Wesley Danver, signaled the breach man, who immediately busted the door open with a ram. “Angeles Beach P.D.,” Wes yelled. “Arrest warrant for Jerome Marinaro.”
The five officers, all clad in protective gear, barged in, weapons ready. Even in the dimness, Trevor could see the place was a mess. Stacks of pallets of different heights formed uneven rows on the concrete floor—all filled with boxes and metal car parts and stuff Trevor wasn’t about to figure out now. He sighted along his weapon, aimed and let up as no one appeared. Then he rushed forward, pivoted and did it again.
“Go! Go! Marinaro? Where the hell is he?” Shouts reverberated through the place—Trevor’s among them—amplified by the electronic equipment in his headgear. The warehouse reeked of gasoline, motor oil and mustiness, and he inhaled it all as the adrenaline rush made him breathe hard.
Where was their target? The tip that had sent them tearing over here had seemed reliable.
The suspect could be hiding behind one of those damned uneven piles or even on top of one. A cornered animal with no regard for human life, preparing to fight back.
Unless he wasn’t here. The tip could’ve been wrong. Or he could have heard or seen them, fled already. Or—
“There he is!” came a shout from Trevor’s right.
“Drop your weapon,” yelled another voice. “Do it.”
Trevor saw the figure off to his side, aiming something in their direction. It fired, the explosion loud in this vast warehouse.
In front of him, Wes went down.
“You SOB,” hollered Trevor as he aimed his assault rifle. He fired as he heard more reports from the suspect’s weapon.
Suddenly he felt pain. Excruciating pain—in his neck, just above his protective vest.
Then nothing.
Outside the warehouse, Officer Skye Rydell heard the gunshots, which sounded like a battery of AK-47s—loud, hollow, powerful. Damn! Skye knew that the SWAT team—Special Weapons And Tactics—prided itself on resolving situations peacefully. Most of the time. But apparently not today.
“Easy, Bella,” Skye said. She was so attuned to her K-9 partner’s whine that she could hear it despite all other noise. She glanced down. The nearly black Belgian Malinois sat obediently at her side on the pavement, obviously straining to move.
As suddenly as the noise had erupted, silence fell—except for the sound of choppers overhead.
Skye had been waiting across the street with her fellow officers who were also clad in the navy blue Angeles Beach P.D. uniform. Black-and-white patrol cars blocked the street and other non-SWAT officers watched.
The suspect had allegedly assaulted a female victim earlier that day in a location down the street from here, then shot and killed her. When confronted, he threatened half a dozen other civilians and ran into this warehouse—entirely out of control. That was why the SWAT team had been ordered to enter first.
But now weapons had been fired. No matter who had fired first, the likelihood was that the suspect was down, and since Bella was trained primarily as a felony suspect search dog, there was probably nothing for Skye and her to do.
At least, there was no need for Skye’s official services. And under these circumstances, no use for her unofficial ones, either, unless…
“Officer down, officer down!” came the shout, first from the radio on her Sam Browne utility belt and then from everywhere.
She felt Bella tremble beneath her hand. “Okay, girl,” she whispered. They had to go. Now. If anyone asked questions, they were simply doing their duty, making sure the suspect hadn’t escaped.
With one hand on the Glock holstered at her hip, Skye dashed across the street, holding Bella’s lead as the dog loped beside her. Other officers preceded them inside the warehouse. The place was as dim as twilight, with only faint illumination from the fixtures high above, probably just the security lights. No one had turned on anything brighter. No need. SWAT equipment would allow them to see in the dark if necessary.
The place reverberated with additional shouts from fellow officers. The adrenaline rush triggered at the moment Skye had heard the shots was suddenly overshadowed by sorrow and sympathy and anger.
Officer down.
How bad were the wounds?
Was anyone dying? Dead?
Smells filled the air and her head. The bitter smokiness of spent ammunition. Oil or something similar. Blood. She could only imagine what the odors were doing to her scent-sensitive partner. Reaching down, she stroked Bella’s head.
Turning a corner around a stack of pallets, she saw two other officers near an inert body on the floor. One was trying to stanch the flow of blood with the wounded man’s own shirt. The other had his weapon drawn in case the suspect was nearby. Damn! She didn’t want, didn’t need an audience.
“Over there!” she exclaimed, pointing back to the way she had come. “I’ll take over.” She muscled them away, and both officers seemed grateful to leave and go after the suspect.
“Stay back, Bella,” she told her partner.
She dropped to her knees and tugged off the standard-issue cap with the badge on the front. Her hair remained away from her face, held back by a clip at her nape.
It was Danver. Though she didn’t know the SWAT officer well, she recognized him. His face was pasty and pinched, his eyes closed.
While pressing his shirt against the wound, Skye took Danver’s wrist and checked his pulse. Faint. She held on to him, absorbing his condition.
Very near death. Too near for Skye to save him.
Abruptly, a pounding began in Skye’s brain, a familiar rhythm that she had heard many times before. A chant of female voices—
It was time.
Danver’s closed eyes opened wide. He lifted the arm closest to Skye and motioned vaguely toward her.
She took his hand to comfort him—and to read him, to sense who he was, what he had done in his life and whether she could do anything to help him.
As she pressed the wounded man’s hand between both of hers, the chill of his flesh sent what felt like ice shards into her bloodstream. But, yes, her initial impulse was clearly correct. It was time. And she could, would, assist him.
Be strong, Officer Danver. All will be well.
Skye nodded slightly as she listened to the familiar voices chanting inside her head—intoned in the tongue of her ancestors, words understood by insight and not by translation.
She felt Danver squeeze her fingers and looked down at him again. His eyes were open but glazing over. He appeared frightened. Angry, maybe.
“It’ll be all right,” she whispered. “You’ll see. Much better than this,” she said as his body spasmed in obvious agony and he cried out. She squeezed back, willing him free of pain. His hand went slack as his eyes dulled, and Skye
