUV.

  I speed out of the French Quarter and up to South Claiborne, hopping on I-10 heading eastbound. Just as we’re passing the 610 merger and about to make it into New Orleans East, Shelby stirs in her seat. Her grey eyes droop with exhaustion as she stares at me while I speed, frantic to get her help.

  “Where am I?” she asks, confused.

  “We’re in my truck, Shelby. I’m taking you to a hospital. Just hang in there.”

  Her eyes grow wide as she repositions herself in the seat and then lets out a hoarse, painful scream. A moment passes, and she looks down at her thigh wrapped in my shirt. Recognition dawns on her features as she sucks in a deep, ragged breath.

  “I was stabbed,” she says. Her voice is breathless, airy even. It’s not quite terror that fills her face, but something akin to it. Disbelief, perhaps. Settling back into her seat, her eyelids flutter in a state of argument. She’s fighting to
stay awake.

  “Stay with me, Shelby. I’m getting you to a hospital.”

  Her eyes fly open as she reaches over and grabs my right arm. I cast a glance at her. Now she looks terrified.

  “What’s wrong?”

  She chokes the words out. “No hospitals.”

  I shoot her a disbelieving look. She must be joking. She shakes her head and then slumps back against the seat in exhaustion. The blood loss coupled with the pain is doing a number on her, but she’s remaining surprisingly coherent for a person in her condition. Actually, I’m quite impressed with how she’s handling herself. She’s tough; I can’t doubt that.

  “The hospital will call a cop in for a stab wound. And you’re a cop. How are you going to explain what happened? What if the cop who shows up works for Victor?”

  I shake my head and fix her a hard glare. I care more about her safety than squaring off with a dirty cop.

  “Say you tell them what happened—you think they’re not going to demand you tell them where it happened? Say they check out the warehouse. Say you keep asking the wrong questions. Think about it.”

  Her voice carries a bit of a Midwestern accent to it the more she speaks. It seems that with her rising nerves, the slight twang and soft caress of her drawn out words turn choppier, shorter, and more pronounced. Shelby Connor might be a local, and hell, she might even be a native, but there is a part of her that is distinctively not a Louisianan. Unfortunately, she speaks the truth. I shift in my seat, feeling her gun in my waistband. I adjust it and keep driving over the twin span.

  “That piece isn’t registered,” she says. A slight sheen covers her face and neck. The sweat is likely from a fever. Shit. She needs a doctor.

  “You mean to tell me you’re carrying around an unregistered firearm?”