The door opened. A big bald man in his late fifties stood in the opening. Spencer had been a clean-cut, sharp dresser. This man was tall, with a shaved head and an unkempt gray beard. He wore dirty jeans, a sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off, and huge biker shitkickers. He looked nothing like the victim. Could they have the wrong address?
“We’re looking for Jasper LaForge.” Bree’s nerve endings prickled. She tried to look past the man and into the house. The interior was dark.
Bree was suddenly very aware of the weight of her weapon on her hip. Next to her, Matt tensed. He didn’t carry a gun—he’d been shot in the hand years before and had never recovered his accuracy with a handgun—but his hand-to-hand was first-rate.
“What do you want with him?” The man scanned her uniform.
If this was Jasper, his reaction was weird.
Also suspicious.
Bree’s belly cramped, but this wasn’t the first time she’d delivered a death notification to someone who didn’t trust the police. “I’m afraid we have some bad news. Are you Jasper?”
The man’s eyes narrowed to wary slits. “Why do you want to know?”
Fabric rustled inside the house. He wasn’t alone.
Bree introduced herself and Matt. “May we come inside?”
Jasper crossed his arms. “Do you have a warrant?”
“No,” she said.
“Then you can say whatever it is right here.” Jasper stepped toward her.
She moved backward to make room for him on the small stoop. Before his motorcycle boot hit the concrete, a gunshot sounded from inside the house. A bullet whizzed through the open doorway. Bree dropped into the flower bed, her heart jackhammering. Matt jumped off the stoop.
Jasper crouched, covering his head with his arms, and shouted into the house, “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He shifted to duck back into the house, but Matt launched himself through the air and tackled Jasper to the dormant grass. They hit the earth and rolled. Matt landed on top, of course. He cuffed Jasper and patted him down. Lying flat on the front lawn, Matt and Jasper were protected by the concrete stoop. The shooter didn’t have a clear shot at them, but they couldn’t make it to the SUV without passing through the shooter’s potential line of fire. They were pinned.
On her knees in the dirt, Bree drew her weapon and used her lapel mic to call dispatch and request backup, though her department was small and most of her on-duty deputies were across town at the crime scene. Unless a state trooper happened to be nearby, she and Matt were on their own.
But the shooter didn’t know that.
She called out, “This is the sheriff. Drop your weapons and come out with your hands on your head!”
“Fuck you!” someone replied.
Matt lifted Jasper’s face off the ground. “How many people are inside?”
“One,” Jasper hissed as Matt dropped his head and his cheek hit the grass. “One fucking moron.”
A second shot rang out. The bullet hit the stoop next to Bree, kicking up bits of concrete.
Stupidity got people killed.
“Knock it off, Ricky!” Jasper yelled.
“Where is he?” Bree aimed into the darkness.
“I don’t fucking know,” Jasper answered.
Bree’s finger curled around the trigger. She was trained to stop a threat, but she didn’t want to shoot blindly into the dark, with no visible target. She needed to deescalate the situation, not make it worse.
But how?
She spotted rocks in the flower bed. She curled her fingers around one the size of a golf ball. She lobbed it toward the corner of the house. It struck the siding with a loud crack. She tossed a second rock and struck the house closer. Then she yelled to no one, “Go around back!” She threw another stone right through the window, breaking the glass.
A yelp sounded inside the house.
Bree turned back to the open doorway and shouted, “You’re surrounded. This is your last chance. Drop your weapon and come out of the house with your hands on your head.”
Something moved in the dark. Bree held her gun steady and listened. A faint scratching sound came from the house. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she saw a shape moving inside.
“Don’t shoot me,” came the desperate-sounding plea. “I’m coming out.”
Bree kept her weapon trained on the doorway. A shadow appeared.
“Let me see your hands!” she yelled.
“They’re up. They’re fucking up.” The figure stepped over the threshold, his hands raised as high as he could get them.
“Where’s your weapon?” Bree scanned his clothing for suspicious gun-size bulges.
“Inside! On the floor,” Ricky cried. “Don’t shoot.” He stepped into the dim light of the porch lamp. Blood bloomed on the sleeve of his gray hoodie.
“Why are you bleeding?” she asked.
“A piece of glass from the window hit me,” Ricky sniveled.
Bree was on him in a second, taking control. She spun him around, shoved his face into the doorjamb, and cuffed his hands behind his back. She lifted the hem of his shirt, looking for weapons in the waistband of his low-riding jeans. “Anything sharp in your pockets? Is anything going to stick me?”
“No,” he cried. “You’re hurting me.”
Bree turned out his pockets. She found keys, cash, and two small packets of white powder. “What’s this?”
Ricky didn’t answer.
“You know I’ll get it tested,” Bree said.
“It’s just a little H.”
Heroin.
“I need a doctor,” Ricky whined.
“You’ll get one.” Bree pressed her lapel mic and called for an ambulance.
“You can’t arrest me.” True disbelief rang in his voice. “I didn’t shoot anybody.”
“You opened fire at law enforcement officers.” Bree turned him around to face her. Her heart clenched. He was just a kid. A high schooler, maybe fifteen or sixteen years old.
“I didn’t mean to shoot. I got scared. I freaked out.” Panic lifted the pitch in the boy’s voice.
He’s about the same age as Luke.
Bree felt sick. If the situation had gone sideways, she could have shot a kid. She’d thought of an alternative at the last moment, but if her diversion hadn’t worked . . .
Yes, the situation was Ricky’s fault, but when she looked at him, her mind’s eye saw Luke’s face. Her throat tightened.
“Everything OK?” Matt stood over Jasper, who was sitting on his ass on the lawn, his legs outstretched, his hands cuffed behind his back.
“I’m bleeding,” Ricky complained.
Bree took a deep breath, buried her emotions, and refocused on the job at hand. She widened the rip in Ricky’s sleeve to check the boy’s injury. A thin stream of blood ran down his arm. The wound was definitely not life-threatening. The skin below the wound revealed Ricky’s real problems. Red welts and scars ran down his pale inner arm. Track marks. His wound was superficial, but he was an addict.
“I’m gonna pass out,” Ricky cried.
Bree assured him, “You might need a few stitches, but you will not bleed to death. You will be fine.”
“I’m not fine. I’m gonna barf.” Ricky retched. Vomit hit the concrete and splashed onto Bree’s shoes.