Nineteen
Scary's on the wall
Scary's on his way
Watch where you spit
I'd advise you wait until it's over
Then you got hit
And you shoulda known better
And we die young
Faster we run
Down, down, down you're rollin'
Watch the blood float in the muddy sewer
Take another hit
And bury your brother
And we die young
Faster we run
Scary's on the wall
Scary's on his way
Another alley trip
Bullet seek the place to bend you over
Then you got hit
And you shoulda known better
Faster we run
And we die young
Alanna sighed, as she absently listened to her brother count off the steps. She could see, as clearly as the conditions permitted, the pitch of the ground beneath their feet. What she could also see, were the three figures they were following. And the only reason why she’d questioned her brother was because he was always acting like an old woman.
Seriously, bro, get a move on it. Alanna crab-walked away from him, taking aim at the other two men. Coz if you don’t stop acting like Nana, your boy is gonna get his ass shot. And that would be a real tragedy. He’s got one fine ass.
Not to mention the rest of him.
Shaking her head at her own foolishness, Alanna fired. Damn it!
With visibility so poor it wasn’t hard to miss and she’d done exactly that. Now the two following Pratt knew there was someone following them, which didn’t bode well. Shots echoed dully, sounding more like muffled engine backfire and she breathed a sigh of relief. ‘Bout time you got your ass in the game, Charles. Momma shoulda named you Creampuff . . .
Hampered by the cold as well, Alanna did what she could to keep their quarry pinned down. After the last volley, she tucked her gun into her jacket, then rolled downhill, below the direct line of fire. She could barely see her brother in the snowfall, but that wasn’t yet worrying her. They’d practised maneuvers so many times that she could predict his location without thinking. If he was sticking to their routine, Charles would be rolling to his left, which meant she should go right. Provided this worked, their opponents would be pinned down in a crossfire, almost like monkey-in-the-middle.
If it worked.
Alanna watched while a blurry figure – she was guessing it was Pratt – scrambled uphill, toward her brother’s last position. While it was difficult to identify the figure with any degree of certainty, Alanna had to assume it was, because the shots were coming from the other figures. Sid Vicious is gonna get his ass shot. She cursed under her breath, urging him “Stay down, stupid!”
From the first moment she’d seen him, Alanna had been smitten. He had been teaching part of the anti-terrorism seminar while she was in the Academy and his looks, charm, and killer accent had her inner vixen sitting up and taking notice. She’d tried every trick she could to get his attention, without much success, even after he accepted the offer from NYPD and became her brother’s partner. Alanna had thought the constant contact would kick-start something, but it had the opposite effect. Pratt had seen her as non-touchable, first for being a student, and secondly because she was his partner’s sister.
It burned her when she suspected he’d been dating someone, worsened when she’d seen him with Nikki Wood.
Not that there had been anything to see. Not really. Evidently, they were more careful than that. But it was the sidelong glances. The raised eyebrows. The shared laughter. It was a hundred little things that two people who shouldn’t know each other – and claimed they didn’t – hid from everyone around them.
What made it doubly more difficult to deal with was that Nikki had been married. Separated true, but she was still married. New York wasn’t a small place – not by any standards – but when you traveled in small circles, it was hard to hide things. Alanna was just surprised that her brother hadn’t known. Or if he did, he did an excellent job of pretending otherwise. And claiming she was out of her mind when she’d asked him about it.
Hot, searing pain dragged her back to the present, and Alanna stared down at her arm.
What the fuck?
I’m bleeding. How the hell did that happen?
Her hand went numb, her fingers unable to tighten around the gun’s handle. Distractedly, Alanna tried flexing, attempting to make a fist and grumbled when nothing happened.
Oh.
I’m shot.
Muttering imprecations about his partner, his partner’s parents, and all his other ancestors, Gunn absently returned fire. Twice, he’d thought he hit one of them, but neither of his targets was down, so either he missed or he’d only wounded. Either way, it was only a matter of time, since back-up wasn’t more than a minute or two away. Just gotta hang until then, and then we’ll be outta this mess and. . . “FUCK!”
The tree trunk just to the left of his head exploded, chunks of wood splinters flying in every direction. Not giving himself time to catalogue any injuries, Gunn slid down on his back, then rolled to his side. Squeezing off a couple of rounds, he rolled to his right, trying to find shelter behind a boulder.
He was close enough to the targets to hear labored breathing, although that might have been deceptive, given the falling snow. Gunn kept straining his ears for the distant wail of sirens, but couldn’t hear anything. He’d lost track of his sister. Somewhere in front of him, she was unprotected and alone. It made no difference to him that she was twenty-seven years old. Or that she qualified as a sniper; or that she even carried a gun, and several clips. Alanna was still his little sister and his mother and grandmother would have his ass if anything happened to her. Especially if she was backing him up.
Grumbling again, Gunn peered around the boulder, firing with his left hand. It wasn’t his normal shooting hand, but some cover was better than nothing. “Gonna boot his limey ass from here to freaking Albany when this is over.” His muttering got louder when a shot thunked into the stone. “I have about had enough of this shit.”
On his feet, Gunn leaned over the top of the boulder and fired.
“Gotcha, mother-fucker.”
“Nine-one-one. What is your emergency?” The voice was dispassionately concerned, efficient yet crisp, calm and conciliatory.
“I heard shots fired.”
“What is your location?”
“The Heights. Broadway and Dongan. Just outside the park.”
There was silence on the phone for a moment, then the dispatcher came back. “Can you see who fired the shots? Or the direction of the shots?”
“No ma’am.” The caller cursed then, using words the dispatcher had heard more than once.
“Can you tell me if anyone is injured?”
“Ma’am?”
“Ma’am?”
The only response was a dial tone.
Relaying what little information had been given to her immediate supervisor, the dispatcher marked her suspicions on the screen and bookmarked the file for later.
Less than thirty seconds later, a second call came in; oddly enough to the same dispatcher. The second call confirmed the general location of the shots, but nothing else. Following the same procedure, the dispatcher logged the date and time.
Before the dispatcher hung up on the second caller, units were sent from the nearest precinct and only the dispatch supervisor knew that the first caller had used police protocol and language when giving the information.
Tha’s where I left her. I know it.
Spike was positive he’d left Buffy behind that particular rock. Could even, if pushed, swear it so. But with the amount of snow falling, and the cold, he couldn’t be certain. There were no tracks leading away from the area and nowhere else to hide. A small copse of bushes was off to his right and though it could provide decent cover, no footprints were hollowed out other than his own.
“Geezuz . . . Christ, Buffy, can’t you bloody stay put?” A deep, heavy sigh gusted from him, clouding the air and further hindering his ability to see.
“Bloody buggerin’. . .” His voice trailed off. Where the hell could she be? Chit is so damned headstrong, won’t listen to a bleedin’ thing I say an’. . . Oh balls. Spike circled around, realizing his mistake within seconds. He’d left the girl further up-hill, close enough to a path for her to find one if the worst happened, yet far enough away for her to stay hidden. And, casting his mind back, he’d marked the tree adjacent to the rock. There’s no tree next to this rock. Shaking his head at his own stupidity, Spike took off running.
She’ll be right where I left her, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. ‘M an idiot.
Only his luck – or distinct lack thereof – was still holding.
Twenty or so feet upward and leading a bit southerly, he skidded to a halt in the snow. Buffy really wasn’t there. And he had the right spot, because the tree branch was cleanly broken, and a huge hollow of snow was barely beginning to fill.
Buffy’s gone.
I know it's been a while, but hopefully you'll all forgive me and leave some words of encouragement and kindness. And believe me, they will be greatly appreciated. Happy summer!