Frank Zafiro - Under a Raging Moon

Not that it would matter, Chisolm figured. They’d gotten fresh tracks before.

Payne clenched his jaw as he approached Hamilton. Right or left? North or south?

He tried to remember a call or a stop he’d had on Jackson but couldn’t.

Where the hell is Jackson?

He had a fifty-fifty chance. Besides, he’d been on five perimeters before and they never caught the guy. They’d never been there soon enough.

Kopriva pulled up to a stop at Mission and Standard with his overheads on, blocking traffic. He notified radio of his perimeter location. He saw another car doing the same at Hamilton and Mission and heard Thomas Chisolm check out there. Another patrol car slipped by Chisolm’s location, it’s lights on.

Probably the K-9, on his way to another fruitless track.

Kopriva wondered if Gomez and the other K-9 guys were getting frustrated yet.

Winter held the driver’s license in his hand, about to go back to his car and check her name, when he paused. The driver stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel. She looked thin.

Too thin.

And very nervous.

Winter glanced at her driver’s license. The picture was almost three years old and a much fuller faced smiled out from the photo.

She looked like a junkie to him. Actually, more like a crack-head. Junkies were usually tight and wouldn’t talk, but crack-heads weren’t so loyal.

Winter decided to interview her.

The throaty idle of the engine made it hard to hear the muffled voices, but he could make out most of it. He wondered why Carla stopped so soon after they left the store, but then he’d heard the tinny crackle of a police radio outside her door. There was no mistaking the calm authority in the voice he heard.

“Step out of the car, miss.”

James Mace made his decision in an instant.

Carla sat stock-still in the front seat of the white Chrysler, just like she had been told to. Do not get out of the car , he had drilled into her. Just sit there, no matter what they say. If they want you to get out of the car, we are fucked. So sit still and don’t worry.

Carla sat still, but she couldn’t stop from worrying.

Winter waited a few moments when the driver did not immediately obey his command. Sometimes nervous people were slow to respond. Maybe she had a warrant, too. He probably should have run her name first.

“Miss, step out of the vehicle,” he ordered again.

In the next instant, he saw a flash of movement in the back seat. Winter’s mind struggled to process the information. He’d looked in the back seat. It had been empty.

Winter turned, ripping his gun from his holster, but he wasn’t nearly fast enough.

From inside the trunk, Mace pushed the back seat forward. The cushion slid across the seat and struck the back of the front seat. Carla gave a small yelp. He ignored her as he slid out of the trunk and into the back seat. Mace trained his weapon on the fat cop standing at the window. He wished for an M-16 like when he had been a Ranger, but the thirty-eight bucked slightly in his hands as he squeezed off three quick rounds. The roar of the gun filled the car.

The rear driver’s side window shattered on the first shot. The bullets bit into the cop and shock registered on his jowly face. Mace saw a squirt of blood leap out of the cop’s left eye as his first shot went high. The other two slapped into his chest, disappearing into the dark uniform shirt.

Nice tight group .

The cop fell, disappearing from view.

Carla screamed.

“Drive, you stupid bitch!” Mace screamed at her, “or I’ll fucking shoot you next.”

Winter felt himself go thunk on the asphalt. For a second, he couldn’t see. He felt wetness on his face, the left side, but the greater pain was lower. In the chest.

He’d been hit.

He heard the squeal of tires and the thick odor of exhaust assaulted his senses.

His left hand fumbled at his belt, searching for his portable radio. He located it and slid his thumb awkwardly into the small notch at the back where he hit the tiny red panic button.

Now wait for the sirens. They’re coming.

He willed himself to stay calm. To breath. Focus. Listen for the sirens.

But instead, he remembered a time years when he waited in the midst of sing-song Vietnamese screams and the splatting sound of AK-47’s, listening for the sweet sound of helicopter rotors.

Another alarm tone, wondered Kopriva. What the hell?

“Signal-98, panic button,” the dispatcher intoned. “Charlie-251, Officer Winter. Jackson and Cincinnati. Repeat, Signal-98.”

“Holy shit!” Kopriva yelled, dropping his car into gear. He punched the accelerator and flew up Standard toward Jackson. On the way, he blew past a white Chrysler, which dutifully pulled to the side to let him pass even though it was driving southbound.

The alarm tone surprised Payne as well. He reached Hamilton.

North or south?

He decided on north, since more of the sector lay to the north of his location.

Good choice, good reason, he told himself as he swung the police car north on Hamilton.

“What the hell are you doing?” screamed Bates.

Payne winced. Fifty-fifty shot and he lost. He turned the car around as soon as they passed the concrete island.

“Sorry,” he told Bates.

“Drive faster or I will stop this car and drive myself,” Bates told him, his voice steeped in cold anger.

As soon as he heard the garage door close, Mace pushed the cushion forward and slid out of the trunk into the back seat. He replaced the cushion again. Carla cried hard, bordering on hysterical. He slapped her without thinking twice about it.

“Shut up. Let’s get upstairs.” He put his jacket, the wig, gun and money into an empty gym bag. They left the small garage and made their way up the stairs to his apartment.

Carla sniffled and hitched, but otherwise maintained herself all the way up the stairs. As soon as the door closed behind her, she started to cry hysterically again. “You shot a cop!” she screamed. “Oh my God, you shot a cop.”

Andrea and Leslie sat on the couch, watching her dispassionately. She turned to them both. “He shot a cop! We’re all going to hang! They hang people in this state, you know.”

“It’ll be all right,” Mace said. “No one saw us. No one knows but him, and he’s as good as dead.”

He wondered if that were true. Mace narrowed his eyes. He needed to turn on the TV and see what the news reported.

“Oh, God,” Carla sobbed. “He shot a cop.”

“Fuck that cop!” Mace snarled. “That’s what he had coming.”

Carla whimpered.

“The cop was the enemy,” Mace said, his voice low and intense. His body felt electric. “He would have killed us if he had the chance. I did what I had to do.”

Silence filled the room, except for Carla’s sobbing and muttering. Mace put his gym bag on the kitchen table and turned to look at Andrea and Leslie. Andrea remained silent.

Leslie finally spoke. “Did you score any smack, baby?”

Karl Winter clutched at his wounds. His chest seemed constricted and pain pulsed where the bullets had hit.

Thoughts flitted through his mind.

One bullet there or two?

Jesus, that was close to his heart, wasn’t it?

He should’ve worn his protective vest.

He couldn’t see out of one eye.

Winter chuckled, a wet raspy sound. His theory had been right about Scarface, hadn’t it? Almost right.

Then the pain hit again, followed by a coldness.

Mary. Mary. Had he kissed her goodbye tonight? He’d kissed her goodbye every day for twenty-four years, but he could not remember if he’d kissed her tonight.