Force of Nature (3 page)

Yashi had a far more pertinent question. He held up his regulation sidearm. “Range on this thing’s too short. It won’t—”

“Just do it,” Jules ordered. With luck, it would cause the shooters to take cover. It was hard to aim and shoot to kill whilst ducking.

“Yessir.”

“Now!” Jules said, and medical kit slung over his shoulder, his own weapon out, he ran out into the street, toward the yard. Deb and Yashi and George’s sidearms roared behind him, and as he headed straight into what could potentially be a hail of bullets from the holed-up gunmen, he realized he’d blown the perfect opportunity to say,
Cover me, I’m going in.

Bullets from the shooters in the house hit the ground around him, sending puffs of dirt into the air. But there was no turning back now.

Jules fired his own weapon—not easy to do while running full out—aiming as best he could for that center window. He slid to a stop in the grass near Chief Peeler, tearing out the knee of his pants. Dang, this was his favorite suit, but perspective was important here. Last time he’d looked, Men’s Wearhouse didn’t sell internal organs.

The chief, however, hadn’t been as lucky. He was lying with his head in a pool of blood. Expecting the worst, Jules felt for a pulse. To his surprise, he found it, steady and strong—and he realized that the chief had merely been grazed. A bullet had creased his hairline, over his left ear, hence the copious bleeding. It had knocked him out, but the man was alive.

For now, anyway.

Jules covered Peeler with his own body as a new rain of bullets pinged the ground around them.

He grabbed the radio that Peggy had dropped. “Cover me,” he ordered whoever was listening on the other end. “I need some weapons with real range aiming for those windows. Keep it going while I pull the chief to the shed.”

He didn’t wait for confirmation—he pitched the radio over to Peggy and grabbed Peeler beneath his massive arms.

Jules may have been small of stature, but he was strong. He dug in his heels and dragged, but sweet Jesus, why couldn’t the chief have taken a trip or two to the salad bar over the past few years instead of relentlessly supersizing the cheese fries?

But then Peggy was there, helping him, and together they pulled the chief all the way to that shed, where a medical team was already standing by.

“You hit?” one of the medics, a woman with her hair swept back into a tight ponytail, asked him.

Jules shook his head no. Miraculously, he wasn’t. “Peg, you okay?”

She was already barking orders into the radio, calling in the SWAT team. If she was bleeding, she wasn’t letting it slow her down.

“Man, you got balls,” the other medic said. “
And
a shitload of luck. You know, Channel 4 news got it all on camera. You’re going to be a hero. People ’round here love Chief Peeler, and you saved his life.”

Great. Jules was going to have to call Laronda—the boss’s assistant—and get her on top of smothering
that
merde cream pie as quickly as possible. Last thing he needed was his face on the evening news.

But it wasn’t until later, until after the SWAT team sang and the dust had settled around the body bags being carried out of the newly secured house, that Jules was finally able to reintroduce himself to his cell phone. And even then, he had to pocket it, when Peggy Ryan approached him.

Peggy Ryan—who hated him. Who probably wouldn’t give a hoot if his name and likeness were plastered all over the national news.

In fact, she would use it as reason number 4,367 why he should quit.

It was then, as she was heading toward him, wearing her official business face, that Jules realized that by saving Morgan Peeler, he’d been saving Peggy Ryan.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she told him, trying to wipe the ground-in dirt from her starched white blouse. Her helmet-hair was messed up, too, but her eyes were just as they’d always been. Cold and distant. “Between us, I mean. I still don’t think you belong in the Bureau.”

“Gosh,” Jules said, unable to keep his temper under check. Not that he’d expected a total change of heart, but was a simple “Good job” too much to ask? Or how about “Thank you”? “In
that
case, I guess I just should have let Chief Peeler die.” He shook his head in disgust. “Believe it or not,
ma’am
, I didn’t help him because I thought you would approve. I did it because someone had to help Peeler. Until I went out there, you didn’t seem to be concerned with much more than saving your own ass.”

She flushed. “How dare you!”

Okay, so maybe that was a little harsh. Things had happened fast, and she
had
been pinned down. But he was sick of her crap, of her refusing to admit—even now—that he was an important player on their team. He’d tried winning her over with humor, but that hadn’t worked. He’d hoped that today’s heroics would at least gain him her grudging respect, but now he finally had to admit it. She was never going to accept him.

“I don’t give a shit whether or not you think I belong here,” he told her quietly. “The only two opinions I care about are mine, and the boss’s. And we both think I’m doing fine. If you don’t want to work with me, lady,
you’re
going to have to put in for the transfer. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

She wasn’t listening. She never did. “If you think—”

Jules cut her off, got even farther up in her face. “I saved your soul today. You were team leader. You gave the order. If Peeler had died, you’d have had to live with that forever. That must really gall you, huh, Peg? The gay guy rescued you. That must really grate.”

She spun on her heels—or heel, rather. One of them had broken off in the brouhaha. As Jules watched, she stalked away.

“You’re welcome,” he called after her, but she didn’t even so much as look back.

“Whoa. I didn’t expect to see
you
today.” Steven was manning the front desk at the police station. “I mean, welcome back.”

“Thanks.” Ric was still moving gingerly, his left arm in a sling. For a pair of wounds that weren’t particularly life threatening, they sure hurt like a bitch. The stitches in his side pulled with every step he took.

The younger man stood up uncertainly. “Should you really be back so soon?”

The doctor had told him to take some time before returning to work. But he’d meant
work
work. “I’m just going to file some reports,” Ric said. “Nothing strenuous. What are you doing back there, anyway?” Steven’s usual shift was in the morning.

He rolled his eyes. “Too many losing hands of poker.”

“Don’t play with Camp or Lora, man. Didn’t I tell you that? What, have you got their shifts up front from now until Halloween?”

“Christmas,” Steve said morosely. “You know, Ric, you don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine,” Ric said, heading down the hall. “I just need some coffee.”

The phone rang, and Steve had to pick it up, ending their conversation. “First precinct. Hey. Yeah, he’s here…”

Ric ducked into the coffee room—where Bobby Donofrio and Johnny Olson were having an early lunch.

“Hey, hey, hey,” Bobby D said through his cheeseburger. “Look who’s up and around. I thought you weren’t going to be discharged from the hospital until tomorrow.”

Johnny came over to help him with the coffeepot. “Sure you don’t want to take another day?”

“I wanted to get that report done,” Ric said as Johnny poured the steaming coffee into a mug. “Thanks. I’m sure the family would appreciate the closure.”

“A tough guy, huh? Well, rest easy, the case is closed. The perp was the victim’s cousin,” Donofrio reported, leaning back in his chair. “The other cousin—a younger kid—came forward. Apparently there was an argument over some guy—or guys—that the sister was screwing—you saw her, there was probably a list as long as my arm. The victim wouldn’t give up the info, there was a tussle, and the gun went off accidentally. Yeah, like anyone whose head isn’t up their ass would believe
that.
”

“Ballistic report matched,” Johnny told Ric. “The perp’s nine-millimeter was also the murder weapon. No question.”

“Everything’s neat and tidy. So we—lucky bastards—don’t have to dick around with a trial.” Donofrio tossed his McDonald’s bag into the garbage, leaving a streak of ketchup on the table. “The surviving cousin’s a juvie. He’s confessed to being an accessory—they’ve already put him into the system. The perp’s dead—you took care of that. Very nicely, I might add.”

“
I
did?” Ric said. Coming in today was definitely a mistake, because now his head was starting to hurt almost as badly as his arm and his side.

“Dude.” Donofrio gave him a big smile that was almost as disconcerting as his use of the word
dude.
“I may have shut out the lights a little more quickly, but your shot to the perp’s groin…It was perfect. Crushed the artery. He was already dead when I hit him—he just didn’t know it yet.”

Ric had shot to wound. Only to wound. He’d aimed for the kid’s leg, not…

“Hey, Martell,” Johnny said, turning to the door. “Long time, no see. How’s the legal world treating you?”

“Well enough.” Martell Griffin’s basso profundo was unmistakable. Ric looked over and saw his friend leaning in the doorway, dressed like the lawyer he now was, in a dark suit and power tie. The look he shot Ric was full of reproach. “You should be home, in bed,” he scolded.

But Donofrio wasn’t finished. “So congratulations, Alvarado,” the heavy-set detective continued. “I’ve got to let you claim the kill.”

Claim
the
kill…?
Was he serious?

Across the room, Martell straightened up. “This probably isn’t a conversation Ric should be having while he’s on pain meds,” he pointed out.

“It’s a big one, too.” Bobby D just kept on going, grinning that shit-eating grin.
Neat and tidy
…Mother of God. “The year’s tenth.”

He said it like it was some kind of honor, some kind of badge for them all to wear with pride—their having reached double digits in the number of perpetrators who hadn’t survived an altercation with Sarasota’s finest.

“Ricky, man, come on. Let me drive you home,” Martell said.

“I don’t want it,” Ric told Donofrio.

“No, no, you don’t comprend-ay,” Donofrio said. “The kid was nineteen and there’s no question that he was armed and dangerous. It’s already been cleared by internal affairs. It’s yours, Detective, and it’s squeaky-clean. That’s not something to throw away.”

Ric didn’t even realize he was moving. One second he was standing there, and the next he had Bobby Donofrio up against the wall, his right arm pressed hard against the son of a bitch’s throat. “But the dead kids—Francisco and Jorge Flores,” Ric heard himself snarl as the prick struggled to get free. He held him even tighter. “Them you can throw away. Who the fuck cares—they’re just two more Hispanics who won’t grow up and go to jail, clog the system, right?”

“Ricky, hey. Hey, hey. You’re choking him, man.”

It was true. Bobby D’s face was turning even more red than usual.

And Martell was right behind him. “Ric, come on, brother. This isn’t you. Let him go.”

Ric exhaled hard. And stepped back.

Donofrio sucked in a breath and then shoved him hard, pushing him into the lunch table, knocking over chairs. “I’ll kill you, you fuck!”

Ow. Ric felt his stitches rip as he rolled away, avoiding a full body slam from big boy Bob.

Johnny had run to get the lieutenant, and she exploded into the room, clapping her hands together as if they were misbehaving lapdogs. “Stop this. Right this minute!”

“He fucking jumped me,” Bobby D shouted, letting Johnny help him up and hold him back, “out of the fucking blue!”

“Lieutenant,” Martell said smoothly as Ric pulled himself to his feet. “Ric shouldn’t even be here. He’s on pain meds and his judgment is a little—”

“I’m not on pain meds,” Ric said.

Martell shot him an exasperated look. “So much for our defense strategy.”

“I’m not going to lie,” Ric told his friend.

“I would never ask you to lie.” Martell was offended. “Although, I suspect that if you took a blood test, we’d find—”

Donofrio chimed in again: “The cholo fucking jumped me!”

Martell got big. “Oh,
that’s
nice! You gonna nigger me now,
dude
?”

“You!” The lieutenant pointed at Ric and Martell. “Out in the hall. You, Donofrio. Do yourself a huge favor and be silent!”

Martell pulled Ric out of the coffee room. “Ah, man—you’re bleeding.”

“Yeah, my stitches were…whoa.” The entire side of his T-shirt was soaked with blood. That wasn’t good. Still it was going to have to wait. He had to talk to the lieutenant. “I’m done here,” Ric told his friend.

“I’ll say.” Martell was looking for something to wipe his hands on, so Ric offered him the clean side of his shirt. “We need to get you back to the hospital and—”

“No, Martell, I’m done here. Like, done forever.”

“You know, it’s possible we can argue extenuating circumstances. How long have I known you? Ten years? And how many times have I ever seen you lose it like that? I can probably count ’em on my thumbs, so—”

“No,” Ric interrupted again. “I mean I’m done.
I’m
done.”
Claim the kill…
Jesus God.

Martell finally got it. “Wow. This is…new.”

Ric shook his head. “No, actually, it’s not. It’s been coming for a while.”

Martell laughed his exasperation. “Did you, like, tell me and I missed it? Studying for the bar exam—I know I was pretty self-absorbed, but…”

“No,” Ric said. “I didn’t tell you. I didn’t tell anyone. It’s just…” He shook his head. How do you bring up a topic like that?
Hey, man. Wanna beer? Your softball team’s looking good this year. And oh, by the way, I’m feeling more and more dissatisfied with my life and I don’t know why. On the surface, everything looks perfect, but I’m thinking about shaking things up. Quitting the job that I supposedly love…

The lieutenant emerged from the coffee room, closing the door tightly behind her, looking none too pleased. “Alvarado, what is wrong with you? Get out of here. I don’t want to see you for a full week. And when you do come back, you better be ready to apologize to Bob. That’s the only way you’ll be able to…What’s this?”