Page 14 of Under Cover
“I heard nothing,” Garcia said. He pulled his own weapon and sank to a crouch, moving to the other side of the door.
“Law enforcement,” Crosby called when they were both in position. “SCTF, on-site and coming in!” They heard nothing, so Crosby kicked in the door and Garcia went in low while Crosby went in behind him, aiming over his head.
When the Case Works You
GARCIA WASused to his days moving fast—from researching to confabbing to making a bust—but not this fast. Later he’d reflect that it’s what happened when your perp was committing homicides and needed to be stoppednowas opposed to building a case against a criminal enterprise, but right at this moment, he was letting Crosby take point while he followed, weapon out, checking their left, right, and six while Crosby kept his eyes front.
Which meant that when Crosby muttered, “Well shit,” and crouched to the floor, Garcia had to take in the victim on the floor amid a destroyed table and a couple of chairs reduced to kindling with little flashes of sight while he kept his partner safe.
The victim on the floor was a tall, broad-shouldered African American male wearing a powder-blue sequined jumpsuit with false breasts in the bra and bright blue shimmer eye shadow with false eyelashes that were still fluttering as they struggled for breath through a lushly painted mouth. Crosby took a pulse and nodded, sucking in his breath.
“Gunshot,” he said to Garcia. “Through the abdomen, to the side. Lots of blood. Need an ambulance stat. You stay with the vic. I’ll go look for Sewell.”
Garcia opened his mouth to protest. They should stay there for backup, he knew that, but Crosby was obviously thinking about the runner. Garcia pulled out his radio and sent terse instructions on the law-enforcement frequency, detailing location and need. The whole time his mouth was running, he was scanning their surroundings and listening to Crosby.
“Ma’am,” he said, “ma’am, help is coming. Hang in there. I need to know where Kurt’s gonna go, though. He’s got a flop here. How do we get to it?”
“Up the stairs,” the victim wheezed. “Fourth-floor landing, down half a flight behind utility closet. Can’t get to it from the elevator. Tucked behind.”
“What’d that asshole take?” Crosby asked, and Garcia looked just long enough to catch the grim smile on their victim’s face.
“Elevator. Fucker’s slow.”
Crosby squeezed her shoulder. “I’m not,” he said. “This is Garcia. He’s gonna look after you. Hang tough.”
With a curt nod, Crosby stood and caught Garcia’s eyes for a moment before hauling ass across the club floor for the stairs with the speed of a gazelle and the bulk of a bear.
“Fuck,” Garcia muttered, kneeling on the black rubber floor. Their victim’s breaths were getting labored and panicked, and Garcia needed her to calm down. “Ma’am,” he muttered. “Please, take it easy. Ambulance is already coming.”
“Got blood… on my floor… dammit.”
Garcia had to smile. By day, dance clubs lose a lot of their luster. The mysterious cavernous interior with graceful glimmers of color becomes a black rubber floor with walls painted black and poly-tinsel streamers, and the much-coveted stools and tables become the shoddiest of woodwork, held together with shellac and spilled beer.
But the place was clean, and the disco ball in the center of the floor had most of its mirrors. There was hand sanitizer in every corner, and the bar at the far end of the building was sparkling clean, without a whiff of spilled alcohol or spoiled bar fruit.
“This your place?” he asked, to keep her focused. He was focused on the elevator dial in the corner. It said six floors, and, as promised, it was inching slowly toward the fourth. He couldn’t hear Crosby’s footsteps pounding in the stairwell anymore, but he was trying to imagine how quickly he was running, if he could sustain that pace for four floors.
“Yeah. Should see it at night. It’s swingin’.”
Garcia spared the proprietress a wink. “I’m surprised I haven’t been by. But don’t tell anyone, okay? I’m po-po.”
She let out what was supposed to be a cackle, but it came out a wheeze, and Garcia could have wept with the need for the ambulance to get there. Their vic needed help, and Crosby had run up the stairs alone, and—
The EMTs hit the doors hard, the stretcher between them.
“Gunshot victim,” Garcia said tersely. “Assigned male at birth. Responds to ma’am.”
“Roger that.” The EMTs, both painfully young and female, elbowed Garcia aside and knelt by the victim, speaking firmly. “Ma’am? Ma’am? Can you hear us?”
“Send back the cute boys,” she rasped.
“Check on you later,” he told her. “Hang in there.”
With that, he took off after Crosby, cursing his partner for running into the fray.
He was two flights of stairs up when he heard the first gunshot, and his heart roared so hard in his ears he almost didn’t hear the second. By the time he got to the fourth floor and followed the directions to the utility closet, he was seeing stars from holding his breath. He took two steps down the tiny stairwell and almost tripped on the sprawling body.
He bent down to check the pulse and found it fluttering under his fingers as he heard Crosby on his radio, asking in a choked voice for another ambulance, giving directions to the utility closet on the fourth floor.