“I’ll go get you some help,” Wyatt said. “Find a phone and call for an ambulance.” He turned to go.
“No, don’t leave me here!” Ethan said, wincing in pain. “What if those idiots come back?”
Wyatt considered this for a moment. He’d hurt two of them pretty bad and were probably looking to get some medical help themselves. But Casket was unscathed. He might have only left to get reinforcements, then would come back looking for revenge. Which meant Wyatt couldn’t leave Ethan here. Not with the slight chance of Casket returning.
“Okay,” Wyatt said. “Let’s get you up.”
“Where we going?”
“Back down to the street,” Wyatt said, putting one of Ethan’s arms over his shoulder. “We’ll find someone with a cellphone.”
“No, no, wait!” Ethan said.
“What?”
“We’re not leaving our carts here.”
“Can’t take them with us. God only gave me two hands.”
Ethan gave the carts a forlorn look. “Okay, but at least hide them and lock them up. You still got that bike lock?”
“Yup,” Wyatt said, easing Ethan against the fence.
He quickly moved the carts behind some nearby bushes and locked them together with the lock. Then he grabbed a small backpack which held his water bottle.
“Don’t forget my bag!” Ethan said through gritted teeth.
“I wouldn’t dare forget your man-purse,” Wyatt said snatching a small brown purse hidden in Ethan’s cart and shoved it into the backpack. Whatever the purse contained was of grave importance to him.
“Happy now, you old goat?” Wyatt said as he hoisted Ethan into a standing position, again.
“Never been happier, buddy,” Ethan said as they hobbled down the alley. “Least I got myself some new shoes out of this deal.”
“They are nice shoes,” Wyatt said. His grin hid his concern. The wound was deep and Ethan was losing a lot of blood.
He needed to get his friend to a doctor, and quick.
CHAPTER FIVE
Nate
“What?” Nate asked, trying to get a better view of the cop who stood before him. The morning sun crested the rooftops of the houses behind her, blinding him.
“I wanted to know if everything was okay, Nate,” the woman said.
Nate blinked at his name. She knew him? He felt a claw of ice grip his heart.
“Do I know you?” he asked, a little befuddled. He kept his expression neutral, calm. But inside he roiled with alarm. The situation had gotten much worse. Here he sat in a stolen vehicle, armed with an illegal weapon that could be linked to a trio of nearby bodies, speaking to a police officer who knew him by name.
Crap.
The cop stepped closer, blocking the sun and revealing her face. High cheek bones, a dusting of freckles, piercing green eyes.
The claw of ice tightened even more.
“Vicky!” Nat said, cavalier. “Long time, no see.” He was still reeling inwardly at this rapid turn of events. He was screwed. Really screwed. He needed her to go away or things would get bad.
Very bad.
“Officer Lang to you,” she said with a poisonous tone. She glared down at him.
Nate nodded. He shouldn’t push it but he couldn’t help himself. “So, how’s life as a flatfoot, again?” he said. He scratched his cheek then dropped his hand to rest against the open door, positioning it closer to his pocket.
Officer Lang continued to glare at him for several moments, then said, “I’m a flatfoot because of your boss.” She hitched her thumbs into her belt, the left hand next to her holstered pistol.
Nate knew the gun. A standard police-issue held fast in its holster by a leather snap-strap. He did a rough calculation on her potential speed to unsnap the weapon, draw it, and fire versus him pulling his own pistol with its long silencer from his deep pockets.
The odds came out about even.
Nate shook his head. “That’s got nothing to do with me, Vicky. You know that. We’re both flunkies in our respective organizations. Bottom of the ladder as it were. Well, I make more money, of course.” He smiled at her.
Officer Lang’s face contorted into a scowl and Nate thought she would draw on him right then and there. He tensed.
Lang made a visible effort to relax and her left hand shifted away from her pistol. “Quite the mouth on you, Nate,” she said, fixing him with her stare. “Word is you’ve used it to stay out of jail more than once. A regular fount of information when the squeeze is put to you.” The ice claw tightened more. This bitch was trying to get him to make a move on her. She’s got nothing on him right now. He’s just sitting here, minding is own business, but she wants him to screw up so she could, what? Arrest him? Shoot him? God knows she had reason enough.
Years earlier Victoria Lang was a homicide detective. One of the best. When her old partner retired she was assigned a new stiff, a guy named Brad Fletcher. Only problem was, Brad Fletcher was in deep with Unger and his crew. Owed him big money, too. Much to Unger’s delight.
I gotta cop in my pocket, Unger used to boast. I say dance and he dances a little jig. I say lose that evidence and evidence disappears.
But all good things must come to an end as it did for Fletcher, who got caught trying to hide a bloody knife at a murder scene on the southside.
Fletcher was raked over the coals and broke so quickly as to not even be dignified. Then he shot himself in the head, and Victoria Lang’s career got caught by the same bullet.
Her partner had been on the take and she didn’t know it. You can never get that stink off you, especially as a detective. Her hate for Unger and any of his associates were legendary. Associates like Nate.
Now she was a lowly flatfoot and probably would be one for the rest of her days. Or at least until she made Nate shoot her.
Nate counted to five, then said in a calm voice. “That ain’t true and you know it, Officer.” He emphasized her title. “Anyone with real information, like currently active detectives, knows I don’t say nuthin about nuthin.” Someone shouted from the north about half a block away. Officer Lang looked, but Nate kept his eyes locked on her. What the hell game was she playing? All these accidents right nearby and she’s taking time to hassle him? Had to be emotion that drove her to confront him. Pulled her away from those in direct need just to piss in his face.
Was this bitch crazy?
The pistol weighed heavy in his pocket. His hand itched for it.
Officer Lang frowned then unhooked the radio mike on her chest. She squeezed at its button but the device didn’t make a sound. Not a squawk or hiss of static.
“Damnit,” she said. “Still dead?” She pressed at it a couple more times. Click-click-click.
Nate found this very interesting. “Radio not working today, Vicky? Might want to get that checked. Never know when you’ll need backup to save your skinny square ass.” Officer Lang’s eyes flared, but another shout drew her attention. Again, Nate thought she was about to draw her weapon. Instead, she leaned in close and pointed a finger at him. “Stay right here. I have more questions for you.” Nate shrugged and held up his hands. “No problem, Vicky. I await your return.” She glared at him, then another shout, this one for help, pulled her away. Nate watched her square ass wiggle in her uniform trousers as she hustled down the sidewalk.
He let out a sigh of relief. But now he was faced with a dilemma.
Of course he wouldn’t just sit here and wait for little miss square ass to interrogate him, maybe even get into a shoot-out with her. Yet she could now place him in the immediate vicinity of a triple murder. Even the drunkest homicide detective would have no problem linking Perry to Unger’s crew, which Nate was a known member of.