“Yeah, I don’t have time for this,” I remark. “Run our plates and see who we are, and I’ll take your groveling apology tomorrow night, how does that sound?”
“We got a smart talker,” the cop near me remarks. “They always have so much shit to say.”
“If words won’t be enough, then take this.” Reaching into my pocket, I remove my Suit ID. A sleek, electronic card about the size of a credit card is the one tool I have that lets me, and the other members of the Suit, move around the city freely. To every criminal, it’s a sign we’re more powerful than them. To every government agent, it’s a symbol that we’re the true keepers of the peace in this city, and to law enforcement, it’s basically a get-out-of-jail-free card because the work we do to keep the criminal world spinning and not overflowing into carnage in the streets is more important than anything as ridiculous as a traffic stop.
These two idiots apparently didn’t get the memo because as soon as I show him the card, he darts away from the car door and whips his gun out of its holster.
“Out of the car!” he barks. “Come on, get out of the damn car!”
Just looking down the barrel is enough for my chest to twinge. Frank and I exchange a glance as the cop next to him follows suit with his weapon, seemingly not caring for whatever information he gained when he ran Frank’s info.
“Fine.” I pop the door handle. “But you’re making one hell of a fucking mistake. A career-ending mistake. A life-ending one if I’m in a bad enough mood.”
“Out of the car!” the cop yells again. “Hands on the roof, spread your legs! Move! Do it!”
Despite the fact that I’m already complying, the overeager officer shoves me and kicks at my ankles to try and force my legs wider. I refuse as I place my palms flat on the roof of the car. Every second wasted here is a second longer Zira has to escape with her brother, and then I’ll never be able to help them.
“He’s armed!” yells the cop near Frank. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell us you have a gun?”
“You didn’t ask,” Frank replies calmly. “Listen, I don’t know what this is but you’re both losing your badges, you understand? Even if you don’t know who we are, you ran my license.”
“Shut up!” The cop shoves at Frank, shouldering him against the car hard enough for a flash of pain to dart across my friend’s face.
Anger clouds my thoughts in an instant. “Call your boss,” I snap. “Call your boss and—” The flash of the gun being raised behind Frank’s head cuts off my demand. With all my strength, I throw myself against the car, causing it to rock into Frank, who stumbles in alarm at my sudden movement. Turning, I drop to my knees, whip my gun out of its holster, and shoot the cop behind me as he raises his own gun. In the same second, I land flat on my back and shoot under the car, catching the other cop on the ankle, and he screams in pain and stumbles backward. By the time I climb to my feet, Frank’s put two in the chest of the stumbling cop and they both now lie dead in the street.
“The fuck was that?” Frank pants as I hurry to join him. Our eyes lock and he flashes a smile. “Thanks.”
“Yeah. You good?”
He nods and keeps his gun trained on the dead cop. “What a mess.”
“I’m not so sure.” Holstering my gun, I kneel next to the cop and start patting through his pockets. “I understand trigger-happy newbies, but they were far too quick. And ignoring who you were?” I glance up at him. “Check his phone, see what popped up when he ran your license.”
Frank retrieves the fallen device from the ground and moves next to me while I pull car keys, gum, and an old burger wrapper out of the dead man’s pockets.
“Here.” Frank drops to his haunches and shows me the screen. “It’s got all the info.”
Right there in black and white is the agreed-upon warning attached to Frank’s license that he’s free to go under classified action. “So this bastard ignored it.”
“Ego?” Frank asks, pulling his phone from his pocket and holding it to his ear. “Ruslan? Yeah, we need a clean up.”
“Maybe,” I murmur, but as I stand, trying to understand why the hell two cops would pull us over and try to shoot Frank without hesitation, when a dark smudge on the dead man’s wrist catches my attention. Lowering back down, I pick up his limp hand and push his shirt away from his sleeve.
Swirls of dark ink streak up his forearm in an array of twisting vines and leaves all combining around a lucky clover.
“Fucking Irish,” Frank curses over my shoulder. “Think this was Damian?”
I drop the limp hand with a curl of disgust in my gut. “If it was, I’m going to kill him.”
24
ZIRA
Harris.
How is this possible? How is he here?
Every beat of my heart hurts like a blade is carving through my chest and for a moment, I can’t breathe as I stare up into the laughter-filled, cold eyes of Harris.
