Evan filled the open doorway of the interrogation room, the echo of the gunshot ringing within the reinforced walls.
Max was gone, knocked clear out of his chair by the head shot, lost somewhere beneath the table, bleeding out.
Adrenaline surged at the reins, threatening to break free and bolt through Evan’s bloodstream, but he tightened his hold. If Max was dead, he’d still be dead three seconds from now.
Evan couldn’t waste a split second. He was in close quarters with two homicidal cops. They had Glock 22 Gen4s, each with fifteen .40s stacked in the magazine.
Evan had an ACE bandage wrapped around his head and a lingering concussion.
But he’d been trained to slow down time in a firefight, to assess the freeze-frame progression of movement and angles.
Brust remained in side profile, having just fired across the table at Max. A slow-motion ripple spread through the cheap cotton of his shirt behind the right shoulder, stirred into existence by the recoil. He was pivoting toward Evan, his head leading the turn.
At five feet away, Nuñez was the closer threat. Forty pounds heavier, he was the larger one, too.
But Brust would have Evan in his sights first. Evan couldn’t reach him in time.
As he played through the extrapolation of the next three seconds, a pair of thoughts struck him. One: Given his concussion, he hadn’t run the simulated scenarios as quickly as he usually did. And two: That split-second delay meant that he could not cover both men.
There was no version that didn’t end with him getting shot.
That’s when the table scooted of its own accord, skittering forward two feet and slamming into Brust’s thigh. Brust staggered, buying Evan another instant to focus on Nuñez.
The big detective’s hand had already reached the hip holster, the Glock rising, not yet clearing leather.
Evan drove into Nuñez.
As the Glock rose, swinging to target Evan’s critical mass, Evan swept it to the side with a cupped hand, accelerating the momentum from the draw. Curling his fingers over the top of the slide, Evan steered Nuñez’s arm along the trajectory it was already traveling, the weapon carried in a straight-armed swivel.
It whipped through another fifteen degrees, and then Evan jerked the weapon to a halt, the jolt causing Nuñez’s hand to clench.
His finger constricted around the trigger.
Evan had halted the pistol with the front sights aligned on Brust’s head.
Droplets painted the rear wall.
Brust crumpled.
Nuñez gasped, a screeching intake of air.
To his credit he did not release the Glock. He had a better grip on the weapon and was much stronger to begin with, so Evan released the barrel. His other hand was already grabbing for the pens in Nuñez’s shirt pocket.
As Nuñez took a clunky step to the side to regain his balance, Evan tore a pen free. He spun into Nuñez, throwing his weight backward, slamming his shoulders into Nuñez’s chest, tilting his head forward to protect it from colliding with Nuñez’s chin.
As Nuñez barked out a grunt, Evan tightened his fist around the pen and slammed it down past his own hip into the inside of Nuñez’s thigh.
Now the big man dropped the Glock.
He lurched back stiffly, struck the wall, and slid down to a sitting position, his legs kicked out before him. With disbelief he looked down at the pen protruding from his thigh, the dark stain spreading through the fabric of his slacks. Then he curled his hand around the pen, holding it in place.
Evan looked past Brust’s fallen body and the knocked-askew table to where Max sprawled on the floor, tilted back on his ass. His foot was still raised from when he’d kicked the table into Brust.
Behind him there was a black hole where Brust’s round had buried itself in the wall; it must have missed his head by inches when Max hit the floor.
Evan unwound the Ace bandage from his head, enjoying his first clear breath of air since he’d entered the station. “Thanks.”
Max’s nod looked like a tremor.
Evan moved over to Brust and started tugging off the detective’s shoes. The big man’s legs hung from Evan’s grip, deadweight.
In the corner Nuñez choked out a grunt of pain.
Evan finished with the loafers and got to work on Brust’s belt. “You’re gonna want to keep pressure on,” he said, not bothering to look over at Nuñez. “The pen is buried in your femoral artery. If you let go, you’ll bleed out in seconds.”
Nuñez grunted, eyeing his fallen service weapon a few feet past the tips of his shoes. So tempting.
Evan stripped off his own jeans and stepped into Brust’s pants. A bit loose, but they fit well enough. The button-up took a bit more doing. The collar was stained, but not terribly. Next Evan worked the badge lanyard carefully over the mess of Brust’s head and ducked into it.
He made for a passable detective.
Nuñez watched the fashion show, his upper lip wrinkled back from his teeth like a dog’s.
As Evan adjusted Brust’s belt around his own waist, Nuñez let go of the pen and lunged for the Glock.
Blood spurted onto the tile, powerful blasts timed to his heartbeat.
Evan shook his head. “Mistake.”
Nuñez toppled over. His hand pawed the floor a few times and then stopped. He stared glassily at nothing.
Evan smoothed down the shirt, adjusted the badge at his stomach, and freed the handcuffs from the hard leather belt pouch. Then he walked over and tugged the baseball cap from Nuñez’s head. It fit perfectly.
Max still hadn’t moved. He remained on the floor, breathing hard.
“Look at me,” Evan said. “Look at me. You’re okay. Get up.”
Max obeyed.
“Turn around.”
Max did.
Evan slapped the cuffs on him and started to march him out.
“Wait,” Max said at the door, his voice hoarse with shock. He chinned back at Nuñez. “The thumb drive. He has the thumb drive in his pocket.”
Evan went to Nuñez’s slumped body and dug through his pant pockets. As he extracted the thumb drive, a slab of smooth metal slid out and clattered on the tile. Not just any metal.
Liquidmorphium.
Evan glared at the Turing Phone. Then he scooped it up, wrapped it and the thumb drive in his jeans, and tucked the bundle under his arm.
They exited into the corridor.
The bullpen was still empty save for O’Malley, who was just now stirring at his desk. As they passed, Evan paused behind the slender detective. “Apologies.” He picked up the soaked gauze from where he’d dropped it on the desk, pressed it over O’Malley’s nose and mouth once more, and left the detective sleeping on his keyboard.
Gripping Max’s cuffs in the back, Evan steered him roughly out onto the sidewalk.
The uniforms were setting a perimeter, holding off onlookers. By now most of the detectives had clustered around the dumpster, comparing notes and shaking their heads. A few looked up at Evan and gave him a nod.
He nodded back.
Evan manhandled Max across the street, into an alley, and out the other side.
The Ford pickup chirped twice and unlocked when Evan hit the key fob. He released Max’s cuffs and let them fall into the gutter as Max climbed into the passenger seat.
Evan shed Brust’s badge, left it with the handcuffs in a trickle of dirty water by the curb drain, and drove off.