Bulletproof Badge

by Angi Morgan

  “What if they’re watching?”

  “I can sneak in the back. My bike will fit through the door on the side of the garage. You can stay about twelve blocks away. There’s a supermarket by the bus stop.”

  “Garrison?” She was squeezing his hand this time. “I’m really afraid. Are you sure this is the right thing?”

  “We don’t have a choice,” he whispered.

  The bus was about two blocks away. He took a couple of steps, but she stopped dead in her tracks.

  “What did you see when you opened that file? There were names, but what frightened you?”

  He smiled. Yeah, this time it was calculated. She’d called him on it countless times in the past three days. This time she needed him to charm her. He needed her to believe that everything would be okay.

  “Motive. Proof. Enough to clear our names, get you some real protection at a safe house and prosecute Paul Tenoreno and a lot of other people.”

  “How on earth did you ever think you were a good liar?” She laughed and pulled him forward. “Whatever is on that list and has you this motivated scares the living daylights out of me. I trust you, Garrison. You stay confident and cocky. It makes me feel safer.”

  She wouldn’t feel safe at all if she knew he’d read a whole lot of dollar signs next to the name of the deputy first assistant attorney general of Texas. Walking into a police station was a death sentence for them.

  Trust no one else. No police. No state trooper. No elected official. He hated to add Rangers headquarters to the list, but he did. He could trust two people with this information. Two rangers.

  The entire bus ride had him looking over his shoulder, watching to see if any cars were trailing them. But no one was there. If the Texas mafia knew where they were, they wouldn’t be riding on a city bus.

  “I’ll meet you in the fruit section in one hour. Got it?” He reluctantly left Kenderly at the store next to the market. He looked backward one time, saw the fear in her eyes and ran the blocks to the house, cutting through a few yards without back fences.

  He was breathing hard and watched the light blue house belonging to his aunt. He’d told everybody he was staying here to get the yard ready for the next college student. The bushes were grown up, and he hadn’t realized just how difficult it was to see into the yard or along the side of the house.

  No cars parked on the street with an unknown person sitting there. No one walking the sidewalk. It was a quiet Sunday evening. Quiet, and the coast seemed clear for stealing his motorcycle from a crime scene.

  The yellow tape was across the doors to the bullet-ridden house and garage. He hopped over the back fence and took his keys out. No alarms sounded. No police lights flashed. Maybe he was in the clear. Maybe something would go right, and he could get Kenderly to safety.

  Darkness surrounded him. He let his eyes adjust, and the open door to the yard let in enough light to see. That feeling of something wrong crept up the back of his neck. He knew it before he saw it.

  The beam was a motion detector. He’d seen a couple before. The police wouldn’t have these resources. One guess who did. The murdering son of a bitch was as smart as he was big. He was probably nearby. Probably had a tracer on the bike. Would be on him as soon as he turned the corner.

  He had to think. If it was just him, he’d face this guy without worrying about the consequences. But it wasn’t him. The only thing on his mind was Kenderly. Her beautiful face lying lifeless like Isabella and Trinity made bile rise in his throat.

  She’d be waiting on him. Pretending to look at veggies and fruit. Where would she go if he didn’t get back to her?

  “Dammit!” He fished the flash drive from deep in his pocket. He had to hide it. Had to keep it safe as much or more than either of them.

  Aunt Brenda had cases of water stacked in the back. He slit the top plastic and emptied a bottle from the middle. It was a good hiding place, but he needed a plastic bag to keep the drive dry.

  Drawers. Garden supplies. Plastic wrap.

  The drive was secure as he switched the top case of water to the middle. If they were caught he’d know where it was. Staying alive to tell someone was his next goal.

  Next split decision. Pick up Kenderly before she freaked and called the police. If the deputy first assistant AG was on the take, then the responding officers would be, too.

  The sound of squealing tires got his attention. He straddled his bike, started the engine and pushed the door opener. The drive was clear. He had twenty feet of driveway to clear before he could cut across the front lawn.

  He ducked his head even with the bike handles, not waiting for the door to open completely. Headlights on the street. Five feet till the lawn. He barely heard the gunfire before he fishtailed into the grass. He felt the second shot rip through his arm as he zigzagged into the street. The handgun at his back was useless. He couldn’t fire. He needed both hands and was losing a bit of strength in his left. He had to shake this guy.

  The yards without fences!

  It would be tough but worth it.

  After the first yard taken, he could at least drive in a straight line in the alley. If he’d been staking the scene, he would have placed a tracking device on his bike. If they had, he’d cross that giant obstacle when he got to the store. Find the device or ditch the motorcycle after all.

  Second yard and back on the street. He blasted through the stop sign. Gunned the bike hoping this street would be as deserted as the rest. He passed the street for the store, seeing if he was followed. High beam headlights turned behind him. He watched for another house without a fence.

  Took the turn. Back in the alley he darted forward, then spun to a stop and U-turned back to the same house. That maneuver might gain him an extra minute. He went back through the yard, passed somebody coming out the back door shaking his fist, turned right and hit the yard of another fenceless house in the direction of the store.

  No sign of the murderer’s car. He circled the block.

  Two more streets, and he was in the shopping center. He parked across the street, giving his bike the once-over and locating the tracker. He’d seen enough movies to know he needed to keep it moving, so the piece of slime following him would be following someone else.

  Spinning through the parking lot, he tossed the device into the back end of a pickup heading the opposite direction. He glanced at his watch. Late and light-headed, he sped to the back entrance of the market. There wasn’t a way to hide the red stain on his arm, or the trail of blood running down it.

  Might be a graze, but it still burned and bled like the devil. He needed his shirt, but not the bottom of it. He pulled it over his head, his left arm demanding a little more care now that he was off the bike and thinking about it.

  Damn, the wound stung. Throbbed. Ached.

  He ripped at the seam with his teeth. He was either weak from the shock of being shot, or T-shirts weren’t as easy to rip apart as on TV. He found a nail close to the trash and finally got a strip of cotton. He tied it around his arm after wiping at the blood. Stained looked a lot better than dripping.

  Then he ran—not as fast as he had after dropping his witness off—but he ran.

  Veggies. Nothing visible from the front of the store, so he pushed his feet to the left. He darted in between carts and old gray-haired ladies begging forgiveness as she set them from his path. A stack of potatoes came into view. Lettuce, tomatoes, onions, but no Kenderly.

  Quickly searching each row, he ran the back aisle of the store again. Swallowing the fear that threatened to stop him.

  Then he saw her.

  Grocery cart overflowing. Head down reading the label on a can of something. She put it back on the shelf and saw him. He looked past her to the opposite end.

  The murderer was steps behind her.

  “Run!” he shouted
and pulled Oaks’s weapon from his waist. He couldn’t pull the trigger here, but the bastard now knew he was armed.

  Kenderly’s feet slipped a little, she started to fall, caught herself on the shelf and knocked cans to the floor. She made it to his side, steering clear of the gun. He pushed her behind the end of the aisle. Tenoreno’s man disappeared.

  “They found us?”

  It was a rhetorical question, not needing an answer.

  “Back door, sweetheart.”

  A decade of law enforcement and a lifetime of pretending to be the toughest kid around kept him calm. The wound to his arm slowed him. Kenderly’s presence made him more cautious. He directed her to behind the refrigerated food displays and pointed toward an employees-only door.

  Having his weapon drawn caused civilians to run in the opposite direction. After a few screams from those gray-haired ladies, Kenderly pushed through the swinging doors just as the intercom buzzed to life.

  “Hey, Texas Ranger,” a raspy bass voice said.

  He jerked Kenderly to him and put his back to the wall, searching for a path outside. An exit sign caught his eye, and he pointed to it, giving her shoulder a nudge.

  “I’m not leaving without you.”

  “You have to, babe. It’s the only way. Get going and call Jesse for help.”

  “Garrison, you don’t understand.”

  “You have to run. Go. I’ll keep him here long enough for you to get—”

  “I can’t drive a motorcycle!”

  “Texas Ranger dude, I know you’re still in the store. I also know you don’t want anyone to get hurt. If you give yourself up, I’ll let these nice people at the front door leave.”

  “Dammit.”

  “I’ll count to ten.”

  The countdown wasn’t slow. He had a few seconds to make a decision. “All right!” he shouted through the door. “I’m coming out.”

  “I want the pretty lady, too.”

  “Hide, Kenderly. There’s gotta be an office back here. Find it. Lock the door and hide. Call Jesse,” he whispered. “Trust no one but him.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Two...”

  “Don’t hurt anyone,” Garrison shouted again. “We’re coming.” He turned back to Kenderly. “The drive is in the water at the house.”

  “You can’t go out there. He’ll kill you.” She grabbed his arm and looked at the makeshift bandage. “God, are you shot? When did he shoot you? Oh my God.”

  He kissed her. As passionately as he could get during a situation like that, pressing the gun into her hands. Then he pushed through the swinging doors.

  “Don’t shoot.”

  “Now, buddy, what makes you think I won’t?” the voice asked, still on the intercom. “You’ve seen me work.”

  Garrison ran down the aisle to the front. The intercom was still on. Screams echoed through the store.

  A lone shot.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Kenderly stared at the gun in her hands. She jumped with the firing of a single shot and dropped the weapon. She knelt to the floor and couldn’t get back up.

  Garrison? Was he dead?

  “Don’t shoot.”

  At the sound of his voice, relief shot through her as fast as any bullet. Air rushed back into her lungs. She was weak at the thought of him lying on the cold linoleum floor. It seemed like an eternity and had only been a split second.

  “Ranger Travis, words aren’t necessary,” the intercom voice said. His lips must have been too close to the microphone. He sounded as distorted as his mind must have been.

  “Why don’t you show your face, you ugly son—”

  Garrison’s voice sounded strained as he shouted. No more shots. No more screams. She once again was cradling the gun he’d handed her...this time tight between her breasts. She couldn’t stay here. Where could she hide?

  “Miss Tyler,” the voice taunted, close to the microphone like a child playing, “it’s no use hiding. You can’t get away. Come on out, unless you want me to hurt some of these people, or I could just hurt your friend over and over. You know what will eventually happen.”

  If she went out there, no one would ever find the flash drive. But if she were honest with herself, she didn’t hold out much hope that she could resist this killer’s threats. How could she live with herself, knowing she’d caused anyone’s death?

  She ran for the phone inside the office, locking the door behind her. The number she’d memorized went to voice mail. “Jesse, this is Mr. Travis’s dog walker. If you’re in Austin, there are special instructions with the water.”

  “Where are you, my little pretty lady?” the voice singsonged over the intercom.

  She couldn’t leave Garrison. He had gone out there to save innocent customers, but he would kill her himself if she walked out front and just gave up.

  “This is 911. Please, state your emergency.”

  “I’m at the market on Forty-First Street. Someone has a gun and is threatening to kill everybody.”

  “I need you to stay on the line, ma’am. Can you do that?”

  The doorknob rattled. The door shook.

  “Please, let me in. Oh God, please, don’t leave me out here to die. He’s shooting people.” A customer in a checkered shirt pounded with his palm on the door’s glass. “Open up.”

  It wasn’t the man chasing them. This man was slender, a slighter build, and his eyes were totally different. He looked as frightened as her.

  “Hold on, I need to let this customer inside.” With shaking hands, she left the receiver off the hook and unlocked the door. The man burst through, locking the door behind him. He threw his hands in the air when he turned and saw her gun.

  “Oh no, wait.” She set the gun on the desk, anxious to get back to the phone call. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “What a shame.” He swiped the gun, tossed it to his other hand, like someone used to handling a weapon, and pointed it at her chest.

  Isabella’s murderer had a partner. Big surprise. But the cops should be on their way. The 911 operator was listening.

  “So there are two of Tenoreno’s men here with guns,” she said for the operator’s benefit. “Please, don’t hurt the innocent people out there shopping.”

  “They want you alive. So no trouble, or the boyfriend gets it first. Let’s go.” He jerked the barrel toward the door and clicked a button on his cell. “Got her. Back. Got it.”

  He shoved her between her shoulders toward the door that should have taken her to safety. She wanted to slow down, but he didn’t allow it. “Where’s Garrison? What are you going to do with us?”

  The question she wanted answered at any minute was what are you going to do when the police arrive? She searched reflections in windows...no flashing lights. She’d put in the call. They should be there any minute.

  The black car that had followed them the day before was parked in a fire lane on the vacant side of the building. Her feet crunched broken glass. She took a real look at her surroundings.

  The neighborhood wasn’t as nice as she’d first assumed. Half of the parking lot lights around her were broken or out. It was doubtful the security cameras still worked. Less doubtful that anyone would help her.

  She was alone.

  Uncertainty consumed her. She didn’t want to die. Especially not today. She’d just begun to live. Her knees grew weak. The man shoved her again. Apparently she’d stopped next to the Dumpster for a convenient shot to the back of her head.

  “Remember what I said about cooperating. Not a peep. You got it?”

  She nodded as she walked next to the dimly lit car. So they must really want her alive. At least for now. “Where’s Garrison?”

  He didn’t have to answer.

 
; She recognized the ski mask immediately. He had the same build, the same walk and the same confidence as the man who’d shot Isabella. Garrison walked in front of him with his hands behind his head. Once they were side by side, she saw the gun in the murderer’s grip.

  “You okay?”

  She nodded without moving too much, completely unable to push a yes through her lips. She hadn’t ever been this frightened. It was debilitating and far worse than escaping over the balcony on Friday.

  This time she had a chance to contemplate what might happen. They handcuffed Garrison and shoved him face-first on to the back of the car.

  Then the smaller man who had tricked his way into the office began patting her down. His hands took in every contour of her body. Every pocket, the inside of her bra. Garrison struggled to stand up, and the big man shoved his cheek against the trunk, lifting his wrists higher into the air, pinning him there.

  “What the hell are you looking for?” Garrison said.

  The man was about to descend into the front of her jeans when the murderer who killed Isabella waved him to a stop. They stood there, him behind her, arm wrapped around her waist, his fingers at the top of her jeans about to violate her.

  Dim light or not, there was enough to see the sizzling hatred in Garrison’s eyes as he pushed back again and again. The makeshift bandage slipped from his strong arm. His wound, raw and visible, bled and dripped to the dusty metallic paint.

  “That isn’t necessary,” he gritted and stood.

  “Please, stop. He’s hurt.”

  “Shut up,” the checkered-shirt jerk who’d fooled her said. He continued his search on the outside of her jeans.

  It was humiliating, but it had almost been so much worse. As it was, tears sprang from her eyes and blurred her vision. She had no weapon for him to confiscate, or she would have used it on him inside the market. He nodded to the big man.

  “It’s going to be okay. No matter what—” Garrison tried to reassure her and received a blow to his temple with the man’s gun.