Janice Johnson - Cop by Her Side

Knowing all of that didn’t help. Clay had been raised to believe in traditional gender roles. His father was a domineering man, his mother gentle and clearly subservient. Clay supported equal rights and never had any trouble working with women. But he’d tended to date women who didn’t challenge him in any meaningful way, and in his hazy view of the future, he saw a wife who’d stay at home with the kids, making her life about him.

He still didn’t know why he found Jane, a woman who’d excelled in a macho profession, so compelling. But, damn it, she’d gotten to him from the first time he’d met her. He’d liked her. He’d been living for the chance to get her into his bed. The really shitty part was, he’d deserved to be dumped. He still winced at the memory of having let himself be goaded into talking about her as if she was nothing but another piece of ass while bragging about his own sexual prowess. That moment—when he’d turned and seen her face—was one of the worst of his life.

That was it. She turned and walked out. He’d left groveling messages on her voice mail. She hadn’t returned them. Pride and his own awareness that the wrongdoing was his kept him from leaning on her doorbell. Also, as a cop, he was especially sensitive to any behavior that would smack of stalking.

He’d spotted her from a distance a few times, but when she’d seen him, she’d turned in the other direction. The closest had been one day in the corridor at the courthouse. The way her expression had gone blank when their eyes met had hit him hard.

And yes, he knew he should have kept his mouth shut tonight. He had kept his mouth shut while he, Raynor, McAllister and Jane, as the ranking officers, had planned the assault. He wouldn’t embarrass her like that.

But if he had to see her go down—

Clay swore softly under his breath as he ripped off his white T-shirt and pulled on a black one followed by the vest, which he topped with a black windbreaker that said POLICE across the back.

It might kill him if he saw her reeling back, blood blossoming. If he had to watch as the light went out of her hazel eyes.

He swore again, more savagely this time. He might really die if he couldn’t keep his head in the game.

And he didn’t know if he could do it.

Clay never liked waiting. This time was worse than usual. Jane was at the top of his list of reasons he hated everything about this operation, but she wasn’t the only thing. He had worn, with pride, the Butte County Sheriff’s Department uniform every day for years. He might not wear a uniform to work anymore, but he still clipped the badge to his belt nearly every morning. Finding out at least two of the kidnappers were Butte County deputies eroded everything he’d believed about the men with whom he worked. The one that really got him was Bart Witten, a detective in the major crimes unit, a man Clay had worked closely with in the past. Not a friend, but Clay had trusted him. And now it was looking as though the son of a bitch had been willing to participate in the kidnapping of a kid to put pressure on a witness in the trial of a drug lord.

It sucked to know he might have to shoot either of the men who wore the same uniform he did, but he couldn’t afford to hesitate. He knew that.

This operation was high risk for a lot of other reasons, too. They weren’t sure how many men were inside the barn. They’d seen four, but there might be more. Getting close without being spotted would be tricky. Three different entry points for his team meant a real possibility they’d shoot each other by accident.

The fact that Jane was lead on one of those entry points made his head swell with fury and frustration and fear.

To make it all perfect, the creeps inside were holding a kid. A vulnerable boy who could get hit by cross fire even if someone didn’t try to take him out on purpose.

And, oh, yeah, Chief Alec Raynor, in charge of this whole freaking operation, loved that kid, his nephew.

“Just the way I want to make a living,” Clay muttered, to nobody, but another shape near him turned.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he growled, identifying Abe Cherney, who was with ABPD rather than the sheriff’s department. Cherney was a big guy who, with Carson Tucker, a sheriff’s deputy, would be using the battering ram to break down the double doors into the barn. “You ready to go?” he asked, and Cherney gave him a thumbs-up.

* * *

EVERY SENSE HEIGHTENED, Clay stood in the darkness, intensely disliking his role. Hovering in back, command central, he would make the final decision. Although they had a warrant based on a tentative witness identification of Tim Hansen as the deputy who’d picked up thirteen-year-old Matt Raynor at his house, everyone here would be happier if they had confirmation the kid really was being held inside the barn before they went in with guns blazing. Some skinny ABPD officer who looked about sixteen—Ryan Dunlap—and Jane were the two who were taking a huge risk to try for that confirmation.

And goddamn—Clay wanted to be one of the first in the door, not the last. But there was no way he could get his shoulders through either of the windows, and Raynor and McAllister had claimed prime entry positions.

It was Dunlap’s voice Clay heard first through the radio, next thing to soundless.

“Can’t see much. Back of someone’s head sitting at a table, a corner of an interior wall. Sorry.”

Then Jane’s whisper, chilling him. “Two—no, three guys at a table. Playing cards. There’s a door— Wait.”

Oh, shit. Oh, hell. All one of them had to do was turn his head and he’d see her face in the window. Clay’s jaw hurt and the tendons strained in his neck.

She’d told him not to worry about her. She couldn’t have made it any clearer that there was no do-over for him.

Didn’t matter. The need to keep her safe raged in him.

Head in the game, he reminded himself, trying to take slow, deep breaths. He wouldn’t do her or Raynor’s kid in there any good if he didn’t get in the zone that would let him shutter the emotion and do what had to be done.

“It’s opening,” Jane continued. “Man coming out. That makes four—” She stopped abruptly. “Kid on a cot.” Soft as her voice was, he heard the triumph. “Looks like tape over his mouth.”

Clay closed his eyes. But he thumbed his radio and said it. “Go.”

* * *

GLASS SHATTERED. FLASH BANGS. Oh, Jesus, gunshots. Jane. The motion-activated light above the barn doors came on as Cherney and Tucker charged forward and smashed the battering ram into the doors. McAllister and Raynor were poised to enter.

Wait, Jane. Goddamn it, wait until there’s some confusion. Don’t play heroine.

At the next rush, the doors cracked and fell open. Already running, Clay was only steps behind McAllister.

Inside the barn was chaos. Trapped in stalls, horses kicked and screamed. Men were shouting. A couple of voices yelled, “This is the police! Hands in the air.” The light was unnaturally bright. Clay made himself slow down in his head, see that the broad aisle opened into a space probably designed for a veterinarian or farrier to work. He saw only one room separate from the stalls—a tack room? Smells were sharp in his nostrils: hay, manure, beer and burgers, gunpowder, fear. As reported, a group had been sitting around a card table, already kicked over. Clay saw Raynor vault it. Metal folding chairs were flying, tangling underfoot.

Nearly in front of him, Carson Tucker went down, clutching his belly and screaming something. No time to stop.

There was Jane—alive, yes!—but someone swung a chair at her. As she ducked away, it connected with her shoulder and knocked her to her knees. Even as Clay fired, he saw her gun bark, too, and the guy collapsed, sprawling hideously over the chair. She didn’t even look at Clay, only swung in a circle with her weapon held ready.