First Drop by Zoe Sharp Page A

sloping dirt shoulder of the highway.
     
    I let the car roll slowly to a halt, raising dust as we did so. There was a ditch and a post and rail fence to the right-hand side of the car and beyond that I could just make out a sandy piece of waste land, probably an undeveloped building plot.
     
    On the other side of the highway were lock-up industrial units with chain link fencing round the boundary and orange sodium lighting. A little further on I could see a stuttering neon sign advertising a small bar.
     
    The cop brought his cruiser to a halt about three or four metres behind our rear bumper. He cut out the siren but left his lights on, which made it impossible for me to tell what car he was driving. All I knew was that the red and blue light bar meant he was with the county police.
     
    I palmed the Mercury’s column gearlever up into neutral, keeping the engine running and my foot on the brake pedal so our lights cut down his visibility into the rear of the car. Then I released my seatbelt, put both hands on the top of the steering wheel and faced forwards. All the time I was covertly watching his approach in the driver’s side door mirror.
     
    Any hopes I might have been harbouring that this was just a routine traffic stop went out of the window as soon as the cop got out of his car. When you ride a motorbike you’re used to being pulled over, but this guy didn’t swagger up with all the confident bravado of someone who has the power at his disposal to take your driving licence away from you and the temperament to abuse it.
     
    Instead, he came out in a fast nervous crouch, his gun already in his hands, and started to crab towards my door.
     
    “Out of the car! Out of the car!” he was yelling, his voice pitched high and close to breaking point. Even in the poor light he didn’t look old enough to shave, let alone drive a car or graduate from a police academy.
     
    Trey had started to fidget in his seat.
     
    “Keep still for God’s sake and stop giving him a good excuse to shoot you,” I snapped under my breath. The kid froze.
     
    I didn’t move either. The cop’s advance stalled about four or five feet away, reluctant to come any nearer. He was only too aware of the possibilities of my trying to make a break for it by thumping the car door into him. He didn’t want to come and get me, and I didn’t want to go to him.
     
    Stalemate.
     
    Closer to, I could see he was holding a large-calibre Glock semiautomatic and his hands were shaking. He was still bawling at me, sounding breathless now, as though he hadn’t stopped to draw in air.
     
    Because of the lights from the cruiser I didn’t immediately see the second car pull up softly behind the pair of us.
     
    When I did notice it my first reaction, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, was that the cop had called for back-up. If we were as dangerous as his manner clearly suggested, he’d been taking a huge risk stopping us on his own to begin with. I reckoned that a keen and youthful brand of inexperience had probably come into play there.
     
    In my mirrors I saw the car doors on both sides of the newcomer open. The young cop whirled round but he didn’t look relieved. Not more cops, then. He seemed unable to decide which of us now presented the greater threat. He ended up dancing a fretful jig in the middle, the barrel of his gun swinging wildly between the two of us.
     
    “Stay back!” he barked. “Remain in your vehicle!”
     
    I ducked my head a little, trying to see what was going on behind me without actually turning but I couldn’t make out anything clearly. The cruiser’s lights acted as a shield.
     
    The cop cast another look at me, still sitting immobile behind the wheel and made his decision. He took a couple of steps back towards the newcomers. That was as far as he got.
     
    Both men from the car behind the police cruiser opened up at the same moment. Small arms, probably, but I couldn’t see what they were