Page 14 of Dark Storm Rising

“Not to mention a Kevlar vest,” I mutter. “Backup.”

Approaching a suspect who may or may not be armed without cover or backup and in extreme weather conditions is every cop’s worst nightmare—and exactly the kind of situation that could go south quick. The only things we having going for us are the element of surprise and the relative cover of darkness and the weather conditions.

“Looks like his back is to us,” I say. “Can we reach him without being seen?”

“If we can see him, he can see us.”

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m fresh out of magic tricks.” He sends me a sober look over his shoulder. “I’d ask you to stay put, but I suspect I’ll get an argument.”

“You’re right.”

Grimacing, he looks toward the Zodiac. “The dock is the only way to reach him. Water’s too cold to go that route. I say we go in fast. Hit him hard. Take him down.”

“I’m in.”

His gaze lingers on mine a moment and then he starts toward the dock. Staying low and moving quickly, we emerge from the cover of the trees, step onto the dock, and start toward the Zodiac. Our suspect hasn’t spotted us; he’s busy with the mooring rope and outboard. But if he turns around …

I feel vulnerable and exposed as we move along the dock. Beneath my feet, I discern that the planks are buckled and loose; some are rotted through, a few missing altogether.

Crouching, Kimber at his side, Tomasetti moves like a big cat, sure-footed and with laser focus. I follow, dividing my attention between the figure in the Zodiac and the hit-or-miss planks beneath me.

As we draw near, I see the man messing with the outboard motor. Then he turns his attention to the mooring rope. Preparing to untie the craft, which gives us scant seconds to stop him.

“Halt!” Tomasetti calls out. “Police! Get your hands up! Do not move!”

The figure straightens and whirls, thrusts the light directly at us. He’s wearing a parka with the hood up. His mouth is open. Right hand reaching …

“Let me see your hands!” Tomasetti roars. “Get ’em up!”

The suspect’s hand slams down on the throttle. The engine screeches. The Zodiac leaps forward. The mooring rope snaps taut. Without warning, the piling tilts, planks splinter and give way. Tomasetti plummets feet-first into the water.

Shit. Shit!

I scramble over the destroyed planks, set my foot against a beam that’s still secured to the piling and pray it holds. I catch a glimpse of Tomasetti beneath me, head and shoulders above water, and I launch myself onto the Zodiac.

I land on my feet, too hard, off balance. The craft’s floorboard dips beneath me. I stumble, struggle to find my balance. “Police!” I scream. “Release that throttle! Show me your hands!”

Free of its moorings, the inflatable raft rocks violently as it scuds toward the mouth of the inlet. Waves pound it with such force that I go to one knee to keep from being pitched into the water. I bring up my .38 and level it at the man. “Do not move!” I tell him.

His head swivels left. Contemplating going into the water, I realize.

“Don’t do it!” I shout. “Put your hands up! Do it now!”

As if realizing there’s no escape, the man raises his hands to shoulder height. “I didn’t do anything!”

“I’m a police officer and I am armed,” I tell him. “Do not move. Do you understand?”

He seems to sag inside his parka. “You got nothing on me.”

“Keep your hands where I can see them,” I warn.

Wind and snow buffet us, pushing the craft toward the mouth of the inlet. Waves rock the craft violently. I point my flashlight beam at the outboard. “Turn off that motor!” I yell at the man. “Do it now.”

A moment of hesitation, a string of expletives directed at me, and then the man obeys.

I point at the small bench seat. “Sit down and do not move.”