Page 51 of Fire and Smoke (Nothing Special #9)
Day
Day walked out of the blown-out front doors of the apartment building and into a roar of noise and light.
It slammed into him like a physical force—the brilliant chaos of Atlanta’s flashing blue and red spinning across concrete, broken glass, and dilapidated houses.
Fire engines idled at the curb, their pumps hissing steam. EMTs jogged past him wheeling stretchers, shouting orders to each other as blood-smeared, wailing criminals were loaded into the rigs.
The scent of burned powder and acrid chemicals clung to his skin in a stench that made him want to vomit.
A massive crowd surged against the yellow caution tape lining the street from corner to corner. People screamed and cheered, waving their phones over their heads.
News teams were already set up and eager to get the drop on their competition to air the raid.
“Lieutenant, Day! Godfrey! Over here!” “Is Mercer off the streets for good this time?” “Lieutenant Day, Channel 2 News. Did you or your enforcers kill anybody in there tonight?” Day kept walking. He hated interviews.
“God! God! CBS46, how big was the seizure tonight?”
“Atlanta strong!” a woman screamed, pounding her fist against a metal barricade.
The crowd pressed so close that the yellow police tape bowed outward under the weight. Flashbulbs popped like tiny explosions that made his eyes water. People balanced on car hoods and lamp posts, craning their necks for a glimpse of them.
“Godfrey, any comment on rumors of internal corruption in your task force?”
Day glowered at the Chanel 11 asshole with his overly gelled hair, cashmere coat, and bitch-ass earmuffs.
No matter how much good his team did, Chanel 11 wouldn’t run the story, but as soon as they fucked up, they’d run it morning, noon, and night.
“Fuck off, Dyson.” Day flipped him off, never stopping his strides to their armored caravan.
God came up beside him, massive in his armor, face locked in a scowl as he shoved Dyson’s mic out of his face.
“Back the fuck up,” God growled. “And I better not see you at the press conference, or I’m gonna shove your camera up your ass.”
Day caught sight of Captain Murphy stepping out of the mobile command center. Beside him were two precinct lieutenants, radios pressed to their ears, and the chief scene negotiator, looking relieved but wrung-out.
Evidence techs were everywhere, kneeling on tarps laid across the asphalt, packing bricks of meth into thick plastic bins.
The haul of materials was staggering: pallets of vacuum-sealed bundles, stacks of chemical drums labeled with hazmat stickers, and duffel bags half-zipped with rolls of cash.
Day scrubbed a shaking hand over his sweaty hair. He knew the street value of all that weight. Knew what people would do to get it back.
But tonight, it belonged to them.
“Hey! Channel 11 fucker. Make sure you get my good side!” Ruxs called out, flipping up both middle fingers.
A female reporter screamed over the noise, voice as piercing as a cruiser’s siren.
“Detectives Ruxs and Green—what’s the body count this time?”
“No comment.” Green laughed.
“Will Mercer be getting off again because of excessive force?” Dyson yelled.
Day spun on his heel, face tight.
“You see any body bags, jerk-off? Is anyone bleeding out in the street right now?”
A few reporters blinked, clearly thrown by his response. He was known as the easy, lighthearted one who diffused the tension with humor.
But he was fresh out of smiles.
A wave of applause went through the surrounding crowd.
Captain Murphy clapped God on the shoulder, then Hart.
“Damn good work. I think we got ’em this time.”
Day lowered his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“You’re about to ruin the rest of my night, aren’t you?”
Captain Murphy groaned, lines of exhaustion carving deep grooves around his eyes.
“I hate to say this, fellas. But don’t get too comfortable. IA wants you back at the precinct for debrief in an hour.”
Day tilted his head back, staring at the swirls of lights overhead.
“Are you fuckin’ serious?” Hart snapped. “What the hell ever happened to the courtesy of allowing us to decompress?”
“They’re already waiting,” the captain said with finality. “Don’t make ’em wait too long.”
God let out a murderous groan.
“I need a drink the size of that goddamn fire engine,” Day muttered.
God glanced at him, voice dry as dust. “Looks like we’ll be day-drinking tomorrow.”
As they loaded into their blacked-out SUVs, the crowd went crazy, clapping, whistling, and chanting their names.
He stared out of the window at the battered building they’d just stormed. These were once homes that low-income families lived in before they were forcibly made to move. Some of them were now without housing.
Their job wasn’t over.
Yes, Mercer was going down, and that was one big, venomous snake off the streets.
But Day knew there’d always be more snakes, dope, overdoses, and more victims.
Tonight was a win.
But tomorrow, there’d be war all over again.