Deathblow (22 page)

Watching the blob on the black-and-white screen had the same impact as when that tree stump in the river had hit him in the face. There was a sensation of shock, and the feeling of drowning.

Joe stared at the ultrasound screen while the doctor slid a white wand in the blue jelly that covered Wendy’s barely noticeable bump.

Wendy smiled at him, probably amused by the shock on his face. “Surreal, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He was going to be a father. For real this time.

He didn’t know at what point he’d decided to let himself believe it. But the more time he spent with Wendy, the more he knew that she was neither a liar nor a drama queen. She had quiet strength that she wasn’t even aware of, strength to face the hardships that came her way and fight her way through them.

He thought of Erika and the trap she’d set for him. Wendy was nothing like his scheming ex-fiancée. And he was nothing like the young idiot he’d been back then either. He’d better not be. He was going to be a father. He grinned at Wendy, then at Justin, picturing another little boy like him.

Justin was busy coloring on the floor. The blob on the monitor didn’t interest him nearly as much as an entire coloring book of dinosaurs driving pickup trucks.

The doctor finished the ultrasound. “Everything looks perfect. You can have a printout, or for a fee, some 3D pictures or a DVD of the video.”

Wendy hesitated.

“We’ll take all of it,” Joe said, then scooped up Justin. “How about we play some more with those trucks in the waiting room?”

He walked out with the kid on his shoulder, in case Wendy wanted to have a private discussion with her doctor.

Fifteen minutes passed before she was done, shrugging into her coat as she walked out of the examining room.

Joe helped with the coat. “Everything okay?”

“Perfect.”

He pulled her in close, snug against his chest, brushed a kiss against her lips. “We made a pretty cute kid. Football player.”

“We don’t even know if it’s a girl or a boy.”

“I don’t care either way. As long as he grows up to be a wide receiver.”

She laughed as she shook her head at him.

After the appointment, he took them out to dinner at Finnegan’s, introduced Wendy and Justin to Rose and Sean. Rose kept shooting giant smiles at their table.
Here we go,
Joe thought. Town gossips would have them married by morning. But the thought didn’t bother him.

By the time he got Wendy and Justin home, it was close to seven. He changed upstairs in his room, then called the captain. “I’m heading out. I’d appreciate if you could send someone out to watch the house.”

“Mike is on his way. You stay safe tonight.”

“Yes, sir.”

Justin was watching cartoons in the living room with Wendy and the cat when Joe went downstairs. She left her son with Pirate Prince and came out to the kitchen.

“I might not be home tonight,” he told her. Taking down two gangs the same night was going to take some work, then processing everyone, then all the debriefings and paperwork. “Officer Mike McMorris will be outside until I get back. If you need anything, you let him know.”

She looked him over, noted the clothes—dark pants, dark hoodie. Her gaze settled on the bulge of his weapon tucked into his waistband.

“It’s something dangerous, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “Part of the job.”

She held his gaze. “Please come home to us safely.”

“That’s the plan.” He smiled so she wouldn’t worry. But she didn’t look convinced, so he leaned in. “Good luck kiss?”

The corners of her mouth turned up. “Do you ever pass up a chance to hit on a woman?”

He pulled back and acted offended. “What? What kind of a chump do you take me for? Winners grab the ball. Losers pass up opportunities.”

“Is that a football thing?”

He wiggled an eyebrow. “Would it turn you on if it was? I think you’re secretly into jocks. You had me marked from the beginning. Admit it.”

She did smile then, fully, and seeing that smile relaxed some of the tension in his chest. He leaned in again, slowly, gently, and kissed her, waited until she stepped into his arms and let go. The feel of her buzzed along his nerve endings.

Somehow the kiss made him feel invincible, activating some primal male part of him: the warrior going off to battle, kissing his woman good-bye. His lips on hers felt good and right. Predictably, he wanted more.

Her lips parted beneath his. He ran his hands around her waist to the back, his entire body hardening. This was why, millennia after millennia, women kissed their men before battle. To remind the befuddled bastards what would be waiting for them at home when they returned triumphant.

Egyptian pharaohs and Napoleon, all the generals of all the armies—they conquered for this.

His hands slipped lower and cupped her against him. “That’s one fine ass,” he murmured against her lips.

A burst of a laugh escaped her. Then her hands went around him, mirroring his movements. The breath caught in his throat. He went in a little wilder and deepened the kiss.

She tasted sweet and hot. He wanted her now, on the kitchen island, her long legs wrapped around his waist.

A car horn beeped outside, interrupting that very satisfying fantasy.

He hated to pull away, but he did. “Mike is here.”

Her eyes were glazed with passion, her face flushed, her hair disheveled.

Oh hell. How on earth was he supposed to walk away from her? He couldn’t, so she had to be the one to step away first.

“Stay safe,” she whispered.

“I’m coming home. Count on it.”

He brushed one last kiss over her lips, then he turned and walked out, for the first time leaving a home behind when he went off to work, instead of an empty house.

He strode up to Mike, thanked him for coming, then hopped into his Camaro and headed into Philly to meet up with Ramos and crew to do some damage.

Ramos was waiting for him out front, standing next to Paco’s tricked-out Buick. Music blared out the windows, Rusty Cent again. Joe went over, bumped fists. Three guys went with Paco. They got into his car wordlessly, the one in the front on the passenger side grabbing a CD case and tossing it up to the dash before he sat down.

From the corner of his eyes, Joe caught a glimpse of a green CD case with half a pink piggy sticker on the corner, then Paco pulled out and drove away.

Ramos glanced at Joe. “No guns?”

“Sorry, man. I can’t get them out here until tomorrow. They’re in my cousin’s garage, and the cops have eyes on him. They know he’s connected.” He looked around. “Where is Rashard?”

“Gone with Chuck, Andre, and Will. He’s taking the long way to make sure ain’t nobody sees them.” Ramos grabbed a semiautomatic from the porch, then strode to the Camaro. “I’m driving.”

Joe hopped in on the passenger side. Now was not the time to challenge alpha status.

Ramos tossed the semiautomatic onto his lap. “That’s a loaner. Someone else came through this morning.”

“Thanks, bro.”

The Camaro’s motor purred as Ramos pulled away from the curb.

“Got a fine sound,” he said, his shoulders relaxed, a man without a care in the world.

But there was some bad vibe in the car that had Joe’s cop instincts prickling. For starters, why was it just the two of them? The other vehicles went out with a full crew.

And then it hit him.

The Rusty Cent CD on Paco’s dashboard.

Wendy had one of those in her car. And Justin had put animal stickers all over it. Exactly like that pink piggy.

Oh shit.

He put his hand on his gun.

If Paco had Wendy’s CD, that meant he’d been in Wendy’s car. That meant he’d been the one who cut her brakes. Why? Because he’d followed Joe at one point, saw Wendy, and thought she belonged to him.

Joe glanced over to Ramos, but he was looking straight ahead, his jaw set at a determined angle, a cold gleam in his eyes.

Nobody in the gang did anything without Ramos’s approval. Ramos had to have sent Paco. Even as Joe figured that out, another puzzle piece fell into place.
Oh fuck.
 

When he’d been shouting, “
I’m an undercover officer
,” in the back of the sinking police cruiser, Officer Tropper
had
heard him. He’d just acted as if he hadn’t. Tropper had left him to drown on purpose so Joe couldn’t finger him as the dirty cop. Lil’ Gomez had been collateral damage. Then Tropper reported back to Ramos.

And Ramos had put a payback plan together.

Joe reached over with his left hand to slap some music on while, at the same time, he took the safety off his gun with his right. Ramos could turn and blow his head off at any second. Joe stood ready, watching from the corner of his eye for the smallest movement.

Ramos drove out of the neighborhood without a word, but when they reached the boulevard, he didn’t turn to the left, toward the neighborhood where most of J.T.’s crew lived.

The chief had the SWAT team nearby, ready to shut it all down as soon as the first car pulled up. But it didn’t look like Ramos planned on being part of that hit.

Joe did his best to relax his posture. “Where are we going?”

“Got a little surprise up my sleeve.” He kept looking straight forward. “You and me will be doin’ a special op today.”

He drove maybe a quarter of a mile, then turned off to a side street of graffiti-tagged row houses, then down another side street that led them to an industrial area with rusty fences and abandoned factories.

Ramos bobbed his head to the music, a cold smile on his lips. “Rashard and Paco are hitting J.T.’s house. You and me are gonna take out the motherfucker’s business.” Ramos reached to the dashboard and pumped up the volume until the car was rocking. “This is where J.T.’s crew cuts their cocaine,” he shouted over the music.

Joe reached into his pocket and pushed the button that would automatically dial Chief Gleason to let him know that Joe needed immediate assistance. They were tracking his cell phone signals tonight, so the chief would know where he was.

Among the abandoned buildings, a beat-up shoe warehouse sat maybe three hundred feet ahead, lights on inside, a familiar yellow Hummer sitting in front of it.

Okay. This is it.
Things weren’t supposed to get this far, but they had.

Survival mode.

Joe rolled down his window all the way. He had his own weapon in hand, but switched it for the semiautomatic, then leaned back in his seat so Ramos could shoot by him.

And then they were lined up with the warehouse, one of the giant corrugated metal doors open, three guys working on a gleaming GTO inside, another three watching. They all looked up at the music that blared from the Camaro.

Ramos stepped on the brake and opened fire, knocked one guy to the ground with the first bullet.

Joe was firing too, aiming at hands and weapons. He was hoping the enemy would run. But, of course, they didn’t. They dove for cover, then shot back.

Ramos was squeezing the trigger nonstop. Bullets ricocheted off the freaking pavement.

“Go, go, go!” Joe shouted at him as more guys rushed from the back, spraying the Camaro with bullets.

He didn’t have time to worry about his car. His semiautomatic jammed. He threw it out the window and grabbed his own gun. The fifteen bullets in the magazine weren’t going to get him far. Ramos was squeezing off more per minute.

“For fuck’s sake, get out of here!” He was shooting back for real now, took out one guy, aimed for the next. “Go!”

But Ramos had his foot on the brake, open hate on his face as he switched his gaze to Joe for a second.

He wants me dead, right now, right here.
Of course he did. If one of J.T.’s guys shot Joe, Ramos would be off scot-free; he wouldn’t be the cop killer going to federal prison.

Joe opened the door and threw himself to the pavement while squeezing off one shot after the other at the warehouse. He rolled behind his car, then ran in a crouch toward the nearest thing that could shelter him, the side of the building, bullets whizzing by in every direction around him.

He didn’t look back to see if they were coming from the warehouse or Ramos. He ran like hell for cover.

He got maybe thirty feet away when something plowed into his back and knocked him face-first into the pavement.
Shot
, his dazed mind registered. For a split second, he thought of Wendy and the baby. Shook it off. He had to keep his mind in the game. He rolled into the cover of a haphazard jumble of rusty Dumpsters by the building’s side, giving thanks for his Kevlar.

Tires squealed behind him. Ramos was driving away at last.

Hopefully with a couple of bullets in him. Joe struggled to catch his breath as he pushed to his feet. He needed to get his ass moving. Some of J.T.’s boys would go after Ramos. The rest would come after him.

He staggered into the narrow alley between the shoe warehouse and the next derelict building. The alleyway stretched to two hundred feet, at least. If anyone came after him before he cleared the other end, he’d have nowhere to hide, nothing but brick wall on either side. The gap was maybe three feet wide, filled with dead weeds and garbage.

Somewhere in the distance, police sirens sounded. Too damn far.

Engines roared to life behind the warehouse. J.T.’s crew was mobilizing. If Joe darted out of the alleyway in front of them, they’d either run him down or shoot him dead, probably both. He couldn’t go forward, and he couldn’t go back.

He spotted half a dozen basement windows near the ground behind the weeds. One had its glass broken. He scanned the junk around him and grabbed a tattered cardboard box, ran to the window, stuck his head in. The dim, cavernous place seemed uninhabited, no sound of movement.

Jeezus,
it stunk in there
.
 

He gagged as he dove in, then, as soon as he was on his feet, he jumped and reached back to pull the box over to cover the window from the outside. That blocked a little more light, but hiding the window might give him a few extra minutes.

He squinted as he scanned the place. Concrete floor, concrete block walls, a mess of broken industrial equipment thrown around. He held back a coughing fit, but he wasn’t sure how long he could keep from throwing up. Hopefully, if his stomach gave out, at least it would do it quietly.