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; Guns were everywhere on this short block. Soon SWAT would launch smoke bombs and storm Checks Cashed.
Brady spoke through the bullhorn: “Listen to me. This is going to end badly if you don’t do exactly what I say. The store is surrounded. We’ve got snipers on the roof. Put the guns down and come out with your hands in the air.”
A moment later, the front door opened a few inches and Whitney called, “Don’t shoot. We’re coming out with hostages.”
Brady called out over the megaphone, “Hold your fire!”
The door swung open and two terrified women with their hands behind their backs were muscled out of the store. Whitney was behind one of them, Brand behind the other.
I saw the glint of their handguns and that both rotten cops had duffel bags with the shoulder straps crossing their chests, probably containing their latest and final score.
I was standing with Conklin when Whitney and Brand, still wearing their creepy masks, awkwardly bumped and dragged their hostages between parked cars and toward the truck. It was only a fifty-foot walk—but they were encumbered and had to pass through a shooting gallery, including right past where Brady, Conklin, and I were standing.
I don’t know what came over Richie. Maybe he just couldn’t take what was happening. He shouted at Whitney and Brand, “You’re filth! Both of you. Fucking scum!”
Whitney lifted his gun and pointed it at Conklin. I saw my partner lift his arm, and by the time I heard the report of Whitney’s gun, my own gun was in my hand. I knew Conklin was hit. But I couldn’t stop what I was doing.
I didn’t have a clean head or chest shot, so I dropped to one knee and fired at Whitney’s hip. Before his leg buckled, a few hundred bullets pinged into the sidewalk from above.
Whitney dropped. The hostages ran, screaming. One of them fell on the asphalt, bleeding.
Brady reached Brand in terrifying slow motion and put his gun to the back of his neck. Brand dropped his gun and put up his hands.
“I give up,” Brand said. “Don’t shoot.”
Two shots rang out, but I didn’t see where they landed. My whole mind was on Conklin. He was on the ground, motionless. I stooped down next to my partner and shook his shoulder.
“Richie. Speak to me.”
CHAPTER 104
THE SMALL WAITING room outside the ER was dull beige, and the light from the overhead fixture was flat white and glaring.
Richie was in surgery. Cindy and I sat together and she was so afraid for him, trying to hold it together, but the tears just streamed down her face. I held her hand, told her the things you say in a situation when you don’t know what the fuck is going to happen. “He’s going to be OK. I promise.”
Yuki was pacing, and Claire was in the hallway waiting for word of the outcome. Claire had checked out the surgeon and assured all of us that Dr. Starr was the best.
Joe was off getting coffee, and Brady had waited with us for hours but had gone back to the Hall to tell the story again, this time to Internal Affairs.
The last hours were running through my mind on a closed loop.
I kept hearing the sharp sounds of rapid gunfire and the shrill screams of the hostages. I saw the bodies of Brand and Whitney and thought their plan had been a Hail Mary pass. That they hadn’t truly expected to survive.
I recalled handing my gun to Brady, then climbing into the ambulance that was taking Rich to the hospital. I was supposed to stay at the scene, but there was no way that could happen. No way. Neck injuries were serious, mostly fatal. Richie. My dear friend, my partner, my brother. He could die.
I remembered calling Cindy from the ambulance and hearing her panicked screams. And I remembered calling Joe, saying “I’m OK.” Now, in the hospital waiting room, he put a tray of coffee containers down on a table, sat down next to me, and held my hand.
A moment after that, we were all on our feet as the doctor entered the room. He was a small man with a goatee and long fingers.
He said, “Inspector Conklin is out of surgery. And I have good news. The bullet hit his left forearm, breaking it and deflecting the bullet, slowing it down. That was a lucky thing for Inspector Conklin.
“Because the bullet was deflected, instead of severing his arteries or spine, it grazed his neck. He had a ragged wound that caused him to collapse and bleed like crazy, but he’s all stitched up and his arm has been set. He’s going to be fine.
“Who is Cindy?” Dr. Starr asked.
Cindy stood up, her face pink and gleaming with tears. “That’s me.”
Dr. Starr said, “He’s really going to be OK, my dear. He said to tell you he loves you.”
