Catherine Lanigan - Protecting The Single Mom

“Police!” Trent bellowed with a voice that used to thunder down rocky mountains and desert terrain, as he kicked the door in.

The heroin dealers were sitting at a table counting money, just as the two undercover officers had planned. Both Sal Paluzzi and Bob Paxton had been Green Beret just as he was. They’d been to Iraq while Trent had been all over the Middle East. The three of them had worked closely on this sting for two months.

Trent knew a lift of an eyebrow, sidelong glance or nod of recognition could blow future efforts if this bust didn’t go well. Trent had worked undercover a few times and never liked it. He didn’t like living amid criminals even for a single day. He wanted them behind bars where they couldn’t sell dope to a kid or pull the trigger on an innocent bystander.

Trent worked best as the leader. The first guy in. The one who might have to take a bullet for his men, but who knew he could take down any obstacles in his path.

Trent was not just good at his work, he was excellent. He knew it. The United States Army had plastered ribbons and stars on his chest because they knew it, and now the Indian Lake Police Force knew it.

He was prepared for anything. Even to die.

Instantly, Trent recognized Sal and Bob slouched in their metal folding chairs watching the gang leader count money. Behind the table was a stack of plastic-wrapped heroin. Five-pound bags, Trent assumed. All of it looking like innocent sugar.

There has to be half a million dollars of dope in that pile.

Sal and Bob shot to their feet, whipping their guns out from under their shirts.

In a nanosecond, the tall, lean Asian dealer whisked his semiautomatic off the table, spun around and away from the table, making himself a tougher target to hit. Immediately he fired, spewing bullets at Sal and Bob.

Trent fired and winged the perp. Right shoulder. It didn’t faze the creep, who kept firing. Trent dropped to the floor, belly down flat, aimed and shot the perp’s gun out of his right hand. Blood sprayed the man’s face. He screamed and hugged his hand to his chest.

Another gang member, as rotund as he was tall, spilled off his chair, hit the floor and rolled, spraying bullets randomly from his black .40-caliber Smith & Wesson. Bullets pierced the tin ceiling, pinged off pipes, but, mercifully, didn’t hit anyone. Trent guessed the guy was a wheelman.

Trent shot the jerk in the foot. He squealed like a pig.

More bullets from the third gang member zinged through the air as he spun the table on its side, sending money fanning in all directions. The guy was quick. He moved like the wind toward a far wall where a window was covered by a sheet. The man was tall, dark haired and stared at Trent with black, cunning, evil eyes.

Eyes Trent had seen once before. Eyes on a terrorist in Afghanistan who’d held Trent dead in his sights. He’d thought he’d been a dead man for sure. But he’d been too fast for the poorly trained al-Qaeda shooter. Trent tried to shake off the memory, but it held him like a prisoner. The flashback of the sound of his gun firing reverberated in his ears. His aim had been deadly. Trent had lived.

The present slammed back at Trent as the sound of his men shouting broke through his PTSD terrors. He looked up to see the gang leader getting away.

“Le Grande,” Trent shouted, and the hair on his neck prickled as he stared down the leader. Trent wanted this one—bad.

Le Grande scrambled toward the far wall and was out the window. He bolted down the alley.

Trent cursed and leaped across the overturned table in pursuit. He swung through the window.

A black SUV started, and Le Grande jumped in the passenger’s seat. It sped down the alley, out on to the street.

Trent shot at the tires and missed. He ran as fast as he could, trying to catch up to the vehicle. As the SUV raced through a red light, dodging one oncoming car and swerving around another, Trent realized that the license plate had been muddied enough he couldn’t get an accurate read.

Out of breath, he stopped in the middle of the empty side street, bent at the waist and placed his hands on his knees to catch his breath. What he wouldn’t give to be nineteen again. At thirty-one, he felt like an old man.

Trent hustled back to the building and heard obscenities fill the air, but the sound of bullets had died. Then he heard the rattle of handcuffs being latched to wrists. Miranda rights were recited. More curses.

But Trent’s hands shook as he finally holstered his gun. He shoved them in his pants pockets and let his eyes scan the melee.

The interior was exactly as his undercover investigation team had described, but that wasn’t what Trent saw. Suddenly, he was inside a bombed-out building in Kandahar where his special ops team had rappelled in to extract an American marine who’d been taken prisoner by al-Qaeda terrorists. He smelled rotted food, urine, sweat and blood. He heard voices hammering curses in Pashto and Dari like rattlesnakes. The images slithered across his memory, reminding him of horrors.

Trent knew one thing—evil was everywhere. Even in Indian Lake.

And right now, Trent’s home was under fire. Drug lords thought they’d found an easy target here. Little kids, ripe for the picking. Citizens so naive and trusting they couldn’t believe that drug lords would set up shop in their town.

Yes, they were at war in Indian Lake—just like he’d been in Afghanistan.

Sal Paluzzi was talking to him, but he couldn’t make out the words.

Instructions.

Sal wanted instructions, and Trent was their leader.

Trent tried to remember. Yes. The chopper. There was always a chopper, and it would be here in seconds. Hoist them out as if they’d never been here.

“...back to the station?” Sal said. “Sir?”

Trent blinked. Only once. He was here. He never stayed back there too long. Couldn’t afford to.

“Copy that. Get these creeps out of here,” Trent ordered, as his eyes scoped the interior. He touched the radio phone Velcroed to his shoulder. “Coming out. Send in Forensics.”

Trent turned and led the way for his men—as was expected of him.

* * *

TRENT POURED COFFEE from the glass pot into a foam cup, sipped the stale, nearly cold brew, then dumped the rest down the drain. He looked around. The break area was vacant. Dead as a tomb. It was nearly midnight. Everyone had gone home. He stared at the stained coffeepot. He guessed the last batch had been made around suppertime—when he’d been bringing in the perps. Booking them. Filling out paperwork. Doing his job.

He shoved the pot onto the warming plate. “Too late for coffee.”

He went to the nearly empty vending machine and bought a pack of jalapeño potato chips. He hated them. But the Doritos were long gone. He knew. He was probably the only guy eating them.

He went to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of water. It was the only thing that the department provided free. That and the coffee.

Trent went to his desk and stared at the computer screen. He’d nearly finished his report. He felt as if he’d written a book.

Trent had been assigned to this sting for three months, but it had been ongoing long before his promotion to detective. The Indian Lake police chief told Trent that the Chicago Police Department had been hunting Le Grande for two years. The man was like a shadow. No one knew his real name, but he was a vicious drug lord, and his gang had tentacles from Houston to Chicago to Detroit. Le Grande’s network went straight through Indian Lake. Thanks to geography and unpatrolled country highways and roads, drugs moved from Mexico through Texas all the way to Toronto.

In Trent’s background report on Le Grande, he discovered that Le Grande was the name of the gang, though the members called this man Le Grande, too. His largest contingent gang was based in Chicago. His minions sold drugs on the first floor of the John Hancock Building, the Merchandise Mart and even in the lobby of the luxe Drake Hotel. These were scores of a thousand dollars each. Sometimes more.