Dead Cold Mysteries Box Set #4: Books 13-16 (A Dead Cold Box Set) by Blake Banner (best ereader for academics .txt) 📕

“I’m serious, Dehan. This guy threatened to kill you tonight.”

She gave a short, adolescent laugh. “But he threatened to kill me because you are a cop!”

“Well, yes, that’s true. But the point is, being a cop in the Bronx is dangerous.”

We were quiet for a while, looking at the illuminated shop fronts and the Christmas decorations reflecting off the sidewalks, sidewalks that were slowly turning white under the gathering snow.

“You’re right. It’s something we need to think about. Both of us. A kid needs her father as much as she needs her mother. And when you lose your dad, it hurts just as much. I know all about that.”

We drove the rest of the way in silence. My mind kept going back to the dark Land Rover, the heavy coat and the arm and shoulder just visible in the limpid light, the voice, pleasant, educated. This no longer concerns the NYPD. Now, take your wife, go to Goa, and close the case. Otherwise you’ll be attending her funeral instead.

There was something jarring about the chauvinistic phrasing: take your wife to Goa, as though she could not afford to go herself. I had told the inspector I did not recognize the man, and I didn’t, not personally, but the more I thought about him, the more familiar his manner seemed: his manner and his style.

I pulled up outside our house, killed the engine and the lights and climbed out. The road was silent. Patchy snow had accumulated on the sidewalk and banked up against the walls and fences. Lamplight filtered through the naked branches of the plane trees. Dehan climbed out and her boots crunched on the snow on the sidewalk. Her door slammed and she smiled at me from under her brown and white woolen hat.

“Dehan,” I said, “let me always remember you just like that.”

Down the road, a car door clunked. Dehan began to walk carefully across the frozen sidewalk. “I look better in a bikini, you know.”

“A guy can have more than one memory.”

I followed her toward the gate. She pushed through and stopped at the first step. I looked down the road. There was a man approaching, silhouetted against the haze from the street lamp behind him. Condensation drifted from his mouth. He was walking briskly, head down. Without thinking, I said, “Go up, Dehan, get inside.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing. Just go up, open the door.”

She took a step up. The man was ten paces away. I saw his right elbow jut out and snapped, “No! Don’t! Get down!”

His hand was out and he was running, aiming. I heard my voice bellow, “Get down!”

Fire seemed to spit from his extended arm, once, twice, three times. I dropped and heard a slug smack and whine off the neighbor’s steps. Another smacked into our wall under the bow window. The third showered red brick dust over my head from the wall in front of me. By then, I had my .45 in my hand. I stood and took aim. He was already aiming at me, ten or twelve feet away. I heard Dehan scream, “Stone! No!”

His weapon spat a second before mine, but by then, Dehan was already colliding with me, knocking me to the ground. A searing heat in my left shoulder told me I’d been hit, but as I crashed on the sidewalk, with Dehan on top of me, I was thinking we were sitting targets. So I let off two rounds blindly in his general direction.

When I opened my eyes, it was to see his retreating form, running unsteadily on the icy sidewalk, and Dehan, in her coat, gloves and woolly hat, hurtling after him.

I scrambled to my feet. Shards of pain pierced my winded chest, but I ignored them and took off after Dehan. Down the road, tires squealed and headlamps blinded me. I shielded my eyes and saw Dehan seem to levitate and slam her boots into the guy’s back. He sprawled to the ground on his face and she landed with one knee on his back. The car was accelerating toward her. I screamed, “Dehan! The car!”

I could see she had his right arm pulled back and was twisting it savagely. I could hear her shouting at him: “Who do you work for? Who do you work for?”

Then the car was screaming to a halt, skidding and fishtailing on the snow. Dehan was jumping, rolling for cover. A hail of bullets hit the sidewalk in her wake, lifting a mist of snow and cement dust. The guy was staggering to his feet, running for the car. I was bellowing, “NYPD! Freeze! Freeze!”

I emptied two rounds blindly into the vehicle. I heard a thunk of metal and the shattering of glass. The passenger door opened and the guy clambered in. Then the car hurtled away down the road.

I ran to Dehan. “”Are you hurt?”

She stood. “I’m OK! You?”

“Yeah, I’m OK.”

She was dialing her phone as she stepped toward me. “Detective Dehan, I want a BOLO out on a dark blue Audi A8, old model, maybe twenty-sixteen, license plate G-A something, last two numbers a six and a three. Two males, late twenties, early thirties, possibly injured. One short-haired, six foot, well built, black leather coat and blue jeans. Possible broken fingers on right hand. Both armed and very dangerous, Car has a bullet hole in front right wing and a shattered windshield. I also need a Crime Scene team at my house. Yeah, Haight Avenue.” She hung up. “You’re hit.”

“It’s just a graze.” I laughed. “Your flying tackle did more damage than the slug.”

“You are one crazy son of a bitch, Stone. You stood up in his line of fire. It’s a miracle you weren’t killed.”

“Another two strides and he would have taken us both out. You know that. I had