Джеймс Паттерсон - 14th Deadly Sin:

Then, a month ago, his cancer had killed him.

Ricardo Perez hadn’t lived to see his grandchild, but he had felt the baby was a blessing and he had left Maya the deed to the store that had been named Mercado de Maya for her.

And she loved this place: every hand-lettered sign, the shelves her father and uncle had made from scrap lumber. She knew where every box, bottle, and tin belonged. Now that she was pregnant and on her own, the store meant survival.

She had moved upstairs to her father’s flat and intended to run this place and bring up her baby right here.

There was no way she would let anyone steal from her. It was just not happening.

Besides, there was something else.

When the men in the police jackets came to the store, she thought they were looking for information on the check-cashing-store holdup on Tuesday a few blocks away. But when she saw the masks and the guns, she knew that as soon as they got the money, they would shoot her.

Like they had done to José Díaz.

Maya was having physical sensations she’d never had before. Tingling, light-headedness, her blood pounding almost audibly. She knew that this was her body reacting to the fear of imminent death. There was no way to run or to hide, but she was thinking clearly and she was determined. She thought, No way they’re killing my baby.

She kept her father’s little Colt in her pocket. And when the man reached over the counter to get his hands on her money, she saw her chance.

She had the gun pointing at his heart, her finger on the trigger, and she said very clearly and firmly, “Drop your gun.”

Maya barely saw the second man move, he was so fast. His hand came down hard on her arm. She got off a shot, but even in that split second, she knew her shot had gone into the floor.

After that, the bullets punched into her and everything went black.

CHAPTER 21

IT WAS AFTER 8 p.m. when Conklin and I left the Hall, both of us wiped out and done for the day. My partner walked me to my car in the Harriet Street lot. We were making comfortable small talk about whose turn it was to bring breakfast to our desks in the morning. I told him I’d see him then.

I rolled up my window and had just fired up the engine when Brady called on my cell. I slapped my window, signaling to Richie to hang in.

Brady sounded edgy.

“Boxer, a tipster has reported multiple gunshots coming from a Mercado de Maya on South Van Ness Avenue. He saw cops exiting the store in a hurry. Sounds like a possible Windbreaker cop hit. Check it out.”

He gave me an address and I said, “We’re on the way.”

Rich was still standing next to my car.

“On our way where?” he said.

I headed my car toward South Van Ness with sirens and lights full on, while Rich called Joe and Cindy to say we’d been detoured. Within five minutes, I pulled up to the sidewalk twenty yards down the street from a small market with a sign over the window reading MERCADO DE MAYA.

A cruiser pulled up behind us. I got out of my vehicle and asked the two uniformed officers to drive around to the rear of the shop. Then Conklin and I advanced on the front entrance to the little grocery store.

This is always the worst moment: when you don’t know if the scene is still hot, if bullets are going to fly, if victims are being used as shields.

The front door of the market was wide open when my partner and I approached with guns drawn. The doorjamb was intact, lights out in the store. Smell of gunfire.

Hugging the doorway, I called out, “Police. No one move.”

I heard a moan and then a woman’s voice saying, “Over here.”

We entered the store. Conklin found the lights and covered me while I followed the voice to the floor behind the counter only yards away.

I holstered my gun and knelt beside the victim. She was writhing in pain and bleeding from what looked to be several gunshot wounds.

“I’ve been shot,” she told me. “He shot me.”

The cash drawer was open. Bottles had fallen off the shelves. There had been a struggle.

I heard Conklin speaking to dispatch, and backup was coming through the back door. I said to the victim, “Hang on. Paramedics are on the way. What’s your name?”

“Maya. Perez.”

I said, “Maya, an ambulance will be here any minute. You’re going to be OK. Do you know who shot you?”

“I’m pregnant,” she said. “You have to save my baby.”

“Don’t worry. The baby will be fine.”

I said it, but Maya Perez had lost a lot of blood. It was pooling on the floor, and she was still bleeding heavily from a gunshot wound to her thigh. I pulled my belt through the loops and cinched her thigh above the wound.

It really didn’t help.

I asked her again, “Maya, do you know who did this to you?”

“A cop,” she said. “Two of them.”

She coughed blood, and tears streamed down her face. She groaned and cupped her stomach through the blood-soaked fabric of her dress. “Please. Don’t let my baby die.”

CHAPTER 22

I GRIPPED MAYA PEREZ’S hand and mumbled assurances I didn’t quite believe.

Where were the EMTs? Where were they?

“This cop who shot you,” I said. “Have you ever seen him before? Has he come into the store?”

She whipped her head from side to side. “They were wearing. Police. Jackets. Masks. Gloves. Latex.”

“Is there someone I can call for you? Maya? Do you want me to call a friend, a relative?”

Colored lights flashed through the front window as the ambulance parked on the sidewalk outside the market.

Conklin shouted, “She’s over here!”

I stood up to give the paramedics some room.

“Her name is Maya Perez. She’s pregnant,” I said.

The EMTs spoke to one another and to their patient, lifting her onto the stretcher and wheeling her out the door. I followed them.

My heart was aching for Maya, imagining her fear for her unborn child. I stood for a moment and watched the receding taillights as the van took her toward Metropolitan Hospital.

Then I called Brady.

He asked, “So, this was another cop heist?”

“’Fraid so,” I said. “Windbreakers. Masks. Gloves. She didn’t know the shooter.”

As I talked to Brady, I was looking at all the likely places for a security camera to be positioned inside the store. I was hoping for an eye on the front door or the cash register. I found nothing, so, still talking with Brady, I went outside and looked for cameras on other shops that might be angled so that they caught the front of the mercado.

I said, “Brady. I don’t see a security camera. Anywhere.”

He cursed and we had a few more exchanges until I couldn’t hear him over the sirens coming toward us from all points. Conklin and I closed the shop door and were waiting for CSU when I got another call from Brady.

“Maya Perez didn’t make it,” he told me.

“Damn it!” I shouted. “Killed for the contents of her cash register. Does this make sense, Brady?”

“No. Come back to the house. I’ll wait.”

CHAPTER 23

IT WAS CLOSE to midnight when Conklin and I got back to the Hall. Brady was in his office, and although we’d been in constant contact for the last four hours, he wanted to talk to us.

The fluorescent bulbs overhead cast a cold light over the night shift behind their desks in the bullpen, making them look as bloodless as zombies. Brady, too, looked half dead, and I would say that my partner and I didn’t look any better.

Conklin and I took the two chairs in Brady’s cubicle. My partner tipped his chair back and put his shoes on the edge of the desk, which Brady hates, but this time, he let it go.

“The MO was the same as the last two times,” Conklin said. “The shooters left nothing behind except the rounds in Maya Perez’s body. The ME is sending them to the lab.”