Page 74 of Under Cover
While he was doing that, Barnes lumbered heavily up the stairs, puffing with exertion.
Crosby stared at him, both concerned and furious. Barnes wasn’t in great shape—Crosby was used to his team being in top form, and he really hoped the guy didn’t fall over. But he’d also expected the man to have his back!
“Sorry, kid,” Barnes puffed, leaning forward to rest his hands on his thighs. “I’m really sorry. I was trying to run and tell you to slow down, and God, I’m just not where I used to be.”
Crosby nodded, some of his fury subsiding. “I’ll pay better attention,” he promised, grunting when the woman under his knee gave a jerk in an attempt to escape. “Ma’am, where do you think you are going?” he asked, out of patience. “You are under arrest for assaulting an officer with a deadly weapon. You have the right to remain silent….” He finished reading her rights now, while he had a witness and before he forgot. He usually was part of running a suspect down. If they brought the guy in alive, they handed him off to officers who read them their rights.
He finished the recitation and stood, assisting the woman to her feet again, and she jerked against his hands, then whimpered, “You’re hurting me!”
Like her words were magic, he felt the blinding burn of a slash across his forearm and realized he was bleeding all over his new perpetrator.
“You fuckin’ think?” he muttered, not even wanting to look at the slash. “C’mon, lady, I think we need to find a new police officer to take you in. Officer Barnes and I have shit to do at the hospital.”
“Oh God,” Barnes muttered. “You think the kid’s okay?”
Crosby nodded. “He was getting his breath as we went in. But he’s going to have to be checked out. I got shot close range through a vest earlier this year—six weeks desk duty on account of cracked ribs and a punctured lung. Fucking sucked.”
Barnes turned his head as they were escorting their prisoner down the first flight of stairs. “Seriously, kid?”
“Yeah.” He finally got a look at the slash through his uniform and the blood trickling down his hand and dripping onto their suspect and then the floor. “This is nothing. Let’s check on your rook.”
By the time they got downstairs, Sweeney had been loaded on the stretcher already. Barnes made Crosby go talk to the medics for some on-site medical assistance and so he could check on the rookie.
The rookie was pissed.
“That was dumb,” he muttered, still trying to get his breath.
“You heard him,” Crosby said, trying to gentle his voice because his adrenaline was still high. “You had the instincts, rook. Why didn’t you speak up?”
The kid—gah, he was twenty-three!—gave Crosby a look of mute appeal. “Got a badass….” Breathe. “Backing me up? Can’t whine!”
Crosby crossed his eyes and held up his bleeding arm. “Not so badass. Go, get checked out, take your medical leave and study up on procedure. Memorize it. Use it to your advantage. God, rook, I’m so glad you’re not dead.”
Against everything, a slow smile crept into Sweeney’s wan face. “Me… too….”
The medics loaded the kid onto the bus, and the driver paused to talk to him. “Kid’s losing feeling in his toes,” he warned. “I’m betting a bruised spine, possible cracked ribs, maybe some internal bruising. Six weeks minimum.”
Crosby nodded. “I’ll tell the cap.”
The captain of their unit was Cosmo Gambini, one of the most Italian people Crosby had ever met. Crosby liked him—he was midsized, with a sharp goatee, surprising blue eyes, and a habit of singing Frank Sinatra when he was preoccupied. Once again proving that Iliana only hired good peeps, Gambini was on the scene, had probably started out the minute Crosby made the shots-fired call.
“Young!” Cosmo called, and Crosby barely remembered that was his name now.
“Yo! Cap!”
“You getting checked out?” Gambini was jogging toward him, looking pointedly at his bleeding arm, and the medic grimaced.
“You couldn’t have led with that?” he asked Crosby with irritation.
“Wanted to check on the rookie,” Crosby mumbled.
The medic grunted. “You talk to your cap about the rookie. Let me flag down this other bus to take you to the ER.”
“But it’s just a cut!” Crosby complained.
“It requires stitches, not a Band-Aid, hero. That needs a hospital. Suck it up.”
“Ugh.”
