Frank Zafiro - And Every Man Has to Die

Battaglia exited his patrol car and stood by, waiting for her to take the lead. Carson didn’t hesitate. She strode back up to the car and shined her flashlight on the sneering driver’s face.

“Step out of the car,” she said forcefully. “Now.”

The driver muttered something in Russian, but surprised her by opening the car door. Carson took a step back to allow him room. She motioned for him to follow her back to the front of the patrol car. He paused, casting her a disdainful look, but eventually followed.

Carson maneuvered into position at the side of her car while he stood at the nose. Battaglia positioned himself at the front of his own car, within two easy strides of the suspect driver.

The driver stared at Carson with cold, hard eyes.

She opened her notebook. “What’s your name?” she asked.

“Why I have to tell you?” he shot back. “I no do nothing wrong.”

“Answer her,” Battaglia rumbled, “or you’re going to jail.”

The driver met Battaglia’s gaze with an unimpressed stare of his own. The two men locked into a brief battle of wills while Carson stood by, realizing that control of this stop-her stop-was slipping away from her.

She opened her mouth to ask the driver for his name again, but the sound of car doors opening and slamming shut cut her off. Recognition, followed by a wide smile, spread slowly across the driver’s face. He shouted something in Russian that sounded like a greeting.

The two passengers in the suspect vehicle exited and began walking calmly toward the driver.

“Get back in the car!” Carson called to them, but they ignored her.

She glanced at Battaglia, but he’d followed the driver’s gaze to the rear of their patrol cars.

Five white males walked toward them, approaching in a loose semicircle. A shot of fear exploded in Carson’s stomach and reverberated up into her chest. Her breath quickened.

The driver said something in Russian and one of the approaching men grunted in return. Then he turned his attention to Carson. “I still going to jail, suka ?”

Carson swallowed, then nodded. “Yes,” she said, her voice wavering. She winced inwardly at how weak it sounded. “You’re under arrest for failure to cooperate. Turn around and put your hands on your head.”

The driver laughed, that same sneer plastered on his face. “I think we leave now.” He turned away.

Fear pulsed through Carson’s veins, but a small patch of anger bubbled up from the pit of her stomach. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She was the police. People were supposed to listen to what she said, and do it. She was the one with the badge and the-

Carson drew her pistol and stepped toward the driver. She leveled it at his face, her jaw set. “Don’t move!” she said. “You are under arrest!”

The man blinked at her, no fear registering on his flat mien. Carson could feel the tension ratcheting up. Battaglia stood absolutely still.

“Take him into custody,” she directed.

Battaglia took a step toward the driver. Almost as a single creature, the surrounding men took a step forward as well.

Battaglia stopped. The driver smiled at Carson. “So maybe you can to see now?”

Carson licked her lips and swallowed, but she held her gun steady at the man’s chest. “Don’t move,” she said again.

“Or vaht?” he said. “You will shoot me for speeding ticket? I not think so.”

Carson stared at him, struggling to think what to do. The driver stepped toward her until his chest pressed the muzzle of her gun. “Shoot,” he urged her quietly. “Shoot me, you little suka .”

Carson’s finger twitched, but she knew she couldn’t do it. Her mind raced for options. All of this over a traffic ticket?

Battaglia’s hand moved to his radio. The driver fixed Battaglia with a deadly stare. “You call for more police?” he asked, then shook his head. “You do that, they no get here soon enough. Not for you two.”

Battaglia lowered his hand.

“Good,” the Russian said. “Bad for you to end up in hell tonight.”

Battaglia drew his gun and held it to his side. “So how many of you fucks are coming with me?” he growled.

The driver chuckled. “None, I think. Not tonight.” He turned away and walked back to his gold Honda.

Carson tracked his movement with her gun, but kept her finger off the trigger.

He’s right , she thought. I can’t shoot him for a speeding ticket.

All of the other men fell back and got into their respective cars. A moment later, the two cars pulled away and sped up the road, the taillights dwindling in the distance.

Carson stood still for a moment. The whirring of her patrol car’s rotator lights and the clacking of Battaglia’s flashers filled her ears. Then her hands began to shake. She put her gun back into her holster carefully, snapping the security clasps into place with trembling fingers.

Battaglia stood bathed in the red, white, and blue of their emergency lights, his pistol still clenched in his hand at his side.

Carson turned away and turned off the emergency equipment. When she looked again, she saw that Battaglia had done the same. He slid into the driver’s seat of his car.

“Clear your stop,” he said abruptly, “and meet me in the church parking lot two blocks south.” Then he goosed the accelerator and sped away down Post.

Carson nodded. She was unsure if he was angry at her or at the situation. She got back into her car and typed the appropriate clearance code into her mobile data terminal. Then she dropped the car into gear and followed Battaglia.

His car was in the center of the empty church parking lot. His headlights were off, but the parking lights were on. She glided in next to him, putting their windows right next to each other.

Battaglia’s eyes burned. “Are you okay?” he asked her.

Carson started to nod, then half-shrugged. The beginnings of tears prickled at her eyes and she tried to force the emotion aside.

“Scared?” he asked.

She nodded.

He nodded back. “Holy shit. Me, too.”

“It didn’t show,” she said, remembering his bold statement.

So how many of you fucks are coming with me?

He took a deep breath and let it out. “Yeah, well, you can never let that show. Not ever.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Son of a bitch. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“Never?”

He met her eyes, then shook his head resolutely. “No. Do you know what just happened there?”

Carson swallowed. “What do you mean?”

“I mean just what I said. Do you know what the situation was?”

She didn’t sense any frustration in his voice. “I think,” she said, “that if we would have forced the issue by arresting the driver, his friends would have jumped in.”

Battaglia nodded slowly. “Yeah, I’m sure of it. Only I don’t know if all they would have done is jump in. I think that there were guns that we just didn’t see yet.”

“So we did the right thing?” Carson asked.

“Yeah,” Battaglia whispered. “We did the smart thing. It was either let them go or get into a gun fight over a traffic ticket.” He paused. “Fuck!”

“Should we call a sergeant?” She figured Sergeant Shen would want to know about this. Plus, other officers should be aware.

“No!” Battaglia snapped.

The force of his voice made her jump. The shock broke loose her pent-up emotions. The tears of fear and anger welled up in her eyes, burst, and flowed down her cheeks. She looked away in shame.

“I’m… I’m sorry, B.J.,” Battaglia said, his voice softer.

She turned back to face him. “Why don’t we call a sergeant?”

Battaglia sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe we do. But if people hear about this, we’re going to get Monday morning quarterbacked to death. Everyone is going to wonder how we just let those two cars drive away like that.”