Red Alarm [A Detective/Thriller Story] DISCONTINUED

Chapter 19

Just as Atarah thought her world was ending, to her surprise, the earsplitting noise came not from an explosion but the sound of a bullet shot from behind her.

She peered through her shoulders and it was like a wave of relief came washing the tension off her face. Three, no, five police cars forming a horizontal line in their red and blue stripes became their saving grace. A lean police officer dressed in carob khaki pants was alerting nearby tourists to evacuate the quadrangle with a megaphone on hold.

Puzzled, the man pressed on the button again. His eyes shifted to the strings. One of the chords, the red one, was detached. He tried stringing it back to place but both hands were now at hold of strong grasps. Two cops had grabbed one arm each, with their quick reflexes, preventing him to do so.

"No," he protested. Despite the pain from the bleeding wound on his right shoulder, he extended his bony shank's length, trying to get a hold of the mechanism now left untouched on the ground.

"Sir, you're under arrest for felony and attempted murder," one of the policemen securing his arm read his charges. "Anything you say will and can be used in court."

"Lieutenant Camembert are you alright?" asked the officer who pushed the trigger.

"I'm fine," she flattened the dust off her wrinkled jeans and expressed her concerns for the mortified hostage. "Ma'am can you stand?"

The woman who suffered no affliction eliminating the redness on her neck was still nailed on the lawn of Bermuda grass. "Good riddance," she blatted. "I need an ambulance. Somebody call an ambulance!"

News traveled fast. A flock of thieving reporters came flushing right in the scene, she needed to fled the commotion into one of the police cars. It only took a minute but the woman was already carried to an ambulance, now a blush of dim gray in the distance. The constabulary already bundled the man in handcuffs inside another car, tossing in the musty overcoat after him.

Atarah lifted her head, she spotted her team from afar, rushing to her aid. She'd not blamed them for coming down late. After all, she believed they were the brains behind the epic saving before they went untimely to popping up like balloon animals.

"Thank goodness you're alright," said Detective Hopkins to the lieutenant who was now out of the car.

They told them about their short escapade, after giving a quick apology of course. They were out for lunch so they didn't took notice of her warning. Luckily, Samantha heard the radios mumbling like a unison choir on her way to lunch. She figured it was the team captain's voice right away.

"Oh come on," the flattered officer did not want to take credit for everything. "If it wasn't for Detective Carter, we wouldn't have figured out she was in danger."

"The important thing now is that she's safe," Cole cut off. "And the bomb didn't tear the bits of any citizen."

As if they'd run out of conversations, the group became silent. A switch turned on Atarah's brain, lighting up a bulb of reminder. Shoot. That's right! She was meeting the mayor beforehand. She swung her bag onto her shoulders and once again smoothened the invisible wrinkles on her vêtements, a fancy word they would like to prefer to clothes in French.

"I have to go," she checked her clock. It was as if she'd already bid the bombing threat goodbye.

"But you're not well yet," Cole shot her a concerned gaze. "Can't you tell the mayor to move the meeting some time? You need to rest."

"I'm fine."

"No you're not."

"Yes, I am."

"No you're -."