SEVEN
Ten years ago
JAKE FARRADAY WAS in no mood to deal with a methed-out kid on the three-o’clock bus.
But the guy had a gun.
Jake had not one but three weapons on his person. His backup gun was secure in an ankle holster. His baby, a 9 mm handgun, was safely tucked under his shirt and against his tailbone. A switchblade waited in his jacket pocket.
Jake’s left hand circled the handle of his 9 mm but he didn’t take it out, not even when the driver slumped over the steering wheel, sending the bus crashing into a light pole.
The screams were muted. The few who rose to move toward the aisle quickly fell back into their seats. No one went to see if the driver was all right.
In the aisle the methed-out kid paced—limp hair, wild eyes, pale skin, his face twitching and angry. It didn’t get much worse than this. The kid’s hand shook as he aimed his gun at the ceiling, at the rubber matting under his feet and at any passenger who made a noise. A moment ago it had been aimed at the driver.
“Money,” the kid said, his voice raspy and high-pitched at the same time. “I want more.”
Half the people on the bus had already handed over their cash, eager to get the kid—and his gun—away from them. An elderly lady fainted, her purse fell to the floor and the man sitting next to her picked it up and handed over the whole thing.
Jake hadn’t turned over a dime.
Even in his meth madness, the kid took one look at Jake—dark skin, tattoos, low-slung, baggy jeans, black T-shirt, backward baseball cap, oversize hoody, scowl—and left him alone.
“Money,” the kid screamed again.
There were two people besides Jake who hadn’t surrendered their money. One was a stocky businessman who looked as if he had more money than sense. He was the one Jake worried about. No way did Jake want to blow a cover he’d taken six months to develop over a man who loved material goods more than his life.
The other holdout was a very young mother—she couldn’t have been older than twenty—who clutched a silent toddler.
The methed-out kid looked at the businessman and then looked at the mom and kid.
Outside the bus a crowd was gathering. Any minute, cops who could actually do something would show up.
Jake prayed they’d hurry.
The meth-head turned to the young mother. “You got a purse? Hand it over.”
Jake couldn’t tell from his spot at the very back of the bus if the woman, four seats ahead and down a step, had a purse or not. From the back all he could tell was that she had shoulder-length, choppy, brown hair, white skin and curves in all the right places. Amazingly she didn’t flinch.
“I don’t have a purse,” she said in a low voice. “Or any money.” The teen quickly looked at the businessman, who tensed, and then back at the young mother, who didn’t move.
The little girl didn’t move, either.
Outside, someone pounded on the side of the bus. The passengers flinched but no one called out.
The meth-head was running out of time and he knew it. He cursed before stepping even closer to the young mother. Glowering, he held out a hand.
It took all of Jake’s power to stay seated. A good cop didn’t bring unwanted attention to himself, didn’t risk blowing a deep cover, unless there was no other choice.
When the young mother didn’t move, the meth-head pounced, reaching past her and going for her daughter.
Children were the deal breaker. Jake stood, as did a clean-cut teenager who, after wisely turning over his money, had kept a low profile slouched against a window. Jake was probably the only person on the bus who realized the teen had been recording on his cell phone.
Before either one could take a step, the mother pulled a gun from somewhere inside her jacket, stood and aimed.
Jake’s heart almost stopped. He started to reach for his firearm then paused.
She didn’t so much as blink. Her body assumed a cop’s front stance and she clearly had a solid grip on the gun.
Jake knew why the meth-head believed. Her high-hand grasp was steady while his wildly shook. The meth-head stood so close to her, she didn’t really need to aim. Her trigger finger moved, just enough to show she meant business.
The meth-head took one step back, stumbled, fell and awkwardly hit the floor of the bus with a thud. His hand—the one with the gun—was in the air and the businessman who’d refused to give up his money quickly unarmed him.
Jake may have misjudged the man.
The woman gathered her daughter up in her arms. She stroked the girl’s hair and whispered in her ear. Jake hadn’t seen her conceal her weapon, and he could only imagine what the little girl thought about all that had happened.
The
