Shadow Boys by Harry Hunsicker Page A

voice. “Place your hands on top of your head.”
    I headed toward the three individuals, walking with as much swagger as possible.
    “Who the hell are you?” Fat Albert put his hands on his hips.
    “DEA.” I held up my badge.
    Little Albert pulled a gun from his waistband.
    This was the point where a real DEA agent would draw his piece as well. But I was unarmed. So I kept walking.
    “Bitch owes me two large,” Fat Albert said. “You gonna cover that, mister DEA agent?”
    “Put the gun down and let her go.” I stopped about ten feet away.
    “You ain’t the five-oh,” Little Albert said. “Where’s your piece? And your backup?”
    Fat Albert lumbered toward me, fists clenched.
    When he got close enough to touch, I said, “I have the money she owes. You don’t have to hurt her.”
    Fat Albert stood between me and his partner, blocking Little Albert’s shot. He said, “Let me see the cash.”
    I reached for my pocket with one hand and popped him in the eye with the other, using the tips of my fingers. Nothing takes the fight out of a man quite like getting hit dead center in the pupil.
    Fat Albert screamed, pressed his hands to his face.
    Little Albert tried to peer around his partner’s bulk to see what had happened while not getting too far away from Sawyer.
    I kicked Fat Albert in the groin.
    He screamed again and fell to the ground, landing on his side, his back to Little Albert. His shirt rode up, displaying a handgun wedged in the waistband.
    I dropped to my knees and reached for the weapon.
    Little Albert was holding a mouse gun, probably a .22 or .25 caliber. He gulped, trying to comprehend how things had gone downhill so fast.
    Then he fired. And missed.
    The bullet hit his partner in the buttocks.
    Fat Albert was having a sucky day. I almost felt sorry for him. First his eye, then his nuts. Now he’d been shot in the ass.
    Little Albert tried to fire again but the gun jammed.
    I grabbed Fat Albert’s piece, an off-brand semiauto nine-millimeter. I racked the slide back to check the chamber.
    The gun was empty.
    I dropped the weapon, jumped up and charged. Head down, arms out. Tackled Little Albert.
    He dropped his gun and tried to fight, but I elbowed his ear twice, rendering him immobile for the next few moments.
    After a second to catch my breath, I stood, tried to keep my knees from shaking.
    “Are you okay?” I looked down at Sawyer.
    She was hyperventilating, arms crossed, face pale.
    From the parking lot came the sound of people yelling. From Hampton Road, the blare of sirens.
    “We gotta get out of here.” I pulled her up.
    “You don’t understand.” She pointed to the nearest unit. “I need to go in there.”
    Little Albert groaned. The sirens grew louder.
    “We are in the hot zone,” I said. “We really nee—”
    She opened the door and dashed inside.
    At the far end of the breezeway, maybe fifty yards away, three police officers rounded the corner.
    No choices left. I dashed in the unit after Sawyer, slammed the door shut. Hoped the cops didn’t see me.
    The apartment was a drop house. The living room was empty except for a duffel bag full of foil pouches, a boom box, and a couple of video games.
    Sawyer was on the floor, rooting through the duffel.
    I grabbed her arm, shoved her toward the back. She reluctantly let herself be guided away from the living room, a handful of foil pouches clutched in her fingers.
    “Lysol told you no coke, remember?” I opened the bathroom door, dragged her inside with me. There was a window over the tub that led to the parking lot.
    “Please don’t tell Lysol what Sawyer did.” She shut the door. Slid her arm around my waist. Drew us close. “Please.”
    Her breasts pressed against my chest, our faces inches apart.
    “Sawyer will make it worth your while.” She licked her lips. “She promises.”
    “Will Sawyer quit talking in the third person?”
    “Huh?” She frowned. “Look, just don’t tell Lysol where you found me.”
    I