gun, he cautiously walked around his car and up the front walk of his house. His heart thumped and he felt an anxious tingle in his throat. Adrenaline fed his muscles and primed them for quick response. All it would take was the muffled phump of a silenced gunshot from one of those bushes and his brains would be fertilizing the lawn.
Stay cool. That's the edge. Be cool.
The crackly sound of dry leaves crunching underfoot came from the darkness to his left, beside the garage. He stopped, cocked his gun, and crept towards the sound. The woman was a professional. He had only one chance. Her first shot, he knew, wouldn't miss.
The chilly night air raised goose bumps on his flesh and heightened the uncomfortable tension he felt as he inched around the edge of the garage and into the black shadows.
He couldn't be seen from the street. She could slice his throat and no one would find him until the stench of his rotting corpse was picked up by the wind.
The bush beside him shook. He whirled. Something moved behind him. He turned again, spinning into a crouch and firing. He heard an agonized screech and saw the gun flash spark in a pair of eyes.
"Drop the gun," the woman said behind him.
Shaw heard the sharp click of a gun being cocked behind him. He hesitated.
"Drop it now."
He let the gun slip from his fingers and fall gently onto the grass. The Bitch had won.
"Turn around," she said.
Dogs barked up and down the street. He could hear the angry sounds of awakened neighbors. He turned slowly to face her and the bullets.
The policewoman stood with her legs spread, her LAPD-issue Smith and Wesson braced in both hands and held confidently in front of her. With her curly brown hair and freckled pale face, and her starched blue uniform, she looked ridiculously like a schoolgirl arriving for a costume party.
Shaw exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging with relief.
She used one hand to pull a flashlight off her belt and shined it at him. "Sergeant Shaw?"
He winced into the light. He felt stupid.
"I'm Officer Barron. I was assigned to watch the house."
She lowered her gun and smiled sheepishly. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah." He looked over his shoulder. A lump of bloody fur twitched on the grass under the white light. A dead cat.
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. A fucking cat.
# # # # # #
Monday, June 17, 7:00 a.m.
The house was completely still. The light from the morning sun spilled in through Brett Macklin's bedroom window—along with the last surviving member of the Bloodhawks gang.
Groove slipped into the shadowy room quietly, his eyes glued on Macklin, who slept braced against his backboard, a blanket bunched up over his legs. Macklin's left arm hung limply in a sling. Blood-soaked gauze wound around his chest and a rib brace hugged his midsection.
But Macklin wasn't hurting enough for Groove. When Groove was through, there wouldn't be anything left of Macklin to bandage.
Groove slid a satchel off his shoulder, his tiny eyes never leaving Macklin's impassive face. It was time to scrag this asshole for good. Twice Groove had seen Macklin. Twice Macklin had looked like easy prey. Twice Groove had watched his friends endure agonizing deaths.
He lifted a Molotov cocktail from the satchel and hefted it in his hand. The gasoline sloshed inside the Coke bottle. Groove grinned and ran his forearm across his sweaty brow.
Groove dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. He flicked it. The light from the flame danced on the damp skin of Macklin's face. He touched the flame to the rag sticking out of the bottle and grinned again.
"Burn, you fucker," he hissed, tossing the Molotov cocktail. In that same instant, Macklin's eyes flashed open and he squeezed the trigger of the .357 he held under the blanket.
The bullet tore through the blanket and blasted apart the Molotov cocktail. It exploded in midair, igniting Macklin's blanket and splashing a wave of fire over Groove. The Bloodhawk fell
Stay cool. That's the edge. Be cool.
The crackly sound of dry leaves crunching underfoot came from the darkness to his left, beside the garage. He stopped, cocked his gun, and crept towards the sound. The woman was a professional. He had only one chance. Her first shot, he knew, wouldn't miss.
The chilly night air raised goose bumps on his flesh and heightened the uncomfortable tension he felt as he inched around the edge of the garage and into the black shadows.
He couldn't be seen from the street. She could slice his throat and no one would find him until the stench of his rotting corpse was picked up by the wind.
The bush beside him shook. He whirled. Something moved behind him. He turned again, spinning into a crouch and firing. He heard an agonized screech and saw the gun flash spark in a pair of eyes.
"Drop the gun," the woman said behind him.
Shaw heard the sharp click of a gun being cocked behind him. He hesitated.
"Drop it now."
He let the gun slip from his fingers and fall gently onto the grass. The Bitch had won.
"Turn around," she said.
Dogs barked up and down the street. He could hear the angry sounds of awakened neighbors. He turned slowly to face her and the bullets.
The policewoman stood with her legs spread, her LAPD-issue Smith and Wesson braced in both hands and held confidently in front of her. With her curly brown hair and freckled pale face, and her starched blue uniform, she looked ridiculously like a schoolgirl arriving for a costume party.
Shaw exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging with relief.
She used one hand to pull a flashlight off her belt and shined it at him. "Sergeant Shaw?"
He winced into the light. He felt stupid.
"I'm Officer Barron. I was assigned to watch the house."
She lowered her gun and smiled sheepishly. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah." He looked over his shoulder. A lump of bloody fur twitched on the grass under the white light. A dead cat.
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. A fucking cat.
# # # # # #
Monday, June 17, 7:00 a.m.
The house was completely still. The light from the morning sun spilled in through Brett Macklin's bedroom window—along with the last surviving member of the Bloodhawks gang.
Groove slipped into the shadowy room quietly, his eyes glued on Macklin, who slept braced against his backboard, a blanket bunched up over his legs. Macklin's left arm hung limply in a sling. Blood-soaked gauze wound around his chest and a rib brace hugged his midsection.
But Macklin wasn't hurting enough for Groove. When Groove was through, there wouldn't be anything left of Macklin to bandage.
Groove slid a satchel off his shoulder, his tiny eyes never leaving Macklin's impassive face. It was time to scrag this asshole for good. Twice Groove had seen Macklin. Twice Macklin had looked like easy prey. Twice Groove had watched his friends endure agonizing deaths.
He lifted a Molotov cocktail from the satchel and hefted it in his hand. The gasoline sloshed inside the Coke bottle. Groove grinned and ran his forearm across his sweaty brow.
Groove dug his hand into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. He flicked it. The light from the flame danced on the damp skin of Macklin's face. He touched the flame to the rag sticking out of the bottle and grinned again.
"Burn, you fucker," he hissed, tossing the Molotov cocktail. In that same instant, Macklin's eyes flashed open and he squeezed the trigger of the .357 he held under the blanket.
The bullet tore through the blanket and blasted apart the Molotov cocktail. It exploded in midair, igniting Macklin's blanket and splashing a wave of fire over Groove. The Bloodhawk fell
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