Page 25 of Under Cover
Crosby grunted. “I don’t want to talk about it.” Toby and his fucking parties. This one had sort of “sprung up.” Toby had worked a club late, and Crosby’s sleep had been invaded by ten to twenty of Toby’s new best friends, who all wanted to “detox and chill” while Toby was riffing hot. Crosby hadn’t wanted to encroach on Gail’s goodwill—not since Gail’s cast had come off. Iliana hadn’t sent him so much as a text when he’d been laid up, and while on the one hand he’d figured that was self-protective because she couldn’t deal with someone she cared about being hurt, on the other hand, in addition to his visit, Garcia had called or texted him at least three times a week.
Although why he should draw a parallel between Iliana and Garcia was beyond him.
Sure. Sure it was.
But as much as he wanted to hang with Garcia, it was still too much to ask to just show up at his door in the fuck-you a.m. to crash in his guest room. And he didn’t want to seem like a charity case. He’d started to develop a certain… pride around Garcia. The guy had been his probie, his trainee, and Crosby had caught glints of admiration in the guy’s eyes. Crosby didn’t want any of that to go away.
“His roommate was throwing another rager,” Carlyle said knowingly, and Crosby cringed.
“Crosby, why didn’t you crash on my couch?” Chadwick asked over comms, and while the offer was kind, Crosby took a millisecond to think bitterly that his old partner in Chicago hadn’t given a good goddamn if Crosby had slept on the street, and he sort of missed those days.
“Couch at work’s fine,” he said briefly. “They even have showers. Now when we get there, I say we suit up, helmets too. He’s armed with a Beretta with a silencer. Reports at the clinic say he seems competent at firearms—there was no hesitation when he shot the doctor—and he was in a hurry. He had kids in the car, right? Walked in, shot the doctor in the head, walked out, ignored the two nurses working the early shift. He coldcocked the security guard even—could have taken the guy out. If he’s going to sacrifice his kids at the Island of Hope, I’m thinking he’s just going to have them look away and do it cleanly. If we threaten him, we will pull his attention away from his kids, but he might also put them in the crosshairs. We need to take him out clean when his back is turned. One of us in front, two others on the side he can’t see.”
“I’m sneaky,” Joey said. “I’ll take the back. Crosby, you’re a good Catholic boy—”
“Chadwick,” Crosby said before they locked this into stone. “Ethnicity of our dirtbag.”
“White boy,” he returned. “Carlyle’s right—you’re our negotiator.”
Fair.
“Just as well,” Garcia said with a snort. “My people are Jehovah’s Witness. I didn’t get a birthday party until I turned eighteen at college.”
“Bummer,” Crosby said. “Was it a good one?”
“Got laid,” Garcia said, and then he blushed.
Crosby thought of asking what her name was, but something—a stupid hope, maybe, or a fantasy even more likely—kept him from doing it.
Boy or girl, they were lucky ducks.
“Good for you,” Crosby said and then narrowed his eyes. They were passing through the cemetery, which was old, dignified, well-kept, a carpet of greenery padding row upon row of marble headstones. The roadway through the cemetery looped several times, with a parking lot near St. Brigid’s church and enough space on the loops for mourners to park on the wide lanes.
“Our suspect was last seen driving a hunter-green Dodge Charger, entering the cemetery from the east,” Crosby said, pulling himself to the here and now. “Pearson, give me the quickest directions—”
“Turn left now,” Gail said, a hint of panic coming over the radio.
Crosby did, ignoring the protest from his passengers, who seemed to think that was something of a surprise.
Gail had them park a quarter of a mile from where the suspect’s GPS was pinging, and the three of them unloaded and suited up quietly, pulling their Kevlar and helmets from the back, as well as the limited armaments.
Carlyle, surprisingly enough, went for a small but powerful crossbow with steel bolts, and when Crosby raised his eyebrows, he replied tersely, “Smaller boom, smaller mess, more accuracy. If you’re not taking this shot, I want the thing that’s going to traumatize the kids the least.”
“Fair,” Crosby said. “Just, you know, don’t miss.”
Carlyle gave him a grim smile. “Don’t get in the way,” he said before turning and running silently through the graveyard, his path wrapping around a stand of trees that, according to the map Gail had sent them, served as partial boundary for the Island of Hope.
Crosby slammed the hatch shut and turned toward Garcia, expecting him to be on his way through the light snow toward the small, tragic cemetery plot, swinging wide to come in the opposite side as Carlyle.
“What?” Crosby asked. “Also, watch out for the others. Gail and Manny are about ten minutes out, but Harding and Denison are here already and searching.”
Garcia nodded, his gaze boring into Crosby’s until Crosby could feel the heat rising up his cheeks.
“What?” he asked again, defensively.
“Don’t get shot,” he said, obviously troubled.
“Well, that’s the idea—”
