Two years later...
1 may—8:49 p.m.
colonial heights, virginia
Normally busy during the day, this intersection in Colonial Heights became desolate at night. A couple of low-rent, high-rise housing structures—across the street from each other—took up two corners while an all-night liquor store and a check-cashing establishment sat on the remaining two.
The traffic signal faithfully did its job, cycling from green to yellow to red, even though very few cars passed beneath. People who knew the area and valued their lives found alternate routes to get to their destination.
Those who were forced to call this area home, due to poverty, low-paying jobs, a single income, or some other factor, stayed inside behind door locks, door chains, deadbolts, bars on the windows, and whatever other security devices they could afford to employ.
The young, the strong, the fearless made this stretch of Virginia their playground, many of them major contributors to the criminal activities—illegal drugs, prostitution, gambling—plaguing the community. Drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, men loitered, waiting to pounce on anyone who foolishly entered this district. In short skirts, high heels, and revealing tops, their hair done up, women patrolled the sidewalks looking for their next twenty-dollar ‘John.’
Its muffler rumbling, an older model, rusted out, four-door Chevy stopped at the curb near one of the housing units. The driver leaned over the console and rolled down the passenger window. An overhead streetlight lit up his gaunt cheeks, dark goatee, and bushy eyebrows.
A woman wearing a black leather jacket, blue-and-white-striped miniskirt, black knee boots, and black fishnet stockings sauntered up to the car.
Eyeing her attire and athletic figure, he smiled, “Hey there,” and gunned the engine a couple times, partly to impress her, but mostly to keep the car from stalling.
The five-ten woman, easily six foot tall in her high-heeled boots, bent over and leaned on the Chevy’s passenger door. “What can I do for you?” She quickly scanned both ends of the street.
“Well, that depends.” The man stroked his goatee while admiring her looks—straight, medium-length raven black hair; dark brown eyes; petite, slim nose; full lips; slender lines along her jaw. “What’s the going rate?”
“Fifty. Anything out of the ordinary will cost you extra.”
“Kind of high, isn’t it?”
“I’m new here...and fresher than the competition.” Looking away, the woman lifted a shoulder. “Take it or leave it.”
Goatee gave her another once-over. “But you’re also older and...”
She flicked her eyes his way.
“...you’ve,” he twirled a finger at her, “got this whole...mom vibe going on.”
The woman pivoted her head toward him.
“But,” he slowly nodded at the cleavage protruding from between her jacket’s lapels, “I like it.”
A sleek, red Cadillac convertible—top down, music blasting into the open air—rolled by and parked two spaces ahead of the rusted Chevy. Four Latino men in jeans and muscle shirts hopped out and swaggered toward the apartment building. Each man exchanged hand slaps and chest bumps with others he knew.
The woman turned her attention toward the scene.
Afraid of losing her, Goatee dug out a fifty-dollar bill and dropped the note onto the passenger seat. “There’s your fifty.” He added a ‘Jackson’ along with demands for additional sex acts.
Squinting at the four Latinos, she watched them walk through the front door of the structure.
“So what do you say? That’s seventy bucks.”
“Yeah,” fishing around inside her jacket, “you’re not getting any of those things from me,” she faced him and held out a bi-fold.
He glimpsed her badge—a five-pointed, silver star inside a silver circle—before shutting his eyes and letting out a low groan.
“United States Deputy Marshal.” She stowed the credentials. “Since I don’t have time to bust you, you should consider this your lucky day.” She smacked the door twice and jerked her thumb. “Beat it, scumbag.”
Not giving the federal agent the chance to change her mind, the man spun the steering wheel and stepped on the gas pedal. Its muffler spewing noise pollution, the Chevy peeled away from the curb.
The woman made her way toward the apartment building’s front door. “This is Devlin. I have a visual on Mendoza. All tac teams have a ‘go.’ I repeat...all teams move in!”
Moments later, two black SUVs squealed around the corner and skidded to a halt, blocking the Cadillac’s escape. Eight doors flew open, and eight men rushed toward Devlin; seven were outfitted with tactical gear. The eighth man was dressed in blue jeans and a dark-colored windbreaker, POLICE U.S. MARSHAL emblazoned on the jacket. He carried a bulletproof vest.
Devlin turned away from the assaulters and held her arms straight out behind her.
The man in jeans threaded the vest’s two openings up her arms and over her shoulders.
“Thanks, Hawk.” She drew a forty-five caliber Colt 1911 handgun from a hip holster under her leather jacket before securing the newly added protective garment.
Blake Hawkins—six foot tall, African-American, closely cropped dark hair, chiseled jaw, and muscular frame—drew his Glock 22. “Fifty bucks, huh?”
The two of them hurried toward the building.
“I thought that was a good price.” She shrugged. “I don’t know. You think my rates are steep?”
He shook his head, “Not at all,” before grabbing the front door’s vertical handle. “In fact they might be low for an,” pulling open the glass entry point, he hesitated, “older woman with a mom vibe going on.”
Hearing him repeat what the ‘John’ had said to her a moment ago, the twenty-nine-year-old woman pulled up short and confronted Hawkins, her jaw set, one eye half closed.
He smiled. “I know I’ll pay for that later, but,” he dipped his forehead toward her, “the look on your face right now...is worth the price.”
She shed a half grin at her partner, the man she relied on to have her back in these situations. “You will pay for that.”
Entering the structure, Devlin and Hawkins led the U.S. Marshals Service Special Operations Group (S.O.G.) toward the stairs. Her four-inch heels clicking off the tile flooring, she lifted a balled hand and glimpsed him. “Take one for you.”
He gave her a fist bump. “Not if I take one for you first.”
Six months ago, Hawkins had stepped in front of a bullet meant for Devlin. His vest had absorbed the projectile. From that moment, the two deputy marshals became close friends and started fist bumping and repeating their mantra before every potentially violent encounter.
*******
Having ascended two flights of stairs and crept down a third-floor hallway, the assault team stacked up outside an apartment door.
Devlin and Hawkins stood on the opposite side of the walkway, across from the door.
The S.O.G. team leader looked at her.
Hearing a noise—a door closing in a hollow room—she faced the direction of the sound and glanced at an ‘EXIT’ sign at the far end of the hall before eyeing Hawkins.
He showed her an upturned thumb.
She nodded at the S.O.G. team leader.
The man pounded on the door.
Devlin raised her voice. “Raphael Mendoza, this is the U.S. Marshals Service. We have a warrant for your arrest. Open the door.” Retreating, she gestured at the agent with a battering ram.
The man swung the instrument, and the door burst inward. Two columns of heavily armed men flooded the dwelling, each man shouting commands:
“U.S. Marshals.”
“Hands.”
“Show me your hands.”
“Get down on your knees.”
Guns up, Devlin and Hawkins were last to enter the living area.
More commands came from the S.O.G. team...
“Get down on the floor.”
“Hands on your head.”
“Don’t move.”
Seconds later, at different intervals, Devlin heard shouts from different men.
“Clear.”
“Bedrooms are clear.”
“Clear.”
The S.O.G. team leader approached Devlin. “All clear, ma’am. Suspects have been secured.”
Devlin went from room to room, identifying each handcuffed man. She faced Hawkins. “He’s not here. Mendoza’s not here.”
Hawkins scowled at her. “What do you mean? You said you saw him.”
“I did see him.” She ran fingers through her hair. “He got out of that Caddy right in front of me. Where did he—” she half closed an eye at her partner, her mind recalling the sound of the closing door from seconds earlier. “Someone tipped him off that we were coming.” She bolted out of the apartment and headed for the back stairs.
“Devlin.” Hawkins followed her.
“Bravo Team, report.”
“All clear...no contact—over.”
After bursting through the stairwell door, Hawkins one pace behind her, she leaned over the railing and saw Bravo Team stacked up on the first-floor landing. She tipped her head back and eyed a gray metal door with areas of missing paint that revealed rust blotches. Lifting her tight-fitting skirt, she clambered up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. “Mendoza’s on the roof.”
*******
With their guns at the ready and each deputy marshal spanning his/her one hundred and eighty degree arc of responsibility, Devlin and Hawkins cleared the roof, hurried to the edge, and peered over the side. She scanned the adjacent roof and spotted a door closing the last few inches. Pointing with her chin at the door, “He jumped,” she holstered her 1911 and backed away.
Hawkins glanced at the narrow alley three stories below. “All teams, the suspect’s jumped to the structure to the immediate east. Cover both exits. Make sure he doesn’t get out of that building.” He turned around and saw his partner removing her vest. “What are you doing?”
“This thing’s too restrictive. It’ll also,” she tossed the garment at him, “weigh me down.”
“I—” approaching her, he caught the clothing, “that’s not what I meant. You,” he shot a look at the other roof and came back to her, “you can’t do this, Jess. It’s too far.”
Hiking up her skirt for more freedom of movement, Devlin filled her lungs and exhaled. “Sure I can. I’ve got,” she bobbed her head downward while lifting one boot, “long legs. And we’re one story higher.”
“No.” He shook his head. “I won’t let you do it. This is crazy.”
“Crazier than letting a child molester get away?” Squinting, she found a landing place and lowered her center of gravity. “Meet me downstairs.” Devlin took off running.
Hawkins lunged for her, “Jessica,” but she was beyond his reach.
Three strides from the metal lip, she felt her heart beating faster. A dozen years ago, she had competed in the long jump in high school; however, she had done so in tennis shoes and shorts, not high-heeled boots and fishnets. She planted the sole of her left boot on the metal lip. Tennis shoes, boots... she pushed off, it can’t be that much different.
Flying through the air, Devlin discovered one difference—traction. Her plant foot had slipped upon takeoff. Pumping her arms and legs as if she were still running, she saw her landing spot, further away than she had envisioned. Resisting the urge to look down at the darkened alley, she focused on her target while propelling her arms and legs faster. She brought her feet together and leaned forward.
Her heels touched down two inches from the edge of the building. Throwing out her hands, Devlin scraped her right knee and both palms, and fell onto her right hip before rolling through the landing. She stuck a boot spike into the rubber-coated, flattop roof to slow her momentum. Her knee boot skidded a short ways, and she came to a halt, down on one knee, one hand on the roof. Getting to her feet, while rubbing the smarting knee, she glanced over her shoulder.
One hand on his hip, the other holding the Glock loosely at his side, his lips mashed together, Hawkins slowly shook his head at her.
Drawing her Colt 45, Devlin flashed a smile. “See? I told you...long legs.” She hobbled a few paces, feeling a throbbing in her hip, before her gait returned to normal, and she ran toward the door she had seen closing moments ago.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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