Page 2 of Over the Top

What the hell had just happened?

His information was limited. His neighbor had died on his front porch, apparently protecting and possibly delivering to him the toddler now in his arms. The child hadn’t made a single sound since that one terrified whimper.

Where to go?

He didn’t dare go back to his house. He could knock on a random door and ask for help, but he was drenched in Leah’s blood, and the child was still more or less coated in it too. They looked like they’d just left the set of a horror movie.

The police. He should go to the station, report Leah’s death and hand over this child, whose parents must be frantic. He looked around, getting his bearings. It wasn’t far to the police station from here. Perhaps six blocks.

He walked cautiously, on the lookout for any black SUVs or armed gunmen on foot. It was surreal. This was Misty Falls, for God’s sake. Possibly the most boring small town in America.

He struck out across the town square, which was occupied by a small park, and his heartbeat tripled as he scurried across the open spaces between trees, eager to get to the safety of the station.

The police headquarters were housed in the town’s municipal building. It was a single-story brick building built in the 1970s—ugly, squat, and utilitarian. It came into view, but more importantly, a black SUV was parked in front of it.

He froze, then backed away slowly. Fading into the nearest shadow, he continued easing backward, his heart choking him, literally in his throat.

Whowas in that vehicle, andwhatdid they want?

Abruptly a cop burst out of the front door of the city building onto the sidewalk. He had his pistol drawn and was pointing it backward into the station itself. A man dressed all in black, his face covered in a black ski mask, came out behind him, brandishing some sort of assault-rifle-type weapon. There was a burst of light from its muzzle with a sharprat-a-tatof noise, and the cop toppled over on his back and lay still.

The gunman calmly walked over to the passenger side of the SUV and climbed in. The vehicle pulled away from the curb.

Chas tried desperately to read the license plate, but the SUV was too far away. All he saw was a blur of black. The vehicle turned a corner, and silence fell in the town square.

Lights were coming on in apartments over the stores, and he suspected people were dialing 911 without realizing there was a good chance that everyone who might answer their call was dead. Why else would that gunman have been so casual about leaving the department unless he knew there would be no pursuit from within?

Holy what the heck, Batman?

Now what was he supposed to do?

Someone came out of a building a few doors down from the cop and raced over to check the downed officer. Whatever the guy saw caused him to reel back, turn, and vomit. The man did pull out a phone, however, and appeared to be talking to whomever answered it.

Chas assumed the bystander was calling in help, perhaps police from the next town over.

Logic told him to return to his house and wait for law enforcement to arrive. To make a witness statement and hand over this kid, who was starting to feel more than a little heavy in his tired arms.

But something in his gut stopped him. His home was no longer safe. His porch was the scene of a murder, and he had no way of knowing if the bad guys would be lurking nearby, waiting for cops—or him—to show up.

Had they seen him leap off his porch? Had they entered his house in search of him? If so, they’d found his cold beer. They would know he’d fled on foot and was somewhere nearby.

He looked around frantically. He had to hide. Get to cover. Call someone, anyone, for help. But who? It wasn’t like he had a contact list full of commandos—

Whoa. Rewind. He did know one commando.

And he even had Gunner’s phone number. He’d had it for years but never had the guts to call it. His mother had gotten it from Gunner’s mom and passed it to him. He couldn’t count how many times he’d looked at that name in his contact list. Pulled up the number, hovered his finger over the Dial button, and then chickened out.

There had to be somebody else. Anybody. But it wasn’t like he could call up any of his one-night stands and open with, “Hey, it’s Chas from spring break last year. You know, Miami. So, my house just got shot up and a woman died on my porch, and I’ve got this bloodied kid with me, and I don’t know where to go. Mind if I hop on over and shack up at your place? Don’t mind the armed killers who may be hunting me and this kid. Oh, and they just took out an entire police force, but that’s no big deal, is it?”

Cripes.

With his forearm under her diapered behind, he propped the child against his shoulder, where she huddled shivering, her face buried against his neck. Poor kid was scared out of her mind.

He fished out his phone with one hand and, shielding its light against his chest as much as possible, opened his contact list.

Vance, Gunner.

He pressed the Call button.

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