Brian Freeman - Stripped

Stride had lost cops before in the line of duty, sometimes good friends, but never a partner. In the short time they had been together, Amanda had developed a special hold on him, as if she were filling the void that Maggie had left in Minnesota. He didn’t understand her sexuality, but he didn’t care. She was smart. Funny. An underdog. Stride liked underdogs. He felt more for the prostitutes and cocktail waitresses in this city than for the casino bosses in their five-thousand-dollar suits or the drunk tourists and convention rats looking for an easy score.

Amanda.

He felt depression crash down through his brain. He leaned against the wall of the shop and watched all his losses replay in his head like a sad movie.

If he had been faster than Blake. If he had taken the shot in the parking lot at the Limelight.

That had been his problem all his life. He couldn’t let go of guilt. His regrets clung to him forever and gathered into a stony shell.

He hadn’t been fast enough to see her. The paramedics were already shutting the ambulance door when he streaked up to the curb. Their faces told the story. Ashen and tight. Fighting time, fighting death, and losing both fights. She wasn’t expected to survive the ride to the hospital.

He found himself angry at Amanda for being there. It was brilliant, tracking Blake via the doughnut shops. The little things always brought down the smartest criminals, even if it was something simple like a sweet tooth for Krispy Kremes. Stride wished he had thought of that himself, and he half wondered if that had been the point of leaving the receipt behind from Reno. A taunt. A clue. To see if they’d pick up on it. Why didn’t you call for backup, Amanda? ‘It was such a basic lesson, all die way back to the academy. Never march into a high-risk situation alone, never be a hero.

But Stride knew why. She knew Blake was smart, that he would have spotted them long before they saw him coming. Anyone who had survived the extremists in Afghanistan could smell out a trap set by the local police. They had only one chance, one visit to the shop, to grab him. She didn’t want to blow their best shot, so she did it on her own.

There was the other part, too-the chance to rub it in the faces of the cops trying to force her out. To prove who she was and what she could do. Ego. He couldn’t blame her for feeling that way, but he blamed her anyway.

“You could have called me, Amanda,” he whispered aloud. But Blake knows you , he could hear her saying right back at him.

The door to the shop opened, and two uniformed cops walked out They didn’t see Stride on their left. They stopped outside and lit cigarettes, and the aroma of the smoke wafted to him and filled his lungs with a longing more intense than he had felt in a year. He looked at his hands, which were trembling. The craving was a need, as if his soul were bone dry and nothing on earth could fill it up again except a cigarette. He could taste it on his lips, inhale it into his chest.

“Can you spare one?” he asked.

He didn’t recognize them, and they didn’t recognize him. The taller cop, about Stride’s height, with black hair and a mustache, nodded and shook a cigarette out of his pack. Stride took it and bent down to catch a flame from the man’s lighter.

“Thanks.”

The first drag was paradise. Like angels singing. He couldn’t believe he had gone a year without this.

“You know her?” the cop asked, cocking his head toward the shop.

Stride nodded. He pursed his lips and blew out a cloud of smoke. God would forgive him, even if Serena didn’t. He needed this.

“Tough break, but at least it gets the freak off the force, huh?” the cop added.

Stride heard a roaring in his head. He watched the man grin. He looked at the cigarette in his hand, and suddenly it was something ugly and foreign. A sick, hacking cough waited deep in his lungs, ready to spew out and leave him breathless. He dropped the cigarette on the ground and crushed it with his foot.

“Shit, man, those are expensive,” the cop said.

Stride grabbed the man’s shirt and threw him so hard his feet left the ground. The cop slammed backward into the wall of the shop, his head and shoulders colliding with the stucco. Dazed, he shook his head and crumpled to his knees. Stride squeezed his fingers into a fist and was ready to send it like a pile driver into the man’s face. He reached down to grab him again, but the other cop sprang between them.

“Back off, back off!” he shouted at Stride. “Are you crazy?”

He pushed Stride square in the chest, but Stride didn’t move. His feet were rooted to the ground. The cop hesitated, and Stride knew he was wondering if he should pull his gun.

“Listen!” the cop told him. “He’s got a big mouth. He can be an asshole. Okay? It was a stupid thing to say.”

Stride walked away. He was about to cross the street, but there was a crowd of gawkers on the other side. He reversed himself and walked to the corner of the block. There was a vacant lot there, and parked on the gravel was a truck with backlit photos of stunning women on its panels. It was the kind of truck that did nothing but drive up and down the Strip, advertising escort service phone numbers for tourists. Escorts who looked nothing like the women in the photographs.

It was one more shell game in a city of con artists.

Stride sat down on the truck’s bumper. He wished to hell he hadn’t thrown away the cigarette. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed Serena, who answered immediately.

“Amanda’s been shot,” he told her.

“No.”

He filled her in on the details. They were canvassing the surrounding blocks, looking for witnesses, hunting for Blake.

“Is she-I mean, what’s the outlook?” Serena asked.

“Not good.”

“I’m sorry, Jonny.” She added, “Don’t blame yourself. There isn’t anything you could have done.“

“I know.”

“Shit, I wish I was there. This is driving me crazy.”

“I’ll keep you posted.”

He hung up. He tried to slough off his feeling of despair. When he pushed himself off the truck, he saw someone jog around the corner. It was Cordy. He was breathless. The detective spotted him and shouted.

“Stride! I’ve been looking for you.”

Stride thought about the hatred that Cordy had shown toward Amanda, and he felt his rage building inside him again. His jaw was clenched so tight he wasn’t sure he could speak.

“What?” Stride hissed.

Cordy stopped short. He could read Stride’s emotions. His mouth was pulled into a thin line, and he seemed genuinely remorseful. “Hey, I know, I know. I’m sorry, man, okay? Sorry about a lot of things. Makes me feel like shit, it does. She bleeds blue like the rest of us.”

Stride nodded. He took a deep breath. “What is it?”

“We got a 911 call. Some hooker over near Harris Avenue. You know, the shithole hood near HQ? She says she saw our guy taking another of the street girls into an apartment building.”

Stride frowned. “A hooker? Blake? That doesn’t sound right”

“Maybe he figures he needs a hostage.”

“Is she sure?”

Cordy nodded. “Yeah, yeah, swears up and down it’s the guy. Says she’s seen the sketch all over town”’

“Did we get an address? An apartment number?”

“Not the number, but we got the building, yeah.” He rattled off the address. “Takes balls, huh? Guy’s been holed up so close to us we could have pissed out the window and drowned him.”

“How long ago did she see them?”

“Five minutes, maybe ten.“

Stride began to understand what Amanda felt. The desire to go it alone. To take Blake on mano a mano , just the two of them, where he could exact revenge for Amanda and all the others who had died. The cop in the parking lot at the Limelight. Peter Hale. Tierney Dargon. MJ Lane. Alice Ford. Stride could see Blake’s face and the arrogant smile as their eyes met. He wanted to drive over to the apartment building and storm inside, riding a wave of fury and adrenaline.