Cop (The Police Trilogy Book 2) Page 3

  He swallowed a mouthful of food and washed it back with the last dregs of coffee, and the moment he put the mug back down, the waitress appeared to top him up. He looked up and gave her a big smile, which made her give him that look that many women did; the one that let him know they were interested. She was cute too, but didn’t come close to Eve.

  He watched her walk away, not examining her ass the way he normally would.

  When he turned back to look at the bag, his gaze moved beyond it and out into the street, and he suddenly realised what was going on.

  The bag was a taunt.

  A small posse of obvious gang members were gathered on the sidewalk opposite, taking turns to surreptitiously look at the holdall, their anger rising with each passing moment.

  Conrad was waving it under their noses, and having breakfast just to piss them off.

  And it was working too.

  “Oh sweetheart,” Conrad said with a raised, mocking voice.

  The waitress reappeared, darting a simpering look at Brandon, then plastering on a fake smile for the ass calling her.

  “Can I get another Coke?” he instructed rather than asked.

  As she left, he made a crude comment about her sucking his dick in the meantime, and the goons laughed along.

  Brandon stroked the last mouthful of sausage around his plate, mopping up the egg and ketchup, and popped it in his mouth, determined not to descend to their level just to curry favour. He could catch this asshole without pandering; maybe even easier if he didn’t play to his ego.

  Conrad was looking at him, the smile on his face withering, a look of confusion in his eyes, wondering why Brandon wasn’t joining in the mirth.

  “You got a pickle up your ass son?”

  “Nope,” Brandon said, putting his fork down and scooping up his mug.

  The coffee was fresh and hot, and felt great as he swallowed it back.

  Through the window, the posse was getting even more restless, and Brandon began to wonder if they had the balls to do something.

  He was willing to bet not.

  Conrad wasn’t stupid; he knew just how far he could push it, that much Brandon did know.

  But he was ratcheting up the tension deliberately, and Brandon couldn’t figure out why. What purpose did it serve? No doubt, all would become clear as the days went by.

  Brandon was about to scratch his chest, when he realised he’d be interfering with the microphone. Yet another itch that would have to wait.

  Something made him look down the length of the diner, where he saw their waitress emerge from behind the counter carrying a tray with a glass of Coke filled to the brim with ice and lemon.

  She took two steps and was stopped by a bigger guy, bulging at the seams of his diner uniform, who took the tray from her and began to wander this way.

  The whole thing unnerved Brandon, and put him on edge.

  He’d learned to trust his gut over the years, and now his gut was screaming at him that something wasn’t right.

  The guy was a genuine employee, Brandon had noticed him before now, serving another booth, so it wasn’t that. It wasn’t unheard of for wait staff to help one another out when they were rushing between tables, so it wasn’t that either.

  It wasn’t even the hint of faded gang tattoos peeking over the taut collar of the guy’s neck. This whole neighbourhood must be full of ex-gang members.

  No.

  It was the way he was holding the tray.

  Much too low.

  And at a slight angle.

  As he took a few steps closer, he made eye contact with Brandon, and his left hand came to the glass, steadying it, supporting it.

  “Heads up,” Brandon whispered, and felt the immediate attention and tension of everyone sharing the booth.

  Brandon bought his hand to his holster, using the table to disguise the move.

  He was certain now what was under that tray.

  The guy was a few feet away, and clearly supporting the tray on the back of his hidden hand, the glass hovering an inch or so above it.

  Brandon whipped from the booth, spinning on his heel, and grabbed the guy from behind, pushing the nose of his gun into the goon’s neck. The tray crashed to the floor, as did the glass, smashing into a thousand pieces at their feet, the Coke fizzing on the tiles.

  Someone at another booth screamed, and Brandon looked at the reflection in the window.

  Sure enough, the guy was holding a gun.

  Brandon had him by the wrist, there was no way he was aiming it anywhere other than his own thigh now. He pushed the muzzle deeper into the thick folds of the goon’s neck, and felt him relax, surrendering to Brandon’s choke hold.

  Conrad was on his feet now, his own gun pulled and aimed at the guy’s forehead.

  “Is that for me?” he asked, his voice laced with so much menace it sent a shiver down Brandon’s spine.

  The goon gave a single shake of the head, terrified at the amount of guns aimed at him now that Kane and Hemp had joined the party.

  Brandon knew that Conrad wanted to smack this guy in the nose with the butt of his gun, but he knew he wouldn’t do it in front of the whole diner. So he was half-expecting for them to drag this goon outside to the back alley and deal with him there.

  The window exploded.

  Brandon was on the floor before the shards of glass rained down around him. The Coke oozed into his jeans, and he felt a heat in his knees that made him realise he had knelt in the broken Coke glass. He was bleeding.

  At least he hadn’t been shot.

  The goon was rolling around in agony, glass sticking into him, tearing at his skin, oozing blood, his gun discarded on the floor and forgotten.

  A clip of bullets shot over Brandon’s head, and he heard the distinct sound of an Uzi being fired from across the street.

  Conrad was ducked behind the booth to Brandon’s left, and Kane and Hemp had taken cover on the other side.

  Screams punctuated the sudden silence, the sound of glass being crunched under feet as a handful of idiots got up and ran for the exit, ducked down, arms flailing above their heads in surrender.

  “Stay down,” Brandon bellowed from the pit of his stomach, and everyone seemed to get lower than they already were.

  He ignored his own advice, and leaned up, peeking above the table and through the broken window.

  A gang member was walking towards him, gun aimed and cocked to one side like the punk bitch he was. When he saw Brandon’s head, he squeezed off a few rounds that sent Brandon back down for cover.

  In the time he had to peek, he had seen two more gang members falling in to step behind the first, each with a gun in hand.

  This was going south.

  “Three coming in,” Brandon barked, then looked to Conrad, who was squatting on his toes, ready to move when the opportunity presented itself.

  “Fuck it,” Conrad said, and then stood up, immediately adopting the Weaver stance, gun out, arms straight, legs apart. He fired three quick shots, and dropped back to the floor.

  Brandon asked with his eyes.

  “Slowed ‘em down anyway,” Conrad shrugged.

  Brandon had to admire him for even standing up and trying.

  A groan made Brandon look to the floored goon, and he saw his hand grabbing for the discarded gun.

  “Hey,” Brandon snapped, and kicked out with a foot, spinning the gun off down the diner floor until it smacked into the counter side. And then he lifted his heel and smacked it down on the goon’s knuckles.

  He recoiled in pain and got the message.

  Brandon looked over his shoulder, seeing the fire exit a dozen feet back into the diner.

  “On three,” Brandon said, gesturing for the door. “One, two,” on the three, he was on his feet, gun out, braced, aiming down the barrel and squeezing the trigger. He shot four rounds, two hit flesh, two hit concrete.

  As a pair of gang members fell to the floor clutching their thighs, Conrad bolted from his hideaway, keeping low and smacking hard into the bar handle of the fire exit. Brandon heard Kane and Hemp moving out soon after, and by the time her was ducked back down, he heard the door clattering behind him.

  He looked back, and saw Conrad’s face peeking down low from behind the half open door.

  “Get the bag,” he hissed.

  “Shit.”

  Brandon schooched into the leather quilted booth seat and fumbled above his head, finding the bag handle and yanking it down. When he got back to the floor, he slid the bag down to Conrad, who grabbed it and disappeared.

  After another quick peek over the table top, where he didn’t see anything, Brandon kept low and bolted for the door. But when he slammed into the handle bar, he found it didn’t open.

  What the fuck?

  The locking mechanism was jammed, and the bar just wiggled loosely in its mount.

  Shit.

  He flicked his head left, then right, searching for another way out, but the only exit he saw was the main one back down the length of the diner.

  Brandon craned his neck and looked out through the broken window, again seeing nothing and no one, and he began to panic, not knowing where they were.

  He guessed they were on their way inside, or maybe around to the back to intercept the others as they fled.

  Either way, it meant Brandon had to head for the main exit and risk running into them.

  Fuck it.

  He sucked in as much oxygen as he could, then ran towards the front of the diner. He had to jump over the prone goon, still moaning in agony, and spin to avoid slamming into a quivering woman who didn’t know where she was anymore.

  As his feet pounded the ground below him, he looked to his right and out of the windows, hoping to see the gang.

  They weren’t there though.

  He had his arms straight down in front of him, his gun aimed at the floor and to one side, and it made running, even fully upright, slower going than it should be.

  A few feet from the door, he started to slow his pace and bring his gun up, ready to push through and outside.

  The door ahead of him opened, and he saw the remaining gang member stepping in, his Uzi already held up and ready to fire.

  Brandon came to a skidding halt, feeling the muzzle of the gun pressing into his chest.

  He had nowhere else to go.

  Five

  Eve watched Brandon’s ass as he left the room, heading for the elevator. Her nipples were poking urgently through her blouse, and she was wet as hell for him right now. A huge part of her wanted to run after him, push him into the elevator and fuck him, but the tiny, more vocal part, knew it could never happen.

  She found herself wondering what it would feel like to kiss him, to push her tongue into his mouth and feel him sucking on it, as his hands found her tits and worked their magic on her body.

  This couldn’t go on.

  She couldn’t spend the day aroused like this; she had work to do, a crooked cop to catch red handed – not easy when her clit was becoming more and more insistent, and her carnal urges were becoming too great to ignore.

  A few paces took her to the window, and she parted the blinds with her fingers, looking down to see the nose of his car emerge from the underground lot below.

  And suddenly she was overwhelmed with a deep sense of foreboding.

  It was a feeling she couldn’t shake, even as she went back to her desk and prepared herself for the working day.

  Over the next few minutes it grew and grew, a nagging sensation in the pit of her stomach, and she became more and more worried about it.

  It subsumed any sense of arousal she had felt, and finally she gave in to it.

  She scooped up her gun from the drawer, and was clipping it to her belt even as she strode quickly towards the elevator. The button lit up and she impatiently jabbed at it, listening to the motors bringing the car back up to this floor. When the doors slid open, she saw Cyrus looking back at her.

  “Morning,” he said, a lascivious grin on is face, and she knew what he was thinking.

  “Not a chance,” she rebuked, passing him on the way out as she stepped in.

  “For old time’s sake?” he asked pathetically.

  She stabbed the door close button and hopped from foot to foot as the interminable decline lasted forever. The moment the doors opened, she sprinted out into the underground lot and quickly clambered into her car.

  The engine was roaring and she had made up most of the ground to the ramp before she realised she had no idea where she was headed. The hood lifted up as the car clattered onto the ramp, and the morning sun washed into the cabin with a scorching heat and brightness that made her baulk.

  She didn’t stop at the top of the ramp, just pulled straight out, risking the ire of other drivers as she merged. A few horns honked in annoyance, but she didn’t care, and pushed the accelerator closer to the floor, weaving maniacally from tiny gap to tiny gap.

  Her best option was to head to Brandon’s station house, hoping that she hadn’t missed him before he left with Conrad and his Strike Team.

  The traffic began to thin a little, and she put some more speed into the engine, listening to it growl mechanically beneath the hood.

  Up ahead she saw the entrance to the station house, just as a giant SUV pulled out and onto the road. She caught a glimpse of Brandon sitting in the back, and eased off the accelerator, putting a few cars between her and them. She was fully trained at this kind of surveillance, and had no worry that she might be spotted.

  Seeing Brandon staring out of his window with a wistful look on his face had gone some way to alleviating her sense of foreboding, but it was still there, firmly rooted in her stomach, not even close to letting go.

  They travelled a few blocks, their vehicles invisibly linked with a thin thread, hers matching their speed with a practised ease, until the SUV pulled to a halt in a handicap spot outside of a diner.

  Eve parked up across the street in a place that afforded her a good view into the diner, its huge windows offering a clear line of sight all the way to the counter. She watched the four men climb from their car and wander slowly into the diner, taking a seat by the window, purposely placing a holdall in plain sight.

  She followed the gaze of Conrad, and saw a small gathering of men in gang colours on the corner opposite.

  Somehow, she knew that bag was meant to antagonise them, and sure enough they soon became restless and piqued.

  She looked from them back to the diner, to see Brandon ordering from a pretty waitress he thankfully showed no interest in. Then he stared out of the window, a slight smile plastered permanently on his face; and she wondered if his thoughts were following the same line as hers had earlier.

  Eve licked her lips, then darted a nervous glance back at the gang on the corner. She had no doubt something was going to kick off, and she reached for her gun, cocking it a few times to check the mechanism, before chambering a round and holstering it once more. Then she unclipped her seat belt, and let it slip back off of her shoulder, before unlatching the car door so she could easily climb out with speed if need be.

  The four of them were happily eating their breakfast now, but she could see a growing look of unease on Brandon’s face, and she realised he too had now clocked the gang on the corner.

  That was something at least.

  And then she caught a glimpse of a few gang members surreptitiously slipping off down the block, darting into an alleyway she guessed would take them round the back of the diner. She looked back to see that the Strike Team hadn’t seen any of that.

  The moment she deduced what was happening, the remaining three gang members pulled out their guns and started walking towards the diner. Inside, she saw Brandon upend a waiter and put a gun to his neck.

  Within seconds, the window exploded and all hell broke loose.

  And inside, they were about to flee into a trap.

  Eve swept from the car, gun in hand, traversing the road quickly, using the cars to cover her movement.

  Inside the diner, she saw Conrad stand up and fire off a series of shots that slowed the progress of the three gang members somewhat.

  She reached the building at the corner, ducking behind a newspaper vending machine, and getting a good view of the front entrance of the diner.

  Some more shots rang out and she heard a scream of agony. When she looked, two of the gang were down, and the third had bolted behind a mini van.

  Eve couldn’t see into the diner save through the glass door, and she had no way of knowing who was inside or where they were.

  People were running past her now, their haste fuelled by fear and self preservation. She used the melee as cover, and moved from behind the vending machine, trotting across the road and falling behind a parked car. Peeking through the door windows, she could see a bit further into the diner now, and saw Brandon getting up and heading for the door.

  And she also saw the remaining gang member heading for the same door from the other side.

  Shit.

  She stood up and aimed her gun, just as Brandon came through the door and walked into the muzzle of the Uzi.

  Three squeezes of the trigger, and three shots hit the gang member in the back and shoulder. He fell to the ground, his gun clattering on the sidewalk, and she saw Brandon looking back at her, wide eyed with fear and gratitude.

  She came round the car and kicked the Uzi towards Brandon. He picked it up and she was overcome with the urge to wrap herself into his body, to plant kisses on his mouth and face, to show him just how grateful she was that he was still alive and unharmed.