White Night

Chapter 35

"Detective Connors requesting backup at the corner of Perry Place and Atlantic Ave. Suspect entered warehouse on the southwest corner, adult white male approximately twenty-five years old, six feet tall, 160 pounds, brown hair, wearing blue jeans and a black shirt. Detectives in pursuit."

Ross separated from her, his weapon already in hand.

Connors moved quickly, knowing she had to find Tanner before Ross did. If he was still gun-shy, he could end up getting jumped or worse, losing his weapon to their suspect.

Her hand went to the back of her own head. No blood, just a pulsing ache; Tanner had been quick. She couldn't even get a hand out to save herself before her head slammed into the floor.

The warehouse was dark and empty of people but full of crates, boxes, and skids—perfect hiding places for a dangerous suspect. She moved between the rows, glancing rapidly back and forth. He could come at her from anywhere. On the floor something shiny and slick glistened, a small drop of blood. She followed the trail, moving carefully, quietly, finger off her trigger.

She heard muffled breathing. Ross or their suspect?

As she turned the corner, Ross stood at the other end of the warehouse, both arms extended, his weapon trained on Tanner's torso, his finger on the trigger. Her eyes went to the threatening black object in Tanner's hand, a metal bar, potential impact weapon.

Rust-colored streaks clung to Ross' face like amateur war paint. There was more on his sleeve, but he said nothing to Tanner—no order to drop the weapon, no engagement of the suspect, just white knuckles clamped around the grip and ice-glazed eyes.

Suddenly she feared for Tanner's life. Ross could fire any second, but why? There were still other options. Tanner was over twenty-five feet from him, but Ross' eyes were lifeless. Their first case together and Ross was millimetres from shooting another suspect.

Her lungs burned as she raced toward them. "NYPD. Drop your weapon!" She needed Ross to know she was there, get the decision out of his hands, but her partner was still locked on the suspect.

"Drop your weapon, Michael!" she shouted.

Tanner was crouched on the floor, pale and panting, his shoulder soaked with blood. His hand remained clamped around the heavy bar, his body tensed. Fifteen feet between them now, but he could still rush them and cave in their skulls before they got a shot off.

"Drop it now!" she repeated.

Cornered suspects were lethal. If he came at her, she'd have to fire, but he looked "likely" enough now, a second shot would kill him.

"Just do it!" Michael shouted at them, raising the pry bar above his head, sweat glistening on his face.

"Do what?"

"Pull the trigger. End it!" he screamed.

Not suicide by cop, not now. She needed his help, his bullet, his story of what he'd seen that night. Killing him was the last thing she wanted.

"I know you're working with him!" he shouted.

Ross stepped forward, his hands tight on the grip of his weapon, his knuckles bulging, and she knew he would fire.

She held a hand out to Ross, signalling him to hold his position, and moved sideways to block any advance from him. Crowding Michael now would pressure him to attack.

"I know you're in on it," he shouted again.

"What?" She lowered her gun a little and looked at Ross, who stared back at her blankly. What the hell was he talking about?