at all.’ He slowed the car to a crawl, squinting at the buildings around them. ‘Looks like we got here before backup did.’
This wasn’t normal. Harper frowned.
‘What’s taking so long?’
Miles shook his head. ‘No idea.’
Thirty-Ninth Street was narrower and much darker than Broad, lined on either side by some of the city’s most notorious public housing projects. Harper had been here many nights before, but she could never remember seeing it so empty. No one hung out on the steps, or gathered on the concrete drives. There were no pit-bull gangs comparing dogs, no crowds of young men jostling on the basketball court.
Miles gave a low whistle.
‘Well, this is unusual.’ He spoke softly, as if they might be heard through the windows.
Harper leaned forward in her seat to look up.
‘Someone shot out the streetlights.’
‘Five-six-eight, what is your situation?’ The dispatcher’s voice crackling out of the police scanner seemed too loud in the heavy silence.
A long moment passed. All the radio chatter had stopped now, as if every cop in the city was waiting for this one crime to play out.
‘This is five-six-eight.’ The officer’s voice was low now, barely above a whisper. ‘Suspects ran into the Anderson Houses. I’ve lost visual. I’m looking for them.’
‘Copy that, five-six-eight,’ the dispatcher said. ‘Be aware, backup is en route.’
Miles pointed to a decrepit cluster of boarded-up, graffiti-covered three-story buildings at the end of the road.
‘Anderson Houses,’ he said. ‘Been closed a few years now. Great place to hide.’
Pulling the car into an empty space at the side of the road, he cut the engine. The quiet that followed felt unnatural.
In sync, Harper and Miles unhooked the scanners from their belts and placed them on the floor of the car.
Miles looked at her, his eyes gleaming in the shadows. ‘This could get messy.’
Harper grinned at him. ‘What’s new?’
Tilting her head at the door, she reached for the handle.
There was no more discussion. They both knew how dangerous it was.
They jumped out of the car in the same moment, closed their doors carefully and edged down the road toward the boarded-up buildings.
Outside, the humidity hung thick in the hot air and the odd hush felt even heavier. Not one person walked down the normally crowded street. Their soft-soled shoes were silent on the pavement as they moved through the darkness. Still, Harper was conscious with every step of a sense of being watched.
The fine hairs on the back of her neck rose.
‘Where is everyone?’ she whispered.
Slowing, Miles scanned the ramshackle buildings around them. They appeared empty. But Harper suspected there were people there, behind every dark pane of glass.
‘Waiting,’ he said grimly.
Across the street, something moved in the shadows.
They both noticed it at the same time but Miles reacted first, grabbing Harper’s arm and pulling her behind a parked car.
They crouched low.
Peering into the darkness, Harper could make out three figures about twenty yards away. Two were tall and thin, one was short and stocky. Hidden behind a tall, abandoned tenement, the three didn’t seem aware they were being watched. They were staring intently in the opposite direction.
Following their line of vision, Harper at first saw nothing. Then she noticed the glow of a flashlight bobbing at the far end of the long, dusty courtyard.
Her heart sped up. It had to be the cop – Five-six-eight.
The killers were two buildings away from him and he was heading the wrong way. He had no idea where they were. But they knew right where he was.
Carefully, she raised herself up above the hood of the dusty parked Toyota, trying to get a better look at what the men were doing. The small one was fussing with something around his neck. It took her a second to realize it was a bandanna.
The three wanted men leaned towards each other, whispering. They seemed to be arguing.
The smallest one said something that silenced the others. Despite his size, it was immediately clear he was the leader of that group.
The other two dropped back as, with one hand, he tugged the bandanna up over his nose and mouth, like a bandit from a western movie.
Reaching behind his back, he pulled a gun from the waistband of his jeans.
Harper’s stomach dropped.
He was going to take the cop out.
In desperation, she looked over her shoulder to the empty street. Where the hell was backup? They should have been here long ago.
But behind them there was only darkness.
A few feet away, Miles had balanced his camera on the very edge of the trunk and was focusing it on the three men. His hands were absolutely steady.
Harper leaned towards him.
‘We have to warn that cop,’ she hissed.
Miles turned far enough to give her an incredulous look.
She couldn’t blame him. She knew as well as anyone reporters at crime scenes were supposed to be nothing but eyes and ears – always observing, never getting involved.
But surely this was different. Someone could die. And there was no one else here to save him.
Before she could make up her mind what to do, the three gunmen stepped out of the shadows.
Harper’s eyes had adjusted to the dark now and she could see them clearly as the one with the bandanna raised his gun, leveling it at the bobbing light in the distance.
The would-be shooter was small – no more than five foot four – and so young. He could easily be a teenager.
But his stance was confident. His hand was steady. There was a kind of eagerness to his posture – he leaned forward onto the balls of his feet, the gun thrust out. As if he couldn’t wait to kill.
The scene took on a haze of unreality. It was too late to call for help. They were too close, anyway.
Next to her, Miles took his first careful shots. There was no loud click – just a muffled shushing sound, instantly lost in the breeze.
He modified his cameras for silence.
Across
