Justice Served

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Justice Served Page 30

by Radclyffe


  She heard what sounded like a string of firecrackers on the Fourth of July at the same time as the first bullet struck. The impact knocked her back and she bounced off the opposite wall, lost her footing, and went down. She tried to raise her gun, but her right arm was numb. He was coming, the submachine gun pointed at her head.

  Catherine, I’m sorry.

  She heard the next shots too, but she didn’t feel a thing.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Tuesday, 3:23 a.m.

  The staccato sounds thundering in the air shook the walls and trembled through the floorboards.

  “What is it?” Irina’s voice rose in terror.

  The roar was replaced by ominous silence.

  “Stay here,” Mitchell said sharply as she spun toward the closed bedroom door. Just as she reached it, she heard shouts, the words indecipherable above the crack of splintering wood from somewhere close by. She debated drawing her weapon, but instinct warned her to wait. Only the immediate team members knew she was an undercover cop, and getting shot in a case of mistaken identity would be just plain dumb. She pulled open the door and stepped out into the hall, her hands at shoulder level.

  A chorus of voices screamed.

  “On the floor! On the floor! Hands above your head. Police.”

  When Mitchell caught sight of a uniformed officer swinging a weapon toward her chest, she dropped facedown, her arms spread-eagled at her sides. “Irina, get down,” she yelled toward the bedroom as someone roughly jerked her arms behind her back and cuffed them.

  “Got a gun here,” a female officer yelled, adrenaline making her voice sharp and brittle.

  “Give it here,” Watts said as the uniform pulled the revolver from Mitchell’s ankle holster.

  “Civilian in the bedroom,” a male voice called simultaneously.

  “You two! Get the civilian out of the building and call for more backup. Leave this one here for now.” As the two officers half dragged Irina out the front door, Watts knelt by Mitchell’s side. “You okay, kid?”

  “Yeah, but all hell’s breaking loose upstairs. Jesus.” Mitchell jerked her arms. “Get these off.”

  He keyed the cuffs and they both got to their feet. He handed Mitchell her weapon.

  “Here. Clear the downstairs.” He hesitated. “And get your badge on before some eager uniform plugs you full of holes.”

  “I’m coming up with you,” she insisted, digging deep into her front pocket for her badge.

  “You ain’t wearing a vest, and the Loo said to protect your cover. You stay down here for now.”

  “You might need me.”

  “I need you, I’ll holler.” He was already halfway to the stairs and didn’t look back.

  *

  The hall was filled with the stench of cordite, the pungent smell of blood, and the screams of petrified girls. Watts saw the body on the floor, and the air gushed out of his lungs as if he’d been punched in the gut. Oh, fuck me, I’m not seeing that.

  Sloan pivoted toward him, gun extended, and he yelled, “Police, police. Sloan, it’s Watts. Jesus.”

  “I can tell who the hell it is, for Christ’s sake.” Sloan’s eyes were hard dark stones. “Clear downstairs?”

  “Mitchell’s sweeping it.” Watts wasn’t looking at her, but at Rebecca slumped against the wall. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Call for the ambulance and a coroner.” Sloan holstered her weapon and spoke in Russian to the group of young women huddled together at the far end of the hall. Most were garbed only in flimsy sleepwear or T-shirts, all were barefoot, and all were clearly terrified. “They say there’s no one else up here,” she called back to Watts, “but I’ll do a room-to-room. You stay with Rebecca.”

  “Loo?” Watts knelt by Rebecca’s side. Her eyes were opened but glazed. Blood shimmered down her face and neck. “Take it easy, Lieutenant. The ambulance will be here in a minute.”

  He waited, holding his breath, but no answer came.

  *

  Catherine opened her eyes to darkness, her heart racing. The bedside clock read 4:26 a.m. She listened for the sound of the key in the lock, but there was only silence. She sat up and reached for her robe. The feeling of foreboding was oppressive and heavy, a weight in her chest that squeezed the air from her lungs and turned her limbs to stone. She forced herself from the bed and, after pulling the robe around her naked body, walked into the living room. When the knock came at the door she was not surprised. For seconds that felt like eternity, she did not move. In that instant she understood the true power of denial. If she did not open the door, she would not suffer the loss. If she did not hear the words, she would not experience the anguish. If she did not accept, it would not be true.

  The quiet knock repeated.

  Catherine steeled herself and opened the door. She hadn’t meant to speak, but when she saw Sloan’s face, she whispered an agonized no.

  “She’s hurt, but she’s alive. She’s at University ER. Ali Torveau’s with her.”

  “I’ll just be a minute,” Catherine said evenly, but when she turned, her legs were unsteady. She didn’t draw away when Sloan’s arm came around her waist.

  “It’s going to be all right,” Sloan murmured as she walked beside Catherine back to the bedroom.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  Sloan averted her gaze as Catherine, apparently oblivious to Sloan’s presence, removed her robe and stood naked in front of the closet. “We took the stash house. The guard was armed.”

  “Oh God.” Catherine closed her eyes and braced her hand against the closet door.

  “She was wearing a vest, Catherine,” Sloan hurried on. “I couldn’t tell for sure, but I don’t think she took a body shot.”

  “She would have called me if she could have. What aren’t you telling me?”

  “There’s a head wound. I’m not sure how serious.”

  Catherine gave a small cry before fighting back the terror that threatened to immobilize her. Blanking her mind, she slipped into a blouse and slacks, heedless of the fact that she wore no underwear. She stepped barefoot into low-heeled boots and pulled a blazer off the rack. She walked determinedly toward the front door with Sloan in her wake. “How could this happen? Who was with her?”

  “I was.”

  Catherine finally looked directly at Sloan. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And the…person who shot her?”

  “Dead.” Sloan pointed. “My car’s over here.”

  “You killed him?”

  “Yeah.” Sloan keyed the remote and opened the passenger door for Catherine.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  Sloan handed Catherine into the car, pulled the seat belt across Catherine’s chest, and hooked it. “I’m just fine.”

  *

  Catherine remembered nothing of the brief, rapid journey to the hospital. She was out of the car nearly before Sloan was able to halt the Porsche in front of the emergency room entrance. She rushed through the automatic double doors into the familiar chaos of the trauma admitting area. Tonight the waiting room was awash with a sea of blue. Tonight, the PPD had turned out en masse in support of one of their fallen brethren. That realization passed quickly through Catherine’s mind as she grasped the arm of the first passing nurse. “Lieutenant Frye. Wounded police officer. Where is she?”

  “Trauma One, I think.”

  “Thank you.”

  Sloan caught up to Catherine before she was halfway down an adjacent hallway that sported curtained exam rooms along both sides. “Maybe you should wait until I find Ali and get an update.”

  “No. I want to see her now.”

  “Okay,” Sloan relented. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

  Before she could turn back to the crowded waiting room in hopes of finding someone who would be willing to give her information, she heard the deep rumble of a familiar voice.

  “Dr. Rawlings,” Captain Henry said in a surprisingly soothing tone of v
oice. “I’m sorry to see you again under these circumstances. Can I get you anything?”

  “Where is she?” Catherine asked immediately.

  “Radiology, at least the last I heard.” He slid an arm beneath Catherine’s elbow. “No one is telling us very much, but the doctors listed her in critical, but stable, condition. Why don’t you come sit down in the family waiting room.”

  “She’s not in the operating room?”

  Henry looked perplexed. “No. No, they said something about a CAT scan.”

  Some of the terrible pressure around Catherine’s heart eased. If they hadn’t taken her directly to the operating room, then she couldn’t be in grave danger. She might be hurt, but she wasn’t dying. Please, let that be true.

  “I’m going down to radiology,” Catherine said.

  “Of course,” Henry replied.

  “You want me to come with you?” Sloan asked.

  Catherine shook her head. “No, I’m all right.” She smiled at Sloan. “Thank you for coming to get me. You should call Michael. She’ll be worried.” Suddenly, her expression changed to one of concern. “Everyone else is all right? Dellon? Watts?”

  Sloan nodded. “All okay.”

  “Good. Good. I have to go.”

  *

  The first thing she saw when she exited the stairwell was Watts pacing in a tight circle with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. Then she saw Mitchell, arms crossed, face pale, leaning with one shoulder against the wall next to the entrance to the radiology suite. Still in her tight black jeans and motorcycle jacket, with the curves of her face shadowed and dark, she looked like a dangerous young animal. But her eyes, when they met Catherine’s, were drenched with pain.

  When he saw her, Watts hurried forward. “I woulda come to get you, but Sloan wanted to.”

  “It’s all right,” Catherine said gently. “It’s good that you’re here watching over her.” Her gaze moved to the closed doors. “Is she still in there?”

  “Yeah, and they won’t tell us a goddamn thing.”

  “Well, they’ll tell me.” And then she pushed her way through the doors.

  She saw Ali Torveau immediately, leaning over the shoulder of an X-ray technician who was scrolling through a series of images on a computer screen.

  “Let me see the cranial cuts again,” the trauma surgeon instructed.

  “Ali,” Catherine said, “how is she?”

  Ali Torveau spun around in surprise. “Catherine. Lucky, I think. We’re not done with the head CT. When she came in, she was unconscious, but I’m not seeing anything other than some occipital swelling.”

  “Where was she…shot?” Catherine found it almost impossible to get the words out, but she forced herself. As she asked the questions that were so hard to even conceive, she glanced through the viewing window into the room where the huge machine even now shrouded her lover’s body.

  “The vest took the brunt of it,” Ali said. “We haven’t scanned her chest, and there was considerable bruising over the mid-thorax. She may have a fractured sternum, but my main concern is her head. She’s got a deep temporal scalp laceration that looks to be from a bullet wound.”

  For a few seconds, Catherine’s vision wavered and she pressed her fingertips to the countertop to steady herself. “Can I see her?”

  Ali pulled over a rolling chair and guided Catherine into it. “As soon as the scans are done. I need this information, Catherine.”

  “But she’s going to be all right?”

  “Let me finish my evaluation, and then we’ll talk, okay?” Ali’s tone was gentle but firm, and her attention was once again on the monitor. “Peter, run that series again, will you?”

  *

  Hand in hand, Michael and Sandy pushed through the crowd of police.

  “There!” Michael pointed, having caught sight of Sloan and Jasmine standing off to one side in the hallway by the elevators.

  Sloan looked in their direction at the sound of Michael’s voice, and some of the tension drained from her face. Both she and Jasmine hurried to meet them.

  “Hey,” Sloan murmured, kissing Michael quickly.

  Michael rested her palm on Sloan’s chest, her eyes roving over her lover’s body. “You’re all right?”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  Threading an arm around Sloan’s waist, Michael turned to Jasmine. “Sarah will be here any minute. I called her on the way over. She’s bringing a change of clothes in case you want them.”

  “At the moment, no one is paying any attention to me,” Jasmine replied. Gesturing to her skintight red dress and stiletto heels, she added, “But it won’t be long before they do. I think tonight I could do without the attention.”

  As if on cue, Sarah emerged from the elevator, a canvas tote under one arm. When she saw the group, she approached with her usual composed expression. “Here you go,” she said as she kissed Jasmine briefly on the mouth. “How’s Rebecca?”

  “No word yet.” Jasmine squeezed Sarah’s hand. “I’ll be right back. I just need to find a phone booth.”

  “Where’s Dell?” Sandy asked sharply. Michael had come by to pick her up after Sloan called. When the phone had rung, she hadn’t been asleep. She’d been waiting. Waiting and trying not to think about where her girlfriend was or what she might be doing. She’d been entertaining visions of hunting down Irina and tearing her limb from limb. Now all she wanted was to see for herself that Dell was all right. She couldn’t have cared less what she might have done with Irina.

  “She’s downstairs with Watts…where they took Rebecca.”

  “Okay, thanks.” Sandy did a quick 360, spied the stairwell on the far side of the elevators, and headed for it. When she pushed through the fire door on the basement level, she saw Dell immediately. The rush of relief made her weak. That was nothing, though, compared to the way the look on Dell’s face made her feel when their eyes met. Warm and shaky and strong all at once. She took three steps forward just as Dell moved to her, and they ended up in the center of the hall with their arms wrapped around one another in a fierce embrace.

  “You okay, baby?” Sandy whispered, running her hands up and down Mitchell’s back.

  “Rebecca’s shot,” Mitchell said, her face in the curve of Sandy’s neck. “God, Sandy. God.”

  The tremor in her lover’s voice almost broke Sandy’s heart. “She’s gonna be okay, rookie. She’s always okay.”

  “I’m so glad you came.” With effort, Mitchell straightened up. “It’s like…everything is coming apart.”

  “Look, rookie,” Sandy said, her voice firm. “Frye will be okay. She’ll be okay because…” She shrugged. “Because she’s what holds all you guys together, and that’s not gonna change. You need her, and she knows it, and she won’t let anything screw that up.”

  “You think?” Mitchell whispered, needing desperately to believe.

  Sandy smiled and stroked Mitchell’s cheek. “I know.”

  From a few feet away, Watts heard the words and whispered a silent prayer that Sandy was right.

  *

  Gunfire echoed in Rebecca’s head. The smell of adrenaline and fear and hot metal permeated her consciousness. And somewhere, somewhere, struggling for dominance over all the other sensations, was the urgent need to reach Catherine. Catherine. She had to see her. Touch her. Tell her not to worry.

  “Catherine,” she murmured.

  “I’m here. Rebecca, darling, I’m here.” Catherine caressed trembling fingers over Rebecca’s forehead, gripping Rebecca’s hand hard with her free hand. “You’re all right, darling.”

  “Sorry.” Rebecca forced her eyes open, then blinked, even though the lights in the intensive care room were dim. After a few seconds of trying, she was able to focus on Catherine’s face. There was so much anguish in her eyes, Rebecca shuddered. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  “I know.” Catherine lifted Rebecca’s hand and kissed her knuckles one by one. “I know that. Don’t worry, just rest.”

/>   “Sloan…Mitchell…my team…hurt?”

  “No, darling. All okay.” Catherine kissed her gently. Only you. Will it always be you here like this?

  Rebecca frowned. There were things she couldn’t remember. She saw the dark, narrow alley and the back door of the row house, saw herself climbing the pitch-black stairwell and inching down the hallway, saw herself crouching in the doorway and the flash of movement from her right. She jerked slightly, hearing the gunfire again.

  “What is it?” Catherine exclaimed as the heart rate readout on the screen over Rebecca’s bed jumped twenty points and alarm bells rang. “Are you in pain?”

  “He must’ve been sitting there watching TV with the automatic in his hand.” Rebecca grimaced. “Careful bastard.”

  Catherine didn’t want to think about someone lying in wait, ready and willing to kill her lover. But she knew that for Rebecca, talking it out, working it out, was the best way to heal. “You couldn’t have known.”

  “I went down, and he kept coming.” Speaking slowly, still vague, still in pain, Rebecca moved her eyes back to Catherine’s. “I was afraid he would kill me and you would be the one left hurting.”

  Catherine caught her lower lip between her teeth, but it was too late to stop the tears. “I love you. I love you so much.”

  “Catherine—love. I’m so sorry.”

  “I couldn’t bear to lose you.” Catherine brushed away tears.

  “I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want you hurt—ever.” Rebecca squinted against the sudden rush of pain. “Christ, my head is exploding.”

  “You have a concussion. A substantial one.” As she spoke, Catherine scanned the monitors rapidly. Everything seemed stable, and she looked back to her lover. “Your head is going to hurt for a while. Your memory might be a little fuzzy.”

 

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