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I silently replayed the scene by the side of the road. It was late. I had been awakened and forced to drive after a stressful day. The mind plays tricks.
But the finger on the trigger was no illusion.
And I replayed the angry metal click of the woman’s holster. It bothered me for more reasons than the gun in my face.
The old Galco High-Ride holster that held my Python had a strip of leather that wrapped around the frame of the gun. It is called a retention strap, meant to keep an attacker from grabbing the gun and using it on you. I could get to the revolver easily by grasping the handle and moving my hand against the place the retention strap connected to the rest of the holster. It would come loose with a snap and I’d be ready to rock.
But that was old school.
I cursed aloud.
“What it is, David?”
“It’s some inside baseball cop stuff. Probably nothing.”
She didn’t push it. It wasn’t inside baseball. Inside cop world.
Snap.
No.
Most law-enforcement officers didn’t use those retention straps now.
Manufacturers had advanced the security of holsters substantially so that it was much more difficult for the weapon to be taken in a struggle. It helped that the semiautomatic pistols cops carried had smooth butts, no exposed hammer like the Python’s to accommodate.
I stared into the red lights of a truck several car-lengths ahead, then signaled and moved to pass.
Now cops carried holsters classified as Level 2, Level 3, and even Level 4, based on the degree of protection they provided. But almost all had one element in common—to unholster the gun, the officer moved the strap forward. In the more advanced holsters, the pistol must be properly gripped and a lever switched.
None of these regulation holsters made a snap.
“She wasn’t…” I absently let the car slow down against the gravity of the mountain it needed to climb.
“What?” Sharon asked.
I pushed down the accelerator and we surged forward. “I was thinking. Always a surprising thing when I do it.”
She laughed and I kept silent.
I was thinking that perhaps the DPS officer was old school like me and refused to adopt a new holster.
Thinking perhaps she was not a police officer.
She pointed the gun at my crotch and said, “Where…?” Where, what? Where were we going? Where was Peralta?
As the cold sweat stayed with me, another thought came. If I saw her again, it would once more be in darkness and I wouldn’t get a second chance.
Sharon said, “Do you still get panic attacks, David?”
I ignored her and held my iPhone against the steering wheel, shakily texting Lindsey one character, an asterisk. I watched the iPhone screen as the message was delivered.
After a few tense seconds, Lindsey texted back. Another asterisk.
In our personal code, it meant one thing: leave the house immediately. Go.
Chapter Three
The blue and red police lights were visible even before I took the Ash Fork exit off Interstate 40—the vision of Dwight David Eisenhower flowing from Barstow, California, to Wilmington, North Carolina.
