Alana Matthews - Internal Affairs

Off to the left was another doorway that opened into a garage bathed in moonlight, which filtered in from a bank of high windows. It was about half the size of a football field, and there were cars parked in each of the nine bays, all but one in various states of disassembly.

Rafe smelled the odor of a cooling engine and ran the flashlight beam over the car closest to him—a shiny Jaguar XJ that looked as if it was in fine condition, no body work needed. There was a thin layer of road dust covering it and it didn’t seem to have been repaired at any time in the recent past.

So why was it parked in here?

Was it the owner’s car?

And, if so, where was he?

Before Rafe could ponder these questions, the beam of his flashlight caught something dark and glistening on the cement directly beneath the Jaguar’s front passenger side—

A small pool of red liquid that looked very much like blood.

It was coming from the crack beneath the door.

Rafe’s body tensed. Drawing his Glock from its holster, he shone his light through the car window and saw two figures slumped inside, both male, both very dead. Eyes wide. Mouths agape. Judging by their appearance—unshaven, rumpled clothes, with matching bullet holes adorning the middle of their foreheads—they weren’t Sunday school teachers.

And this was definitely the work of a professional.

Rafe was about to call it in when he heard a sound coming from across the garage—the faint clang and scrape of metal against concrete, as if someone had accidentally kicked a stray hubcap.

He wasn’t alone in here.

Jerking his flashlight beam toward the source of the sound, he illuminated the far end of the garage.

“Sheriff’s department,” he called out. “Show yourself and take it slow, hands in the air.”

He caught a glimpse of movement and reacted instinctively, diving sideways, just as a muzzle flashed and the bark of gunfire filled his ears. One of the Jaguar’s side mirrors exploded above his head and he dove for cover behind a tall, rolling tool cabinet.

Dropping the flashlight, he reached for the radio on his shoulder and clicked it on.

“Dispatch, this is Unit Fourteen. I’m under fire. Repeat, I’m under fire.”

“Roger, Fourteen, we’re sending backup.”

More gunshots punched holes in the Jaguar and the tool cabinet, landing way too close for comfort. Rafe quickly snatched up the flashlight and closed it, tucking it into its loop on his belt.

No point in giving this guy a target.

He returned fire—once, twice—then retreated into the darkness behind him and waited.

The gunfire stopped, followed by the longest stretch of silence that Rafe had ever experienced. His heart pounded wildly as he waited for the perp to make a move. He figured the guy would either start shooting again—assuming he had the rounds—or make like a jackrabbit.

Rafe didn’t have to wait long for the perp to decide. A dark figure popped up from behind the equally dark silhouette of a car and took off, heading for a door on the left side of the garage.

Rafe shot to his feet and shouted, “Hold it!” as he took off after the guy, leaping over stray tools and car parts that lay on the garage floor.

A moment later he was at the door and about to crash through it, when he stopped himself, thinking that might not be a wise move.

What if the perp was out there waiting for him?

Instead, he stepped to the right side of the doorway and crouched down to avoid being in the line of fire. Then he reached a hand out, turned the knob, and flung the door open.

As it swung wide, he half expected another flurry of gunshots—

But nothing happened. All he heard was the distant drone of street traffic.

Getting back to his feet, he carefully peeked around the door frame and saw the perp several yards away, working his way through the maze of cars in the front of the lot.

“Police!” Rafe shouted as he took off after him. “Stop right now!”

The guy didn’t slow down. He was nearly to the sidewalk now, only feet from where Rafe had left his cruiser. As the perp barreled past the last of the cars, he brought his gun up and shot at the black-and-white, shattering the windshield and puncturing one of the tires.

Rafe swore under his breath and kept running, moving into and through the maze—

Now the guy was on the street and jumping into a gray BMW. The engine roared to life as Rafe vaulted the hood of a junked Mazda and scrambled after him.

Just as he reached the street, the BMW’s rear tires began to spin and smoke, the car laying rubber as it tore away from the curb.

Rafe tried to read the license plate, but the streetlight was too dim and the plate was obscured by darkness. He whirled around, hoping his cruiser was still good to go, and found that the shooter had hit his mark. The right front tire was shredded and leaking air. Fast. No way he’d get very far.

Swearing under his breath again, he watched the BMW disappear down the street, then reached for his radio.

“The suspect has escaped,” he said. “He’s headed north on Davis Avenue in a gray BMW, license plate unknown. My vehicle has been compromised.”

“Roger, Fourteen. Patrol’s been alerted and backup is on its way.”

AS HE WAITED for his fellow deputies to arrive, Rafe went back into the garage. He found the switch for the overhead lights and took a closer look at the bodies inside the Jaguar.

Two males, approximately thirty years old, one with a tattoo of a spider on his neck. They both looked Slavic to Rafe, maybe Russian, which immediately brought to mind the Russian mob.

Were these guys connected?

Was it a contract killing?

Judging by the placement of the wounds, Rafe had no doubt it was a professional hit, but he’d failed to get a look at the shooter and had no idea if he’d been chasing another Russian or someone else entirely.

Knowing full well that he was breaking protocol, Rafe untucked and used his shirttail for protection as he reached for the passenger door handle. He’d have a heck of a time explaining any stray prints. Swinging the door open, he leaned inside and carefully checked the pockets of the victim closest to him.

Nothing. No wallet. Keys. Coins. Cigarettes. Not even a stick of gum. Rafe closed the door, then moved around to the driver’s side and did the same thing with the other victim, getting the same results. The shooter had obviously cleaned house after he’d made the hit.

Rafe was about to close the car door when he spotted something on the floor mat near the driver’s left foot.

A small, narrow slip of paper.

He reached down, snatched it up and tilted it toward the light, noting that it was a receipt for a fill-up at a Western Star service station just across town.

The time stamp read 2:45 a.m.

Rafe knew this could very well be the key to identifying the victims—and, by extension, the shooter. He also knew he should return it to the floor mat where he’d found it. But as the sound of approaching sirens filled his ears, he stuffed it into his jacket pocket and closed the car door.

A moment later, he stepped outside to greet his colleagues.

“Let’s go through it one more time,” Kate said.

Rafe balked. “Seriously?”

They were standing outside the auto repair shop. The roll doors had all been raised, the garage overheads lighting the yard as a flurry of crime scene techs moved in and out of the building.

“Look, Rafe, I know it’s late, I know your shift is almost over, but if this is a mob hit, things could get sticky. I want to make sure all our bases are covered.”

Rafe hadn’t been surprised when his big sister, Kate, showed up at the scene. She was the Homicide Squad’s best investigator, specializing in organized crime, and anything that smacked of a professional hit was usually passed off to her. She took her job very seriously and had the tenaciousness of a bulldog. She also got results and was the envy of every investigator on the squad.