No Safe Place (Joe Hunter Thrillers Book 11) (18 page)

A bullet ricocheted off the bannister next to him, buzzing away up the stairwell, and bouncing off walls like a drunken wasp. Bryony leaned out, shouting a warning, but it was rhetoric because she was already firing. Below her the youth cursed in pain, then called her some unsavoury names she’d heard a hundred times before.

‘Drop your weapon and show yourself,’ Bryony barked. ‘There’s no way out. The building is surrounded.
Do you really want to die
?’

In reply the kid fired.

It was a single shot, and it hit nowhere near her.

The youth cursed under his breath, and she heard the metallic rattle of shells on the floor. Either he was armed with a revolver and he’d just dumped the empty cartridges, or he’d dropped those he was attempting to reload with. She shared a knowing look with Holker: was it a chance they should take? Hell yeah, she thought, and hurtled down the steps.

As she rounded the corner she immediately saw her mistake. The young man was still reloading, yes, but another of the home invasion crew had joined him, materializing from a passage in the rear of the building in a hail of gunfire. A bullet nicked the barrel of her Glock, wrenching it from her numb fingers. The man, a tall, spiky-haired black guy in a wife-beater vest and baggy jeans, cat-called at her, gripping his groin with his cupped left hand, then fired again. Bryony’s only hope of survival was to go flat on her face. She dived at the floor, and her momentum took her in a slide that ended with her scrunched below the boarded-up windows adjacent to the foyer they’d first gained entrance by. Slivers of broken glass pierced her jeans and her left shoulder, but the wounds were superficial to the one the man planned for her. He took three exaggerated steps forward, his pistol held sideways in his fist as he hollered words she didn’t catch.

Holker shot from where he kneeled on the stairs.

His bullet took the man in the side of his neck, and it was as if the strings tethering him upright in the world were cut. The guy collapsed in a boneless heap on top of Bryony. She could feel his blood on her face, but wasn’t repulsed: better his than her’s any time. She kicked free of him, even as Holker pounded to her side. The other cop was at the bottom of the stairs, his rifle sweeping the scene.

‘Where’s the kid?’ Bryony asked, her voice inordinately angry.

Holker glanced around, spotting the door to the foyer moving slightly on its hinges. ‘He’s gone.’

‘Like hell he is! He’s not getting away,’ Bryony said as she struggled to rise. Her left knee felt twice as large as it should. Stinging cuts decorated her, and she foolishly swiped her palms down the fronts of her jeans, both to clean her palms and to knock away the splinters digging into her. She grimaced at her stupidity. She reached for her Glock. Holker pressed a hand to her shoulder, supporting her while he bent and scooped it up.

‘Check that still works before you shoot it again,’ he instructed her. The bullet had struck the slide, and it was slightly deformed. Bryony attempted to manipulate the slide but it jammed. Her hands stung like crazy, her right partly because of the impact on her gun. ‘Right,’ Holker said, ‘you’re staying put. Officer, cover her, will you?’ The tactical cop nodded, and moved to literally shield Bryony, as Holker made for the swinging door.

‘Wait,’ Bryony called, but Holker pushed through the door, his gun ready as he sought the young man’s whereabouts. The youth hadn’t gone out the main exit. Had he done so, the cops waiting outside would have him. He had to have gone deeper into the building, perhaps looking for another exit. Bryony nodded at the tac cop. ‘You OK?’

‘I’m good to go.’ The cop distractedly touched the spot where the bullet hit his vest, before adjusting his rifle. ‘You want to go after your partner, Detective?’

There was simply no debate in her mind. ‘Yeah. Let’s do it.’

The cop went first, and Bryony paused only a second to secure the gun dropped by the dead man. Not that she intended using it, but she didn’t want it to fall into the hands of another of the gang before the complex was fully secured. It was a Taurus 100 model .40 S&W with gold accents and a mother of pearl grip: quite a beauty – a trophy gun, she thought, for any self-respecting gangster. It was a bit large framed for her, but if it came to it she was confident she could handle it, even with sore hands.

She followed the cop through the foyer, and there at the far left, earlier disregarded during the initial forced entry by the team was another door. It had been missed because a sheet of plyboard had concealed it, now on the floor and baring the dusty footprints of both the fleeing youth and Holker. The tac cop tapped his throat mike, giving a status report, and heard instructions in response. He glanced back at Bryony. ‘Building’s secure back where we came from. There’s another team sweeping the rear corridors, moving to liaise on our position.’

Bryony nodded at him, but waved him on. Before anyone could reach him, gunfire could pin down Holker seeing as the kid had now reloaded. In the minute-or-so the back-up team required to join them, Holker could be killed. Not on her watch, she swore.

It was apparent where the kid had left the building. He’d kicked open a fire exit door, that led directly into a loading bay area. Even as Bryony and the cop stepped out the door, weapons sweeping for target acquisition, she heard her partner holler at the guy to stop. He received no response, and Holker set off at a gallop. His hard-heeled shoes slapped the asphalt, just out of sight around a corner from Bryony. Holker was so keen on catching the kid he’d forgotten what odds he had in a footrace with a youth wearing sneakers.

Bryony took a quick recce round the corner, and saw Holker dashing across the street, heading directly for one of the nearby autoshop yards. He was exposed as he went, and Bryony cringed as the kid who’d proven so ready to use a weapon, suddenly popped out from alongside a parked van, his revolver aimed directly at her partner.

She yelled a warning, snatching up the gun she’d seized in evidence. Alongside her the tac guy also leaned into his assault rifle, picking a shot that wasn’t really there, because Holker skidded into his line of fire. Holker braced his legs, bringing up his gun in a two-handed grip.

‘Drop it!’ he shouted.

But his words were drowned out by the sharp crack of the kid’s revolver.

The kid was a good shot. He’d already demonstrated that when shooting the tactical cop earlier, and this time was no different. Holker was hit. Bryony saw blood puffing into the air, and her partner sat down on his ass in the street.

She raced forward, even as the tactical support officer grabbed at her, trying to clear her from his line of sight.

‘Dennis!’ she cried out, because she knew what was coming next. The kid was still partly concealed by the van, safe enough from the shot that she fired at a run, and which missed by a mile. Yet he had a clear line of sight on Holker, and he levelled his gun on the detective’s face.

There was a sharp
crack
!

But Holker didn’t die.

The young man was propelled from concealment by the fist that had struck him savagely in the back of his skull. The kid went down on his knees, arms outstretched, even as Joe Hunter followed his punch with a kick to the would-be cop-killer’s liver that firmly sent him to the asphalt, the revolver spinning out of his grasp. Hunter pinned him there, a heel between his shoulder blades, as he waved at Bryony with a wink.

Expecting me to sit quietly in Bryony’s car while a gun battle was raging just out of sight – but definitely within hearing distance - was never going to happen.
My patience lasted a few minutes, until Bryony disappeared around the corner at the tail end of a heavily armed conga line. Once the raid was underway, I vacated the car, moving away from the few officers still in the near vicinity, and walked away across the road to a vantage point where I could keep a distant eye on the proceedings. By the time I positioned myself on the sidewalk outside a converted church, now used as a drop in day centre for the homeless if I read the notices correctly, the tactical support team had made entry to the target building. It was a matter of less than two minutes before the first pop of firearms went off, and I barely resisted the temptation to go after Bryony and Holker. They wouldn’t have thanked me for my help, and Holker for one would probably have arrested me for obstructing officers in the line of duty. Maybe he’d have shot me, I thought, and claimed he honestly believed I was one of the bad guys: it was a joke, but perhaps not too far removed from the truth.

I’d no place going along on the raid, and no right, but what can I say? I didn’t want to see Bryony hurt, and as the gunfight intensified I realised the police had met tougher resistance than anticipated. I was only one man, lightly armed with a 9mm pistol, so wasn’t exactly the heavy cavalry they required as back up. I held my ground. But I was on pins. As the fight continued, police activity intensified too, with Sheriff’s deputies moving in from a cordon they must have set up, to secure the perimeter. Uniformed Tampa PD officers, engaged minutes ago in securing the nearest streets, also converged on the city block, but didn’t enter the fight.  They set up a second battle line from behind their cruisers. Lightly protected by ballistic vests, they would still be vulnerable to the heavy firepower those inside the office complex had displayed, so it made sense they squatted in concealment behind their vehicles.

I caught myself chewing my bottom lip.

I wandered down the adjacent sidewalk, behind the cops that had set up a barrier of their cars across the road. Inside the office building the gunfire was lessening in frequency. Those cops I could see were still on high alert, but from their general demeanour they were receiving positive reports over their radios. By all appearances the raid was largely a success and the last of the opposition now seconds away from defeat. Some of the cops were stirring to move in on the building, to assist in the arrests and in securing the scene. There was a junkyard, but unlike the one where I’d met with Emilio and his boys, it had open access. I walked inside, then moved between rows of cars that looked like insurance write-offs and fender benders destined for scrapping once they’d been stripped of salvageable parts. The junkyard was next to an autoshop – the first probably supplying the latter with spare parts – and I’d only to step over a small collapsed brick wall to get on to the adjacent property. From the autoshop courtyard I had a better view of the office complex and more chance of spotting Bryony when she came out.

I didn’t expect to see a young black guy come sprinting from the rear of the complex and skid to a halt in the courtyard, concealed from sight by a van displaying the autoshop’s decal. Some of the cops to my right had witnessed the youth’s dash across the road, and some of them stirred to grab him, but in the next instant another figure appeared from the office building: Detective Holker was in pursuit.

He had no idea where the guy was, or that he was bouncing nervously on his toes, waiting for Holker to get closer. Holker was fully exposed in the street, and was still moving directly into the guy’s line of fire. I was in the process of yelling a warning when I recognised Bryony’s voice doing the same, and I clamped down on mine, knowing we were both too late. Holker knew too, but he braced for impact, bringing up his gun and commanding the guy to drop his weapon.

His answer was the sharp crack of the guy’s revolver, and I saw Holker fall on his arse, his face twisting up in agony. I couldn’t tell where he had been hit, but saw blood on the asphalt alongside him.

I’m unsure at which point I’d begun running, but I was swiftly approaching where the young gangbanger had concealed himself alongside the van. Bryony cried out Holker’s first name, even as the guy leaned out again to finish her partner. A gun cracked, and I heard the slap of Bryony’s sneakers. The bullet hit something metallic beyond the gangbanger, and it didn’t trouble him one bit. He prepared to shoot, and if I’d to be honest I couldn’t say if his target was Holker or my friend, but it didn’t matter.

He heard me at the last instant. Began to turn fractionally, but he didn’t see what was coming. My right cross hit him while I was still at a run, catching him on the back of his head. My fist felt as if it had been compressed in a vice, every bone and ligament, and all the soft tissue compressed into a dense mass half its previous size. But the sensation only lasted for a split second before the impact forced the guy’s head away, and the rest of his body followed it. I was still in motion, and used my forward trajectory to slam my right shin into a point just below his ribcage, and I instinctively knew that was it for the youth’s resistance. He flattened on the ground, his gun spilled from his lax grip, and I ended up standing on top of him like Tarzan the ape-man trumpeting his latest victory. I glanced across at Bryony and saw her running to help her downed friend, and gave a brief wave to assure her my captive was under control so it was safe to assist Holker. Perhaps I winked too, but it was to clear my right eye of a piece of grit stirred up from the youth’s collapse.

Bryony immediately went to one knee at Holker’s side, and his first instinct was to brush her off as if she was fussing over nothing. But Bryony insisted, pressing her hand on Holker’s wound. Thankfully it was to his outer thigh, so he’d probably live long enough for paramedics to reach him. Bryony’s face was a mixture of concern, and brash anger. She glared over at me, but her ire wasn’t for me but for the punk who lay sound asleep under my boot heel. A fully kitted tactical support officer was moving rapidly towards me, and I won’t lie: having his assault rifle poised to shoot at me wasn’t a nice feeling.

‘Relax, buddy,’ I told him, and showed him my empty hands, ‘I’m one of the good guys.’

He probably already knew that, but Bryony told him I was with her. I hoped her words wouldn’t come back to haunt her. The tac guy’s emphasis went from me to my prisoner, and I willingly stepped off the punk so the cop could secure him with plastic zip-ties he pulled from his tactical vest. He also cinched the youth’s ankles, then immediately secured the dropped gun. Other uniforms were arriving by then, some of them giving me funny looks. One young woman even placed a hand on my shoulder and tried to manoeuvre me away, but I shrugged her off and went to assist Bryony.

Holker saw me coming, and even though he was dazed with agony he scowled at me, then across at the youth I’d knocked cold.

‘Please tell me you didn’t kill my prisoner,’ he growled.

‘He’ll have a sore head and will probably piss blood for a week, but he’ll be OK,’ I told him.

Holker swore at me.

‘It’s OK, no thanks are necessary.’

Holker swore again.

I put his bad mood down to the fact he was in such pain.

He looked up at Bryony who was still compressing his wound. ‘Jesus, Bryony, what did I tell you about that guy?’

‘I think Hunter just saved your life, Dennis. Maybe a little gratitude wouldn’t go amiss this time,’ she scolded.

‘Saved my life? Yeah, maybe fucking so, but it probably wouldn’t have needed saving if he wasn’t within the fucking city limits! I wouldn’t have been shot if that cursed son-of-a-bitch wasn’t here in the first place!’

Blinking in confusion, I searched for an explanation from Bryony. Holker’s words obviously had something to do with an earlier conversation they’d had, but for now I was left in the dark. Paramedics were on the scene, and I was pressed aside by yet another uniformed cop, to make room. I backed off willingly, watching from a distance as dressings were applied, and Holker bundled onto a gurney. Bryony marched with him as he was wheeled for an ambulance beyond the police cordon. I kept back, until she’d said her goodbyes at the door of the ambulance, then she turned, seeking me. I waved, and watched her shake her head. She jabbed her finger in the general direction where she’d left her car, and I complied with her instruction, walking the opposite direction to all the cops now swarming into the scene. I took it all of the suspects in the home invasion robberies were under arrest, or perhaps permanently retired from their occupation. But Bryony’s work there was a long way from done.

Now that the fighting was over, dozens of local residents were out on the streets, all speculating about what had happened and forming their own opinions on the right and wrong of it. Some of them were angry at the police, but most wore relieved expressions, though the emotion wouldn’t last either way: one gang out of the way only left a void for another to fill. None of the residents had a clue I’d been involved, so I was able to thread my way through them without being challenged, or pressed for answers. I returned to Bryony’s car, but didn’t get in, as it was locked and I didn’t have the keys. Just stood with my butt parked on the hood, and waited, while I massaged my aching hand. It was a good forty-five minutes or more before Bryony showed. She’d unstrapped out of her Kevlar vest, and had it slung from her left forearm, the way you once saw cowboys lugging their saddles. There was no sign of her handgun, and I thought it might have been handed in as evidence. Her coral blouse was soaked with sweat, darkest where she’d worn the vest. It was only when I studied her that I saw her jeans and her blouse were splotched with blood.

‘You OK?’ I asked as she approached.

‘I asked you to wait there and not move,’ she replied.

I opened my palms as I stood from my perch.

She shook her head in exasperation, and went past me to the trunk. She deposited the vest in it, and I noticed the car rock slightly on its chassis under the weight. The trunk thudded shut. As she returned to the front, she picked at small slivers of glass in her clothing, flicking them aside. Her hands bore dozens of tiny nicks and scrapes.

‘Want me to drive?’ I offered.

‘No. I’ll do it. I’ll drop you on the way.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Where do you think? I want to check on Dennis.’

‘Any update?’

‘Get in,’ she said, opening the locks with a key fob. I got in. She settled uncomfortably into the driving position, and again picked at various shards of glass she flicked out the open door. ‘Holker’s going to be fine. He’s going to be hobbling for a few weeks, but he should fully recover.’

‘He always did hobble on those heels he wears,’ I said to lighten the mood. Bryony didn’t laugh though. She was concerned for her partner, and I’d no right making fun at his expense. ‘I’m glad he’s going to be OK.’

‘Could have been much worse,’ she said as she closed the door and fired up the engine.

‘I’m happy to have helped.’

‘I’m happy you helped too,’ she said as she drove away from the scene, heading for the nearby highway on the far side of Robles Park. ‘God knows what the alternative would’ve been, but, Joe, please, in future just do as I damn well ask, OK?’

‘I didn’t deliberately disobey,’ I said. ‘I stayed outside the police cordon, the punk who shot Holker just happened to slip through. I wasn’t going to stand idle while you, or even Holker were in danger.’

‘Yeah, I know. And I’m grateful.’ She didn’t sound it.

‘Did I get you in trouble?’

‘Possibly. I’m unsure. I just know Captain Newburger wants to see me when I get back to Franklin Street. He didn’t ask me nicely.’

‘He doesn’t need to know I was there with you.’

‘Dennis knows. So does any number of cops who were there when you almost took that kid’s head off.’

‘Forget “kid”. Let’s call him what he really was: a punk with a gun, and he was intent on killing a cop. It could have been worse, Bryony,’ I said. ‘I could’ve shot him.’

‘Thank the Lord for small mercies,’ she intoned.

‘Worse still I could’ve stood by like a law-abiding citizen and let him kill Holker. Tell your arsehole captain
that
.’

She didn’t answer. Her face was thoughtful, her bottom lip protruding as she stared through the windscreen. In profile she was even cuter.

‘You ask me, Captain Newburger should be congratulating you on a job well done,’ I said. ‘They were the home invasion crew everyone has been hunting, right?’

‘Certainly looks like it. We’ve seven of them in custody, including the-’ she was about to say kid but changed her mind ‘-asshole who tried to kill Dennis. Three dead. A preliminary search found goods matching those stolen during some of the home invasions. So, yeah, a celebration could be on the cards, but it will be kept low key for now.’

‘They definitely acted guilty,’ I said.

‘I know where you’re leading, Joe,’ Bryony said, and looked over at me. She only held the squint for a second, because she was steering up the on-ramp to the highway and it demanded her attention. ‘Except for during the Clayton robbery they haven’t been overtly violent. But that fight back there was probably down to circumstance more than anything; they probably fought back because they knew the game was up. It doesn’t categorically prove anything one way or another. Maybe under the circumstances they felt they had to kill Ella because she was about to raise the alarm.’