Frank Zafiro - Under a Raging Moon

Katie didn’t answer.

“You went in and did what was necessary,” Westboard continued. “I’d say the long view is that you’ll always do what it takes.”

Slowly, Katie nodded. He made sense. “When did you get so wise?”

Westboard shrugged. “Everyone has their demons, Katie. You faced yours.”

“And what are yours?” Katie asked playfully.

Westboard blanched and looked away.

Before she could apologize, the screen door squeaked open and Sgt. Shen appeared in the doorway. The lithe supervisor gave a wave to Fred as he walked down the walkway toward Katie and Westboard.

“Well,” he said when he reached them, “that’s taken care of.”

“Are they filing a complaint?” Katie asked.

“Complaint? No.” Shen smiled. “I assured them the City would pay for a new door and cover the cost of any dry cleaning for soiled undergarments.”

Katie gave a sigh of relief. “I’m sorry, Sarge. I-”

Shen raised a hand. “You already explained. Your actions were reasonable. Actually, they were brave and a little risky. But you did what you had to do. Just write an informational report for me, okay?”

She nodded. “Thanks.”

Shen smiled and headed back to his own car.

“Hey, Sarge?” Katie called after him.

Shen turned.

“Who won the fight?”

Shen smiled. “I believe the hometown hero went down in the ninth. Left hook.” He pantomimed a sharp punch to the head, then turned and continued to his car.

Katie looked at Westboard and shrugged. “Guess he’s not number fourteen anymore.”

2217 hours

Winter pulled into the alley and shut off the engine, now centrally located for three of the five stores. The other rover would be responsible for the remaining two. Hart wanted them to drive between the stores constantly, which Winter thought was ridiculous and refused to do. The surveillance vehicle’s job was to watch the store. He’d respond and watch for the getaway.

Besides, the odds that Scarface would hit tonight were not great, and the odds of hitting one of the targeted stores even slimmer. Karl Winter settled in for a long night.

He opened his lunch cooler. On top of the neatly packed sandwich, crackers and orange juice, Mary had placed a small note and his favorite candy bar.

Be safe and save some energy. Love, M.

He read the note with a smile, then absently placed it in his breast pocket. He closed the lunch cooler and opted for the thermos of coffee.

An hour flew by. Winter turned the ignition key to start and listened to the stereo on low volume. Like Chisolm, he had served in Vietnam, though his tour was considerably less glamorous. Just your run of the mill blood and guts every “11-Bush” saw. None of that Special Operations stuff.

He still liked the music from that era. Whenever he heard those songs, he remembered the good times he had. The partying he did on leave. The card games in the barracks. The bad times, the scary times, remained buried. He wondered if the same were true for Chisolm. The thought made him realize that they’d never talked about it.

Ah, well. Some things didn’t need to be discussed. They were better left alone.

Winter thought about the note in his pocket and pulled it out, re-reading it. Except maybe for Reiser, he was the only guy in the platoon with a successful relationship with a woman. Ridgeway’s situation amounted to an ongoing soap opera. Gio flitted from woman to woman without remorse. Jack Stone was a confirmed bachelor, probably too acerbic to ever hang on to a woman. Even the Sarge had woman trouble. Poole seemed to be growing more bitter and despondent every day.

And then there was Mary and him.

Some guys have all the luck, Winter mused, putting the note away.

A large white Chrysler drove by. He didn’t notice anything remarkable about it. An anxious white female drove and as she darted past the alley, she was looking into the back seat. Winter sipped his coffee and reached for his notebook and scowled. That was a little suspicious. He decided to write down the plate, just in case.

The alarm tone startled him and he spilled his coffee all over his notebook.

2331 hours

Stefan Kopriva accepted the license from the driver’s hand and scrutinized it. The robbery alarm tone blared over his portable. He tossed the license back to the teenager. “Slow it down,” he ordered and hustled back to his car. Once inside, he flipped his siren on and squealed his tires as he left.

Hart picked up the phone halfway through the first ring. He’d heard the alarm tone.

“Is it Scarface?” he asked Carrie Anne, the radio supervisor.

“The description matches.”

“I didn’t hear the codeword.”

“There was no ‘Red Dog’ given. This location was not under surveillance.”

Hart hung up the phone, silently cursing his luck.

Winter whipped out of the alley and caught up to the white Chrysler. He activated his overhead lights and put out his location to radio. The car pulled to the side of the road at Jackson and Cincinnati. Winter turned on every light the patrol car was equipped with, unfamiliar with their operation after so long on day shift.

Once he had showered the Chrysler in artificial light, he exited the car and approached cautiously, his right hand resting on his pistol. He considered waiting for a back-up, but didn’t want to waste too much time if this were not the vehicle. His theory could be wrong, after all.

He reached the rear bumper and shined his mag light into the back seat.

Probationary Officer Maurice Payne drove westbound on Foothills from Crestline. He wondered how angry he’d made Bates when his unexpected quick turn caused the FTO to spill his drink on his leg. That concern faded as he struggled to place Charlie-251’s location in relation to his own.

Jackson and Cincinnati.

Jackson, Jackson .

He drew a blank.

Cincinnati, then. Cincinnati was just west of Hamilton. Well, one or two west, anyway, but Hamilton curved around into Nevada just north of the street he was on. So if he made a turn onto that arterial and headed along it, he would cross Jackson. Then Cincinnati would only be a block or two off.

But which way? Was Jackson north or south of this street?

Payne gripped the steering wheel, white knuckled, deathly afraid to reach for his street locator and reveal to his FTO that he didn’t know the answer.

Back on the telephone with dispatch, Hart barked orders at Carrie Anne. “Set up a perimeter on that store, three blocks in each direction.” He squeezed the phone receiver tightly in his hands. He could not afford for Scarface to get away during his task force detail. “Does Winter have a backup on the way?”

“Yes,” Carrie Anne said. He heard her typing at her keyboard. “It’s Baker-133, Bates and Payne.”

“Where are they coming from?”

More tapping. “Crestline and Foothills as of thirty seconds ago,” she answered.

“All right. Get a status check on Winter.”

Winter shined his light throughout the interior of the car. It was dirty, but empty. No blankets, no room for anyone to hide. He checked the front seat as well. A few empty beer cans, but otherwise empty. The female driver sat with her hands firmly on the wheel, staring straight ahead.

“Charlie-251, status check.”

Winter keyed his mike. “Code four.”

“Code four.”

Kopriva heard that and automatically diverted to the store to take a perimeter position. He wondered how long the delay was on this one.

Thirty seconds from the store, Thomas Chisolm wondered the same thing. He heard Shane Gomez, one of the K-9 officers, switch from the south-side channel and respond to the store. The victim store was short north, so Gomez should get a fresh track.