The Rookie Club Thriller series Box Set

by Danielle Girard

  The first one to swagger out was clearly in the lead. Probably in his early twenties, he was geriatric compared to his teenage counterparts. The other hovered behind.

  “Front one’s our buyer,” Ryaan said into the radio and then turned to Jefferson. “You keep on him.”

  The buyer said something and Whitie laughed, his shoulders drooped and relaxed as the buyer led them toward the car.

  None of them had a clue that the police were watching.

  Standing around the trunk, the cop killer scanned the street slowly, his eyes only grazing over the police van before reaching to open the trunk. Despite the weapon and the bravado in his stance, his small eyes, partially hidden by the hood, narrowed in fear.

  Ryaan spoke crisply into the radio. “Hold until the merchandise is confirmed. Then we go. Nobody moves till then.”

  The cop killer touched the latch on the trunk and the metal popped open.

  “Roof unit one has arsenal in sight,” came a voice over the radio. “Quick count … around sixty.”

  “Go on three,” Ryaan said and Hal felt the adrenaline cooking his muscles, revving his heart like a car engine. “One, two, go. Go. Go!”

  Erickson slid the van door open.

  “Police!” Ryaan shouted across the street. “Get your hands up where we can see them!”

  The task force swarmed in, and a bullhorn demanded the guys put their hands in the air.

  Whitie dropped to the ground, hands on the back of his head like he knew the drill, but the cop killer reached for his gun.

  Hal started to shout when Ryaan aimed and fired, but the kid fell before her bullet reached him—someone on the roof had fired first.

  Hal turned to see another kid dig into his pants for a weapon. Before he could draw, his body jerked as another bullet found its mark.

  Down the street, the loner was on the run now, out of the sharpshooters’ aim.

  “On the roof,” Ryaan called into the radio. “Make a move so you can cover me. I’m going for the loner.” She waved at Michaels to follow.

  Hal glanced at Whitie still lying on the ground. One of his hands vanished from view.

  “Watch out!” he shouted, jumping from the van.

  The gun fired. The bullet caught her.

  Ryaan dropped.

  Bullets exploded from the roof, taking down Whitie.

  Hal ran to her side and kneeled. Panting, she fingered her lower right side. “It’s in the vest.”

  Paramedics rushed in, and Ryaan nodded after the loner, her face tight. “Get him.”

  Michaels ran. Hal followed, bent at the waist behind the line of parked cars, and halting where the line of cars ended. If he moved forward, he would be exposed.

  Sirens howled behind them.

  A black and white sped off to block the loner from the next street as he vanished around the corner.

  Michaels sprinted down the street, and Hal stayed close behind until they reached the next car. They crouched behind a maroon Honda Civic, and Hal peered across the car’s hood at the corner, where the loner had disappeared.

  The screaming sirens shrilled as the black and white rounded the block, coming at the kid from the other direction. The loner would have no choice but to come back toward them.

  Hal kept his gun out and waited. His heart drummed a steady beat in his temples. They didn’t risk running back for the cover of the patrol cars. They’d have to stay behind the Civic. Damn it. After a beat, Hal rose. Michaels joined him. They watched the corner, waiting for the loner to make a move.

  Michaels glanced back at the patrol cars.

  His back was turned when Hal spotted the barrel of the loner’s gun glinting under the streetlight. Hal grabbed hold of Michaels and dropped to the ground. The bullet struck the windshield of the Honda, passed through, and shattered the building window over their heads. Glass rained down around them.

  Michaels cursed.

  Shaking the glass from his collar, Hal looked back for direction from Ryaan. She shook her head, pressed her palm down. Sit tight. Too much exposure to move.

  They had to wait it out.

  Michaels emitted a strangled noise.

  Hal turned to see his face was pale, his breathing ragged. “Are you hit?”

  He shook his head and raised his hand to wipe the sweat off his lip, the Sig trembling in his fingers.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” There was no blood. Where had he been hit?

  Michaels bucked forward, and Hal lurched to grab him. His shaking reverberated up Hal’s arms.

  Leaning against the car for support, Hal shouted to the task force, “I’ve got a 999.”

  “Shots fired?” Ryaan yelled.

  Hal scanned Michaels’s face, felt the cold sweat on his cheek. “I think he’s having a heart attack.”

  The trembling crested into violent rocking. Hal struggled to wrap his arm around Michaels’s chest. He half stood and tried to inch them toward the safety of the van.

  He reached as far as the tail end of the Honda before Michaels kicked out of his arms, knocking the Sig from Hal’s fingers. Michaels’s head slammed against the pavement as his convulsions continued, the officer’s gun hand now clasping his left arm.

  Hal scanned the ground for his gun. Gone.

  The crackled warning from Michaels’s radio was too late.

  The loner appeared beside the Honda’s rear bumper—only feet from where Michaels lay.

  Where the hell was his gun?

  “Shit,” he cursed and, before he could locate the weapon, the loner reached Michaels and tugged the officer against his torso like a heavy blanket.

  A shot blasted from the roof, and the kid’s sweatshirt jumped at his shoulder.

  Hal spotted his gun and grabbed for it as the kid howled and sank to the ground.

  For a second, Hal thought they might escape, but the loner moved nimbly. Hal gripped the gun in his hand, chambered a round. The kid jammed the barrel to Michaels’s temple and released the safety with his thumb. “Lose the gun or I’ll pull.”

  Michaels’s face crumpled, red and swollen, his breathing shallow and his grip latched to his limp left arm.

  “You’re okay,” Hal whispered and while Michaels nodded, it was clear to both of them that he was lying. This was probably as far from okay as Michaels had ever been.

  “Lose the gun, asshole!” the loner shouted, voice cracking. Hal saw his face—the broad nose, the dark wide eyes. Fear was wet on his cheeks, pain creased in his brow. “Now!”

  “Okay,” Hal said. “Hang in there, Michaels.”

  Michaels closed his eyes, shook his head.

  The kid grabbed Michaels’s collar, using it to hold the officer as a shield in front of him. Hal’s arms still felt Michaels shaking, like aftershocks of an earthquake.

  Hal released the chambered round into his palm, moving slowly, deliberately. Then he tossed the gun into the middle of the street and prayed someone could get a shot off before this kid killed them both.

  Chapter 3

  Hailey buzzed with adrenaline and too much albuterol.

  Hal wouldn’t answer his phone, but Hailey’s pager told her that the situation downtown was now a 187-999. The “999” suggested an officer was down, and when she called for an update, they’d told her that the situation had escalated. An officer was being held hostage.

  As soon as she was sure Jim was in capable hands, she left the hospital and headed to the scene.

  She arrived to find the police had cordoned off three city blocks with bright yellow crime tape. Patrol officers, their hats pulled low against the wind, manned the tape and kept the crowd of curious neighbors and hungry reporters back.

  Hailey showed her badge at two separate checkpoints. Hal still wasn’t answering his phone as she made the last blocks on foot, wishing she had worn a heavier jacket. Once the sun dropped, the bay cooled the city quickly, and the raincoat Hailey had grabbed from her trunk barely buffeted the rising winds.

  The scene looked
like the set of a movie.

  Freestanding lights had been set up behind the line of black and whites. Cops crouched behind their windows, waiting for a shot. Bruce Daniels stood off to one side, talking on his phone. She veered away from him, heading toward Linda James, patrol captain for the district that included the Tenderloin, one of the roughest neighborhoods in the city.

  Linda had been part of the Rookie Club group since before Hailey joined. She had a sharp mind and a wicked sense of humor. She was also among the first of them to be promoted to captain.

  “Where’s Hal?” Hailey asked Linda, scanning for her partner. She had expected to see him sitting on the sidelines, but he was nowhere in sight.

  Linda frowned and pointed toward the hostage. “He’s in there.”

  Hailey froze. “Hal is the hostage?”

  “Practically.” She pulled a pair of binoculars off her neck and handed them over.

  Hailey’s stomach tensed at the sight of Hal so close to the shooter.

  He sat hunched over, trying to give the impression of being smaller, less intimidating. A guy his size was a big threat to a kid already prepared to kill a cop.

  The other officer was leaned back against his captor, legs and arms splayed. Hailey couldn’t tell if he was alive or dead.

  She scanned carefully for any angles to see the perp, but he was well hidden behind his hostage. She listened to the chatter coming from Linda’s radio, something about a wound. “Wait. Who was hit?”

  “The perp,” Linda said. “An hour ago.”

  “Can the roof see how he’s doing?”

  “Last report has him real shaky. Kid’s dying and he has to know it.” She raised an eyebrow and took back the binoculars Hailey handed her. “Not so good for our guys.”

  The familiar tightness clenched in her gut. “You think he’ll take someone with him?” Not Hal, please not Hal.

  Linda shrugged and raised the binoculars to her own eyes. “What’s he got to lose? We just need to get him first.”

  With the officer shielding his chest, a parked car covering his backside, and Hal just feet away, there was no good shot at the kid.

  Why hadn’t she come with Hal? She should have been there. Would it have made a difference? Could she have kept him away? But what would have happened to Jim if she hadn’t been at home?

  The sharpshooters might be able to put one in his leg, maybe get a bullet into his pelvis, but his gun was still at the cop’s head. An injury like that wouldn’t keep him from getting a couple of shots off.

  She would not lose Hal.

  Linda’s radio crackled. “He’s getting weak,” Cameron Cruz reported from the roof.

  Hailey rubbed her chest. Her breathing felt labored.

  Her albuterol was in the car.

  Giving herself some air, she stepped back behind the patrol cars. Bruce approached. Neither spoke but stood side by side, like parents watching over the hospital bed of a child.

  “He’s going to be okay,” Bruce whispered. As he leaned in to nudge her in the shoulder, she stepped away on reflex. He frowned and returned his gaze to the police tape.

  Bruce had been pressing to bring their relationship into the open—even if it meant one of them had to leave the department.

  Hailey wasn’t ready.

  In fact, Hailey felt less ready to commit to him than she had when John was alive, and that truth wasn’t easy to explain. Recently, Bruce pushed the issue by acting without caution. Her response was to feel less, rather than more, inclined to make the relationship known.

  Hailey was about to respond when the perp broke the silence.

  “Get me a fucking ambulance,” he shouted. “Now. Do it or I’m taking him with me!”

  Cameron Cruz’s voice crackled through the radio in Hailey’s hand. “Easy now. He’s antsy,” she whispered to the shooters. “Hold tight.”

  Hailey edged forward.

  Down the block, Hal shifted into view.

  “Where’s the damn ambulance?” the perp shouted, looking away from his hostage.

  Hailey gasped as Hal lunged forward and grabbed the officer, pulling him sideways. The sharpshooters fired. The kid’s body bucked and twisted against the bullets that struck him.

  The street became a flurry of shouting. Hailey pushed forward until she could see Hal stand from the sidewalk. He stepped forward.

  He was okay.

  Bruce excused himself, and Hailey moved toward Hal.

  The paramedics parked the ambulance beside the car and quickly unloaded a gurney from the back, lifting up the officer as Hailey arrived. Tears stung her eyes. She felt foolish and scared. She touched Hal’s back.

  He was bent over, watching the paramedics at work, his hands on his knees like a football player in a huddle.

  “Had a goddamn heart attack,” Hal said.

  “Bad time for a heart attack,” Hailey said.

  Hal raised a brow at her.

  “What the hell were you doing in there, anyway?”

  “Don’t ask.” He shook his head and stood up straight. “Don’t fucking ask.”

  “We get the guy selling Dennig’s guns?”

  “Yeah. That guy over there with the white sweatshirt. Dropped to the ground as soon as the cops showed up.”

  “Can we talk to him now?”

  “Mike Neill’s bringing him in.”

  Neill was an inspector in Triggerlock who worked with Ryaan Berry. This was their sting. “He’ll call us for the first crack at him when he’s ready. They’re going to let him sweat overnight.”

  Perfect. It was amazing how a night in jail could get people talking. Let him sweat awhile. “You ready for that beer?” she asked. After two gun incidents in one night, they deserved it.

  “I’m ready for a whole damn case of ’em.”

  “Well, I’ll buy the first one.”

  “That’s the least you can do. I should’ve sent you down here to deal with that crazy ass motherfucker. Least you might’ve been smart enough to stay in the van.”

  Linda James stopped beside them. “Just got the call about the senator. He okay?”

  Hal stared at her as Hailey nodded. “He’ll be fine.”

  Linda left them and Hal waited for an explanation.

  “Jim got shot tonight. I don’t think the shooter entered the house. Bullet caught his earlobe, barely grazed him.”

  “Another break-in? Like John?”

  Hailey turned away as though distracted by the scene. She didn’t want to talk about John. “I don’t know. This guy left a package.”

  “Package?”

  “A white button. ‘Wage peace, not war.’”

  “Another anti-NRA pin? Like Dennig’s?”

  “Exactly the same. That and a weird note. I didn’t have time to try to make sense of it.”

  Hal leaned back against a car, rubbed his face with both palms. “No shit.”

  Jim and the Dennigs. Abby’s father, Tom, and Jim were friends, but that wasn’t enough. There had to be another way in which Jim and the Dennigs were tied together. It would naturally lead to questions about John. “It’s all hushed up now. No media, no official police report. Just diplomatic services.”

  “What did Jim say?”

  “That he’s got no idea.”

  “And you believe him,” Hal said, an edge in his voice.

  She said nothing. Why did she believe Jim? Because she knew him.

  How could she explain that to Hal? How could she tell him that her relationship with Jim had changed since John’s death, that she’d come to rely on him … trust him?

  Gunfire cracked from inside the building.

  Without hesitating, Hal sprinted for the door, gun drawn. Hailey followed, already several paces behind his long stride. He cleared the foyer as she took his back.

  They made their way slowly up the stairs.

  As they rounded the corner on the landing, a patrol officer spun toward them, gun aimed. His eyes narrowed at Hal, the gun clenched in both fists, the
finger edging toward the trigger.

  Rookie.

  “Whoa,” Hal said, raising his hands. “We’re cops.”

  “Homicide,” Hailey shouted. “Lower your weapon.” When the rookie’s gaze shifted to her, he dropped the weapon to his side. They all breathed a moment.

  “What happened?” Hailey asked.

  The officer’s face was pale and moist, his eyes wide and darting in a way that exaggerated the small, mousy features of his face. He moved like someone trying to thaw out frozen feet, as if he couldn’t stay still.

  “I don’t know. I heard shots when I was coming back down.” He licked his lips twice and cast a shaky look over one shoulder. “My first live fire,” he confessed in a stuttered flurry.

  Hailey nodded. “Who else is up here?”

  “Lopez, Shakley, I think. I don’t really know. It was supposed to be empty. We were just clearing it to make sure we didn’t miss anything. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone inside.”

  “Slow down,” Hailey said.

  The rookie took a shuddering inhale.

  “Where did the shots come from?” Hal asked.

  “End of the hall, I think.” He shook his head, licked his lips again, half trotting in place. “I don’t know for sure.”

  “Head back down to the street,” Hal directed, placing a palm on the rookie’s shoulder. It looked huge in comparison to the man’s slim frame, which had finally stopped bouncing—maybe from the sheer weight of Hal’s hand. “Send more officers up and tell them to watch their fire, that we’re up here.”

  When the officer rounded the stairwell, Hailey turned to Hal. “You okay?”

  “Twice in one damn day,” he said. “I swear if I end up dead, it’ll be ’cause I’m shot by some damn rookie.”

  “You’re huge and black,” she reminded him. “That’s what they see first.” They’d had this discussion a dozen times. Life was exponentially more dangerous for a black man than for a white one. When would everyone figure out a way to stop being afraid of someone for his color? “You want me to lead?”

  “Sure. At least then I’m safe from the waist down.” The joke fell flat, and Hailey knew he was genuinely scared.

  Hailey took the front and called out as they rounded the corner. “Inspector Wyatt here. Hold your fire.”