Lee Child - MatchUp

In the alley, there were some familiar sounds, not a car door opening or closing, but the dragging of a metal Auburn keychain across the rear panel of a car as a key clicked into a lock and clicked and clicked, because for whatever reason, the key to his Mustang had worked in the ignition of the Mustang that was not his, but it would not work in the not-his-Mustang’s trunk lock.

But then it worked.

The trunk opened, the hinges squealing the same way they squealed in his car.

He moved fast because all he had was the element of surprise. He wasn’t worried about getting shot. There were far, far worse things that could happen. Three months he’d had a gold shield. Three months he’d been in suits and ties instead of short-sleeved polyester uniforms with sixty pounds of equipment around his hips that beat into his legs and abs like a pile driver every time he chased some idiot perp through the streets of Birmingham.

He loved his gold detective’s shield more than he’d ever loved a woman. Taken better care of it, too. And his lieutenant hadn’t wanted to give him the promotion because he didn’t trust Jeffrey, and Jeffrey didn’t trust his lieutenant because he was an asshole.

Forty yards away.

He heard the solid thunk of a car door closing. He clip-clopped on his one tennis shoe, the cold in his socked foot working up his leg like a python. The sunrise was two scant hours away, but the temperature felt like it was dropping by the minute. How was that even possible? Two days ago, the thermometer had been in the seventies and now he felt like he was standing inside a commercial freezer.

Thirty yards.

Suddenly, he dropped flat to the ground, face and palms pressed to the asphalt.

Muscle memory.

His body had reacted faster than his brain could process the sound of a gunshot cracking like thunder in the thin, cold air.

Had Not-Shayna found a gun?

And accidentally fired a shot?

The reports he’d have to fill out on that one. Not that he didn’t know how to fill out those reports in his sleep because he was a fucking vice detective and for the last three months, at least once a day, he’d taken a report from a stupid John who’d had his shit stolen by a hooker.

He pushed himself up.

Twenty yards.

Ten.

He crouched again, this time in front of the Mustang. He put his palms flat against the hot metal, trying to soak up the warmth. She had a gun, and the gun had been fired, and he was a cop so he had to do something about it.

Tires screeched in the alley.

He stood, shoulders hunched, so he could sneak a look over the top of the car. A blue Ford pickup, older model, peeled backward up the alley, leaving smoke and burned rubber in its wake.

He looked down.

His left foot was no longer freezing cold. Blood streamed around his sock, forming a lake, wicking into the material, soaking everything in its wake.

Steam came off the hot liquid.

He lowered himself down into a push-up and peered beneath the car.

Not-Shayna stared back, but not really.

She was caught in the in-between where life or death were the only questions going through her mind.

He’d seen the look many times before.

He scrambled around the car, head down as he made his way toward the woman because she had stopped being Not-Shayna the thief and had started being the victim of a gunshot wound.

He scanned the empty alley as he ran into the open. The woman was gut shot, one of the worst kinds of injuries. His Glock was in her hand. He touched the muzzle. Cold as ice, so she hadn’t shot herself. He took the gun and pointed it around the alley again, looking up for fire escapes or bad guys climbing into open windows.

The blue Ford truck.

Two people in the cab, one obviously the shooter. He’d seen them both—not their faces, but their shapes. One of them was wearing a baseball cap.

“Help. Me,” the woman begged.

The hotel windows were closed, but there were guests inside who must have heard the gunshot.

He raised his voice, “Somebody call the police.”

“Help,” she repeated.

Her hand covered her belly. Blood rolled out between her fingers, a steady river of red that indicated an artery had been opened. He pressed his hands on top of hers, trying to stop the bleeding. She screamed from the pain, and he screamed over her, yelling, “Call the police.”

She grabbed his wrist. Her mouth opened to cough. Blood sprayed out. Warm drops splattered his cold skin. Jeffrey laid his hand to her cheek. He looked down at her, aware that he had been above her like this last night, that just a handful of hours ago everything between them had been different. Her eyelids fluttered. He inhaled and the heat from her body reached into his mouth, traveled down his throat, and spread its fingers into his chest.

He shouldn’t have drunk so much.

He shouldn’t have talked so much.

He should have remembered her name.

“Don’t move.” The man’s voice had cracked on the second word. “I mean it, mister. Just—don’t.”

Slowly, he turned his head.

A skinny beanpole of a kid riding high tide in his cop uniform was pointing a gun. Or at least trying to. The revolver shook in the boy’s hands. His pointy elbows were akimbo. His knees kept locking and unlocking. He had to be at least six five, maybe one fifty after a good meal. His gun belt hung cowboy-style loose around his slim hips, but his eyes were wet with tears.

“Please don’t move.”

“It’s all right.” He read the man’s name tag. “Paulson, I’m gonna put down my gun, all right? That’s all I’m gonna do.” Slowly, he laid his Glock on the pavement. Even more slowly, he raised his hands. “Paulson, you’re holding that revolver the right way, with both of your hands in a standard grip, pointing at my center mass, but maybe move your finger off the trigger?” He waited, but the officer didn’t move. “That’s not how they taught you at the academy, is it, Paulson? What’d your instructor say? Keep your finger on the side, just above the trigger, so you don’t make a mistake.”

The boy’s Adam’s apple bobbed like a mermaid.

“Paulson, just think about what your instructor said. What’d he tell you about only putting your finger on the trigger when you’re ready to shoot somebody?” He indicated his raised hands with a nod. “Are you ready to shoot me, Paulson?”

Carefully, with painstaking slowness, Paulson snailed his finger off the trigger.

“That’s good.” He felt his lungs finally relax enough to take a full breath. “Now radio your boss. Tell him you’ve got a dead woman and an unarmed man in custody, and that he needs to put out an APB for an older model Ford pickup, blue, two passengers, one likely African American, wearing a Cleveland Indians ball cap.”

The kid started to do as he was told, but then Jeffrey made the mistake of relaxing his shoulders.

“Don’t,” Paulson screamed, his left hand going back to his gun, his finger tapping the trigger. “Don’t move. I mean it.” He seemed to realize his voice was more like a plea than an order. “Please, mister. I don’t wanna shoot you.”

“I don’t want you to shoot me, either.”

The statement gave them both pause.

A scuffling sound echoed down the alleyway. Another officer, this one more senior, came trotting toward them on what looked like a bad set of knees. His gun was out, but with a hell of a lot more self-assuredness. The chief of police, judging by the stars on his collar. He was barking into his radio, calling in the codes, alerting all available to get the hell over here.

“Don’t fucking move,” the chief ordered, sighting him down the nose of his revolver. “You try anything and I’ll—”

“I’m a cop,” Jeffrey said. “Birmingham, Eighth Precinct, Vice. My lieutenant is—”