Protect and Serve Don't Need A Hero (2 page)

The place was crazy. People burst out of the doors in front of us, screaming and heading for the protection of their own vehicles or anywhere else they could. Most of them made it out of the parking lot at lightning speed.

In the confusion, three more police vehicles arrived, blocking off the exits. The design of the fast food joint’s landscape hemmed in all escapes with a fenced kiddy playground, streetlight poles, and a copse of large, decorative trees. The heat wasn’t so bad, but the trees still provided a barrier, if not shade. The perp was trapped.

Jeff opened his door and used the thing for a shield seconds before I jammed the car into park and did the same. Jeff barked into his collar mike, “Where is he? How hard can it be to find a guy in armor?”

“He’s in the gray Mercedes in the drive though! Window tinting makes it hard to see if he’s got hostages!” Was that Lt. Anders? Someone check his voice recording. Anyway, I thought it was Anders.

“I got a bead on him from the side!” I didn’t catch the names on the speakers. It’ll be recorded.

“I can’t see anyone in the passenger seat, nor in the back! I think they ran with the rest of the customers!”

Gunfire rang out. I’m fairly sure our dashcams and throat mikes caught the sound.

“Shit! He’s firing.” That was Cussler, I’m sure of it. He’s got a mouth like a trucker.

“Shots fired! Shots fired! Officer down!” Darcy. I think. She was Ander’s partner that day. Guess that was when Anders got his bullet.

“I see him!” Jeff fired once, but all he did was hit the windshield. The old glass spider-webbed, making it more difficult to see if anyone at all, even the perp, was in the car.

I shouted to my partner. “If you can see him, he can see you!”

Too late. A red-and-silver arm appeared out the window and fired.

Jeff cried out, and his face was covered in blood. He fell backward, out of sight. Over the sirens and gunfire, I couldn’t hear anything, but I remember I reported into my collar mike anyway. “Officer down! Repeat, officer down. 546!”

To say adrenaline raced through me was an understatement. Time slowed down, and I narrowed my focus. Two officers out of our dwindling force was bad enough. Blue took care of their own. I was pissed beyond belief. Jeff was a fucking newlywed who didn’t deserve to die.

Apparently, my fellow officers felt the same. The Mercedes became a target, then Swiss cheese. The windshield shattered, and the bank robber/cop-killer died in a barrage of hot lead.

One by one, the guns stopped firing.

In the silence that followed, I heard the worst sound in the world, and the one we all dreaded, coming from inside the Mercedes -- a child screaming for her mommy.

Chapter Two

I sprinted for the wrecked remains of the gray Mercedes. I smelled gasoline, blood, and of course smoke from the gunfire, but all I could hear was the hysterical cries of a little girl screaming for her mommy. I was terrified of what I might find, and already feeling guilty that we’d not checked more carefully for hostages. Yeah, like we have X-ray vision to see through vehicles and tinted luxury car windows. Right. I wrenched open the front passenger side door.

The nearly headless corpse of the robbery suspect, a white or perhaps Hispanic male with the bank’s explosive dye still visible despite the carnage, sat in the driver’s seat atop a woman’s quiet form.

The woman’s fingers twitched and clawed weakly at the bloody gray leather seat. She breathed, but shallowly, considering about 170 pounds of dead weight -- really dead weight -- covered her.

I shoved at the perp’s body until it slid to the side and allowed the woman to breathe. From the sirens coming closer, the EMTs would see to her, but it looked like the perp’s chain mail and the teak dash had taken most of the bullets.

Her hands were bloodied. Despite a myriad of old scars, one bruised nail, and a pile of calluses, her hands were long and delicate looking, like some patrician lady had been doing hard labor. With the blood covering her face, I couldn’t guess her age. She had a sundress covering a bathing suit, a tan, and a flip-flop on one foot. Her tan ended at her ankle so her foot was white. Her other foot was definitely bleeding.

I hit the button on my collar mike. “We have three hostages in the car. Two need EMS now. Assessing the third.” I saw a pink teddy bear with roses on it on the floor near the woman’s foot. Definitely a little girl’s toy. I snatched it up and showed it to the little banshee in the back booster seat in hopes of calming my one witness down. Meanwhile I got the back door open so I could talk to her and get her out fast.

The little brunette female was between six and nine years old, brown-brown, wearing a pink bathing suit. She grabbed the bear from me and cuddled it. “Where’s my mommy! Please get my mommmeee!” Then she pointed to the boy next to her. “The bad man shot Mikey!”

EMT’s with stretchers and kits yanked open the other doors and shouted in that peculiar language only the medical profession understands. That was my cue to get my little witness away. It certainly was no place for a little kid to see bullet wounds and what med-techs had to do to fix them.

I flipped open the booster seat belt and freed her. “My name’s Apollo. Let’s get out of here, Angel Face.”

Must have been the right thing to say. “You know my name!” Angel dove right into my arms, still clutching her teddy bear. “Let’s go find my mommy, Mr. Policeman.”

Look, I’m as susceptible as the next guy to a cute kid who cuddles. “Yeah, let’s do that.” I pulled her out of the car and carried her away with her face buried in my chest. She didn’t need to see all that blood and gore.

I caught a glimpse of EMTs taking care of Jeff, and that meant he was alive and in good hands. I still felt guilty about not being there for him, but I had a job to do. I hope he forgives me.

EMTs with kits ran up to Angel and me, but as soon as they tried to take her she screamed and clung to me. They backed off when I shook my head and smiled at them. She was fine. Others needed their services a lot more.

I planted my butt on one of the many cement benches in the shade of an oak tree and settled Angel onto my lap like my Dad had done when I’d been hurt or scared as a kid. My personal banshee didn’t seem like much of an angel, but I doubt I’d be any quieter if I’d been shot at while strapped into a safety seat watching my mother and brother die. “It’s okay, Angel. They just wanted to see if the bad man hurt you too.”

The screaming into my uniform front stopped. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m so scared! He didn’t hurt me!” I swear she tried to burrow into my chest. “Please go find my mommy, Mr. Policeman. Her name is Marissa Burlingame, and I even know our phone number.” Those big intelligent eyes looked up so trustingly, I probably melted a little. So I have a heart, okay? She certainly was articulate for a little pipsqueak. “But you know it too. Police know everything!”

I caught a glimpse of the woman’s stretcher being loaded up into the ambulance. Another ambulance sped off down the road with lights and sirens going full out. “I think your mommy and Mikey are going to the hospital, Angel. Would you like to go too?”

I noticed the Channel 25 videographer only a few feet away and frowned at her to back up a little. Yeah, they could have their story, but I needed the info out of Angel before they did. Despite her age, she seemed bright enough to give me all I needed.

“Did you get Mommy on the phone already?” Angel smiled up worshipfully. I don’t like using that word, but she apparently believed that I, as a cop, was perfect. I don’t like pedestals, and I don’t like being someone’s hero. The standards are kind of high. “Is Aunt Petey going to the hospital with Mikey? The bad man sat on her an’ beat her up!” Angel stuck out her chin, the epitome of outraged femininity. Men didn’t beat up on women in her world. I’ll bet she still believes in fairy tales too. I envied her.

I finally got what Angel was saying. The woman victim was “Aunt Petey” and not her mommy. “Yeah, I think Aunt Petey went with Mikey because they’re both hurt. Why don’t we call your mommy and have her meet us at the hospital?” I pulled out my personal cell.

Kids are tech savvy little buggers. Using the cell to call her mommy put her in control, and gave her something to think about besides what she’d just been through. The police psych training recommended giving victims that measure of control if they were up to the challenge, and it seemed to work with Angel. “Yeah, you keep me safe, Mr. Policeman. I’ll call Mommy.” Angel dialed the phone expertly, put it to her ear. “Mommy? A bad man shot up Aunt Petey’s car! Aunt Petey and Mikey are hurt! A policeman is taking care of me. Can we go visit Mikey and Aunt Petey in the hospital?” Angel listened intently for a moment and rubbed the back of her hand on her runny nose. “Stop crying, Mommy! The policeman saved us!” She handed the phone to me. “She wants to talk to you now.”

I was grateful to take the phone from Angel. “Thank you, Angel. Mrs. Burlingame? I’m Lt. Apollo Jones, ma’am.” I gave her the pertinent details, snapped the phone closed, and smiled down at my brave little witness. “What do you say we go to Wolfson Children’s Hospital and meet your mommy there, Angel?”

Angel hugged me and smiled for the reporters who surged forward to get her on camera. “Mr. ’Pollo Policeman is my hero! He saved me from the bad man and called for help!”

I never felt less like a hero in my life.

* * *

Man, I do not like hospitals! I have a vague memory of surgery. I fought to breathe, like I was drowning in molasses. Something was stuck in my throat, and I reached up to try and get it out. Cold hands encased in rubber stopped me, but I was weaker than a starving kitten.

“She’s coming out of the anesthetic!” Some guy’s annoyed voice gave the orders. You know the type -- used to instant obedience. I heard a sucking sound and the clang of metal hitting metal. “Hold her down, please.”

“I got it. Good night, Miss Oakes…”

“Gurk!” was all I could choke out, but what I meant to say was more pithy and direct, like “Fuck you!” My arm felt like icy fire, so I guess the anesthesiologist put something in my veins. All I know is, I fell into something soft and gray before someone turned off all the lights.

My body still aches like someone beat the crap out of me and then left me to stiffen up in one place, asleep on my back. I never sleep on my back with my belly exposed. My left foot has a sharp hot spike in it, and I’m fairly sure that’s what they were working on there in surgery. There’s a small bandage on my right temple, and my jaw is really friggin’ sore where that asshole with the red face clocked me. Guess I’m lucky I can remember my name is Pete.

This room is the pits. The walls are a dull putty color that doesn’t exist in nature. The decorator should be shot. Naw, that’s too merciful. The color is depressing. There’s a TV and a wipe-off board. What cheerful moron drew a smiley face in bright red? Probably the dimwit that announced beneath it:
Your CNA today is: Andrea
. Yippee. Andrea, therefore, was first on my “Let’s Punch Someone” list, especially once I saw the IV drip line.

At least Rat was here when I woke up. “Hey, beautiful! You decided to join the party?” He was sitting in the comfy brown recliner they keep in the corner for guests. I was never so happy to see that handsome, skinny dude with short, black hair and liquid chocolate eyes. His raggedy T-shirt and jeans were rumpled like he’d been there too long. Only Rat can rumple jeans.

Only problem was, once he jumped up to hug me and stroke my un-punctured hand, I could see myself in those dark eyes of his. “Oh, geez, Rat! I look like a three-day-old litterbox!” Look, I’m normally not vain, but I liked the spiky light brown highlights the sun gave me. I’m a chocolate point, so the contrast was cool, ya know? “Talk about a bad hair day. Fernando’s gonna have a whole litter of kittens.” More likely, he’ll shriek like a girl but the haircut the ER team gave me will probably give him a coronary in thirty seconds anyway. I’ll wear earplugs.

Rat chuckled and his whole body relaxed. He heaved a great big sigh and ran a hand through his hair. “That’s my Petey-girl. I hate it when I can’t hear that filthy bitching vocabulary.” He shook a finger at my nose like it was my fucking fault. “Don’t you ever scare me like this again!”

Then and only then did I remember what had brought me to the hospital in the first place. I tried to sit up and learned how sensitive my foot was just as soon as it moved. “Oh my fucking God, Rat! The bastard with a gun hit me!” Okay, so I freaked out. I could hear myself screaming. “The kids! Where’s the car? The kids!”

“Hush, kitten! Easy, Pete!” Rat made a lot of hushing sounds and put his big, rough hands on my shoulders, but it was too late.

I heard the squeaky sounds of nurse shoes at a dead run. A little bitty nurse wearing disgustingly cheerful yellow scrubs pelted into the room with a syringe at the ready. She jammed it into the IV port before I could protest.

Not that I gave a flying fuck. I had horrified visions of Angelina and Mikey, trapped in their car seats while the sounds of thousands of gunshots ripped through the Mercedes’ interior. I’d been buried in the car cushions, but the kids had been protected by zip point shit.

Hot, wet stuff -- probably blood -- had spattered all over me, and a glob of sticky, purplish goo had plopped right in front of my nose. The image wouldn’t leave my head. All I could imagine was that the blood and brains had been Angelina’s and Mikey’s all over the car and me. Yeah, so tell me you wouldn’t be hysterical. I fucking dare you.

Rat pressed me down into the mattress and got my attention. His eyes were all pained, and you could just smell the sorrow coming off him. “Angelina’s okay! She’s with Marissa over at Wolfson. Mikey got hit in a lung. He was critical all night, but they just upgraded him to serious. He’s going to make it.”

I just knew it was all my fault, and I started to cry. Marissa would never let me baby-sit again. I dreamt of having my own litter and owning that cool little bungalow, strawberry kitchen curtains, and…