After following a short service entrance hallway, Devlin swung open an interior door and darted into a large space. Half-drawn window shades let in moonlight and ambient lighting from neighboring structures and streetlamps. After ducking behind a stack of boxes, she peeked out and saw rows and rows of more stacked boxes. Shelving units against the walls held additional cartons. She gave the loft another quick look. Must be a storage area.
With her 1911 in both hands and in front of her chest, the deputy marshal slowly advanced down the aisles while aiming the weapon at emerging dark corners. “All teams,” her voice was a whisper, “report.”
“This is Alpha. Front door of adjacent structure is secure. No movement—over.”
“This is Bravo. Back of the building is covered. No movement—over.”
Devlin rounded a corner and swung her 45 in the same direction. “Copy that.” Sticking two fingers into her left boot, she retrieved a skinny Pelican 1970 flashlight and slipped the tool’s lanyard around her left wrist.
Employing the Harries Technique—backs of hands pressed firmly together, light and gun pointing in the same direction—she briefly thumbed the Pelican’s rubber tail switch and lit up an area. A half second later, she released the on/off button and quickly moved to another position.
Using this method, Devlin cleared the near half of the storage loft and stopped at the edge of an open space. More piled boxes and a door were on the other side of the expanse. Swallowing, she heard the gulp between her temples. She looked left and right, her eyes trying to burrow through the brown cardboard and see possible threats waiting behind.
A moment later, her mind recalled the pledge she had made two years ago: ‘I promise you, Cassie. I will always come home to you.’ Devlin shut her eyes for a split second. Dear God...shaking her head, she dismissed the urge to call on the Divine for help. Expanding her lungs, she set her jaw and lowered her chin to her chest. I can do this. I must do this. She saw an image of Cassandra in her mind’s eye. Someone I made a promise to is depending on me.
Slightly crouched, she crept forward into the open area, whipping the Colt and Pelican in all directions while intermittently thumbing the 1970. Flashing and moving, flashing and moving, she had traversed a third of the exposed stretch when the beam from the flashlight zipped by a disappearing dark mass to her right. Feeling an overwhelming interior voice telling her to do one thing—Run—Devlin took off running. To the sound of gunfire, she sprinted the final two-thirds of the vastness.
Bullets punctured the boxes to her left, sending pieces of cardboard into the air behind the fleeing deputy marshal.
Dropping to her right hip—the same one that had taken the brunt of the rooftop landing—Devlin grunted and slid along the floor. She did a counter-clockwise quarter-turn and went to her back. Twelve inches later, her right shoulder and hip slammed into a concrete wall.
The boxes above her head blew apart. Bits of packing peanuts floated down, coating her black hair and black jacket in a white dust.
The right side of her body on fire, the government agent lowered her head to the floor. Beneath closed eyelids, her eyeballs rolled backward. She pitched onto her left shoulder and inched closer to her cover, cutting the shooter’s angle.
Devlin went to her belly, exposed her right eye and the Colt, and got off four shots. The reports from the forty-five caliber handgun eclipsed those from the nine-millimeter. Getting her feet under her, she put her left knee on the floor.
More incoming rounds shredded the box in front of her nose.
Ducking, putting her free hand on her head, she made herself small.
The noise stopped.
She leaned right, emptied her gun, and swayed back behind cover. Letting go of the Pelican, she fished out a spare magazine from inside her jacket and rammed the thin, metal rectangle home. “The building’s surrounded.” With the 1970 dangling from her wrist, “Drop your gun and,” she gripped and ripped the 45 ACP’s slide, chambering a cartridge, “come out with your hands up.”
The loft was silent.
Devlin heard radio chatter in her ear. Alpha and Bravo Teams were preparing to breach the front and rear doors. “There’s no escape. Surrender now before this gets out of hand.”
More silence.
She squeezed her pistol, bracing for another blast of gunfire.
Something heavy skidded across the floor before a voice said, “Don’t shoot. I’m unarmed.”
Making a compact circular motion with her left forearm, Devlin caught the Pelican and tapped the button at the end of the flashlight. The device’s beam centered on a gun in the middle of the open space. She swung the Colt and the 1970 to the left.
Hands held high, a Latino man came out from behind a stack of boxes and stood in the circle of light, his eyes blinking rapidly.
She squinted at him, Mendoza, before rising, and sidestepping to the right. “Turn around and interlock your fingers behind your head.”
Mendoza complied.
“Walk backwards, toward the sound of my voice.”
He backpedaled.
“Keep coming...keep coming...keep coming.” Devlin kicked the empty firearm further away. “This way. Keep coming...stop.”
Mendoza stopped.
“Get on your knees.”
He kneeled.
“On your belly.”
He went to his stomach.
After retrieving a pair of handcuffs from a pouch on her skirt, she drove a knee into his back, slapped one cuff onto his left wrist, and brought the same arm behind his back. She holstered her Colt and reached for his other wrist.
Hearing metal scrape across plastic, like the bottom wrestler in the ‘Referee’s Position’ hearing the starting whistle, Mendoza jerked his body and twisted away from her grasp.
Devlin dropped to both knees and grappled with the wanted man before delivering three elbow strikes to his head and neck.
Mendoza flopped over and swung an arm back and forth.
Devlin heard the blade rip her jacket sleeve on the first pass. She rolled away to avoid the knife’s second swipe. Leaping to her feet, she threw back the right half of her jacket.
The criminal charged and thrust out the switchblade, slicing at the deputy marshal.
Retreating, while arching her back and lifting her arms, she dodged the attacks.
Mendoza lunged and brought his cocked left arm forward.
Reversing course, Devlin got inside the arc, grabbed the offending wrist with both hands, pivoted clockwise, and wrenched her left arm backward. Her elbow caught the side of his nose.
Mendoza staggered away holding his face. Red liquid oozed from between his fingers.
Devlin drew her Colt and leveled the 45 ACP at his chest. “Drop the weapon! Drop it now!”
Lowering his hand, revealing a crooked and bloodied nose, he glimpsed his stained palm and glared at her.
She cocked her head at him. “Don’t be stupid. You’re outgunned...and federal agents will be here any second now.”
Standing taller and wrinkling his twisted nose, Mendoza toyed with the knife, tossing the switchblade from one hand to the other.
Devlin barely shook her head. “This ends with you in handcuffs or a body bag. Make the smart choice.”
He snorted a red glob out of his nose before spewing a vulgarity, a word unique to the female anatomy.
Her eyebrows bounced once. Sticks and stones...
Raising the weapon above his head, “You’re dead,” he rushed her.
She sidestepped left, lowered her aim, and got off three shots in less than a second.
Howling, Mendoza grabbed his left knee and toppled to the floor.
Devlin stomped on his wrist.
His hand opened.
She kicked the knife away, buried one knee into his back, and thrust the other into his neck, pinning him to the tile. “Lucky for you this,” she repeated the name he had called her, “didn’t follow protocols...or you’d be dead right now.” Devlin had violated one of the most important self-defense shooting tenets when she moved her pistol away from the target’s center of mass; however, she wanted to see Mendoza in prison, not in the ground.
The door to the loft burst open, and the S.O.G. team stormed the room.
She whipped out her cred pack, held the badge high, “U.S. Deputy Marshal,” and dipped her head. “Secure this prisoner.”
The two closest tactical operators slung their short-barreled Colt 9mm SMG rifles and pounced on the downed man.
Mendoza writhed in pain.
Devlin stood, holstered her pistol, and spied the slices on her leather jacket. She saw skin, but no blood. That was close.
Hawkins wove his way between the other five S.O.G. team members and hurried toward his partner. “Jessica, are you—” he spotted her jacket’s shredded sleeves, “did he cut you?”
“I...” she slipped out of the black covering and inspected her forearms, “I don’t think so.”
His chest falling, he let an audible sigh slip by his pursed lips and slid his Glock into its belt holster. “Thank God.”
“In fact,” she gave her arms and body a second look, “there isn’t,” before flashing him a quick smirk, “a scratch on me.”
He shook his head and huffed. “If you think I’m laughing at that,” he wagged his finger toward the ceiling, “after the stunt you pulled on the roof...”
“Come on.” She showed him her palms. “That was a little bit funny.” She lightly slapped his shoulder. “And everything worked out fine.” She motioned toward the man in restraints. “We got Mendoza.”
Hawkins eyed the captive and came back to her. After holding her gaze for a few moments, he plopped a hand onto her shoulder. “Do me a favor. The next time you’re planning something foolish like that...tell me first.”
Devlin half grinned. “If I told you first, you’d never let me go through with it.”
He snorted. “Damn straight I wouldn’t.” He gently squeezed her shoulder for a split second before patting her upper arm twice and smiling. “I’m glad you’re okay, Jess.”
Matching his expression, she twirled her jacket around her shoulders, slid arms into sleeves, and flipped out her hair. “You can’t get rid of me that easy, Hawk.” She flattened the coat’s collar. “Let’s go. I have a family to get home to.”
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
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