Badge Heavy (#3) - paperback

Chapter 1

“Stop! Police!” Officer Gary Stone hollered.

Did I really just yell that?

Not breaking his stride, Tyler Garrett glanced back over his shoulder. Even from this distance, Stone could see the man’s disapproving smirk. Garrett looked ahead, leaned forward, and pulled further away.

“Damn,” Stone muttered and continued to chase after him.

They raced along the east side of a four-story apartment building in Spokane’s West Central, an area of town known disparagingly as Felony Flats. In the yellowed grass, a small group of children sat in a circle. They played with their toys while their mothers, standing flatfooted and wide-eyed, watched the men run along the brick building.

“Tango-fourteen, what’s your location?” an irritated male voice barked from the handheld radio swinging from Stone’s hip.

The officer didn’t have time to pull it from his belt and provide the requested update. That action would slow him down and he was already falling behind Garrett. Besides, what would he tell them? The last location he could easily identify was where the foot pursuit started and that was two blocks ago. He had no idea where he was now. Confessing that humiliation on the radio was far worse than remaining silent.

The late morning sun reflected off the exterior apartment windows and into Stone’s eyes, causing him to squint, almost closing his left eye. He wanted to slow and catch his breath, but Garrett wasn’t doing that.

Instead, the man disappeared around the corner of the apartment building like a ball player stealing an extra base. Stone needed to keep Garrett in sight. Losing him would be bad, even worse than admitting he was lost.

Stone lengthened his stride, pumped his arms, and sucked deeper breaths through his mouth until he reached the end of the building. Despite the blind spot, he didn’t bother slowing for the corner. Officer safety be damned. Luckily, when he rounded it, no one was there.

The apartment building’s rear door was open but slowly closing. Stone raced toward the door and grasped it before it clicked shut. He yanked it open which caused the door to hit the patrol radio on his belt. It popped free and clattered to the sidewalk.

Stone had a millisecond to decide—turn around to collect the radio and hope that it still worked or follow Garrett. There was no choice.

He burst into the building and scrambled up the stairs that met him upon entry. When he hopped onto the second floor, he paused and listened, his senses straining for any sounds over the blood pulsating in his ears.

It took less than a second to register Garrett’s boots pounding up the stairs toward the next floor.

Stone grabbed the worn oak banister, pulled himself toward the next set of stairs, and climbed them two at a time. His breath was ragged now, and his heart felt like it would pop, but he wasn’t going to let Garrett get away from him. Not today.

He jumped onto the third floor, didn’t see the man, and spun upward toward the next flight of stairs.

Stone didn’t worry about the noise his heavy footsteps made, nor the loudness of his wheezing. This was not about stealth. This was about speed and he needed to pick it up or be left behind.

When he stepped onto the fourth floor, he witnessed the brutal collision. A woman stepped out of her apartment just as Tyler Garrett was passing. She yelped when Garrett ran into her. The two of them collapsed heavily to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs.

Stone sprinted toward them.

The woman howled in pain as Garrett struggled to free himself from her.

Once near the tangled pair, Stone leapt over them and continued his sprint toward the end of the hallway. He saw the open window now which led to the rusty fire escape.

That’s where Bronson Mulvaney, career criminal and the man they were hunting that day, must have escaped. Garrett had been right behind him before colliding with the woman. Now it was up to Stone to catch Mulvaney.

He didn’t hesitate and pushed himself harder than before even though his legs felt like wet sandbags. He could no longer rely on Garrett. Catching Mulvaney was now his sole responsibility. The rest of the team, wherever they were, would be counting on him, too. Without his radio, they had no way to know that he was now on his own.

Stone cleared the window and stood on the rusty fire escape. He heard the clanging of footsteps on the lower level of the metal stairs and felt the entire system vibrating. He didn’t bother checking who was making the noise and shaking the escape. He instinctively knew its source, and immediately began his descent.

At each platform, he grabbed the escape’s support beam and swung himself down several stairs, hoping to catch solid footing, surprised when he did, and hurried over the remaining stairs only to perform the same acrobatic feat again from the next platform.

Mulvaney, a two-time loser with everything at stake if he was caught once more, jumped from the fire escape into the alley and sprinted toward the next apartment building.

Stone was gaining on him, but only slightly, when he bounded from the metal stairs. For a fleeting moment, he thought about his radio and the warm embrace that calling for assistance would bring. He shoved that fantasy away and ran.

How is Mulvaney not tiring yet?

The criminal was five foot ten and a hundred fifty pounds with a lifetime of poor choices, most of which were in direct conflict with physical fitness. Mulvaney wore baggy jeans tightly cinched with a thick black belt around his waist and dirty, white tennis shoes that were tied like his mother had scolded him to do so before school. He wore no shirt, which revealed his heavily tattooed and sweaty pale skin.

It angered Stone that the greasy criminal hadn’t quit running yet.

How is this possible?

The rear door of a nearby apartment building was open, but its wooden screen door closed. Mulvaney sprinted toward it, his long black hair flowing behind him. At the building, he frantically pulled and kicked at the screen door, but was unable to open it. He glanced back at Stone before jumping through the dark screen. It collapsed around him as he fell into the hallway. The man quickly stood and ripped the black fabric and thin wood beams away from him.

With Stone rapidly approaching, Mulvaney screamed, “No!” The thick cords in his neck strained and his wild eyes bugged out.

Mulvaney spun and dashed down the darkened hallway, bouncing from one wall to the next as he struggled to regain his momentum. From a nearby apartment, screeching heavy metal music cranked loudly.

When he caught up to him, Stone tackled Mulvaney and dragged him to the ground. The officer couldn’t hold him down, though, as the man’s upper torso was slick with sweat.

Mulvaney broke Stone’s grip and struggled to his feet. He touched the wall for support as he briefly considered his options. When Stone righted himself, he blocked Mulvaney’s exit down the hallway. The only way for Mulvaney to escape was back the way he’d come.

Even without his radio, Stone had confidence that sooner or later, the rest of his team would find him and the suspect they pursued. Garrett, especially, couldn’t be far behind. His opponent must have sensed the same thing as he suddenly threw two quick punches. The officer lifted an arm to protect his face and the first strike bounced off his upper shoulder. The second swung wildly over his head.

Stone immediately struck back by punching Mulvaney in the face, but it was a glancing blow across his lips and failed to register as more than an irritant. The thin man grinned as blood thinly coated his teeth.

Preparing for a longer fight, the officer lifted his hands defensively. Mulvaney did the same. The two men warily studied each other. Stone saw desperation in Mulvaney’s eyes, and a heavy dose of meanness there as well. He wished again that he hadn’t lost his radio.

Stone was fatigued and realized he needed to end this fight quick. For a moment, he thought about drawing his Glock to direct Mulvaney to the ground, but they were in the middle of a hallway, no wider than six feet.

Introducing a gun into this situation was a bad decision, no matter how he sliced it. Mulvaney would be on him before he got it out of its holster. And if he succeeded? Well, it meant he was more than likely going to have to kill the man, because Mulvaney didn’t look like he would give up without a fight. Could he justify deadly force?

No, he decided in a flash. Bringing a gun into this fight was too big of a gamble.

In the millisecond that followed, Stone decided on a course of action.

He lashed out with a leg, kicking Mulvaney directly in the side of the knee. He hadn’t intended to hit him there, instead hoping to strike him in the upper thigh. However, when the toe of Stone’s boot hit Mulvaney’s knee, the man yelped and straightened his remaining good leg.

The kick to the knee was a strike that would not be found anywhere on the department’s officially sanctioned Use of Force scale. Yet, it produced a result Stone desperately needed, so he attempted a similar action.

He pivoted and kicked Mulvaney in the ankle of the leg that was still planted on the ground. Mulvaney collapsed into a heap, squealing while he grabbed at his injured limbs.

Stone jumped onto him then, his weight pinning the lighter man to the ground. It took only a moment to position himself onto Mulvaney’s sweaty back, slip his right arm under the man’s chin, and squeeze with all his might. Mulvaney clawed at Stone’s arms, bucked to get free, and kicked his feet against the hallway wall. When that didn’t work, he flailed a hand toward Stone’s face. Stone tucked his chin to his chest, closed his eyes, and kept compressing the sides of the man’s neck.

When the pressure began to work, Mulvaney’s resistance faded. The man lightly tapped Stone’s arm—the generally accepted signal for submission. Stone ignored the action, though, and the man’s hand slowly fell to the floor. Soon, Mulvaney was snoring in Stone’s arms.

“Stoney!” Tyler Garrett yelled from the end of the darkened hallway.

Officer Gary Stone didn’t move but continued to maintain pressure around the man’s neck. It was then he realized how badly Mulvaney stunk.

Garrett pulled a set of handcuffs from his back pocket. “Relax, buddy, I’ve got him.”

The two men worked together then to secure Bronson Mulvaney’s hands behind his back. When they were finished, they left him snoring on the floor.

Garrett clapped Stone on the shoulder and smiled. “That was—”

A new, more annoyingly loud song blasted from the nearby apartment.

Thumbing toward the music, Garrett asked with a grimace, “What the hell is that?”

Stone shrugged. “Heavy metal?”

Garrett turned to the apartment and pounded on the door. “Turn that crap down or go to jail!”

A moment later the hallway was silent.

Garrett continued as if nothing had happened. “Impressive takedown,” he said, pointing at Mulvaney who was now regaining consciousness.

“You saw that?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Getting a pat on the back from former SWAT Officer Tyler Garrett was a big deal for Stone, but he still felt slightly embarrassed for kicking the man in the knee and ankle. “Not exactly department policy,” he said.

Garrett put his arm around Stone and playfully shook him. “In a moment like that, buddy, you cheat to win. Ain’t no policy manual here in a fight. Your survival is more important than some academy classroom rules or that turd’s ability to walk comfortably.”

Stone reached down and hooked one of Mulvaney’s arms. Garrett did the same and the two men lifted the now semiconscious man.

Garrett sniffed. His nose crinkled and he chuckled. “You made him crap himself, Stoney.”

“What?” Stone asked.

“Dude crapped himself,” Garrett repeated.

It was then that Stone smelled it over Mulvaney’s body odor. He shook his head once, doing his best to ignore it.
The two officers dragged the handcuffed man out of the hallway into the sunlight, dropping him with a heavy thud into the yellowed grass. Mulvaney moaned, but neither of them paid attention to him.

“Will you notify dispatch we’ve got one in custody?” Stone asked.

“What happened to your radio?”

“I dropped it during the chase.”

Garrett smiled. “Nice.” He pulled his radio from his belt and said, “Tango-thirteen.”

“Tango-thirteen,” the female dispatcher said, “go ahead.”

“One in custody. Notify a supervisor. Also?”

“Thirteen, go ahead.”

“Start medics for an LVNR.”

Stone nodded at the request. The application of a lateral vascular neck restraint re-quired a medical response to ensure that the suspect was cleared to be booked into jail. The senior officer would make sure he acted within that policy, at least.

Garrett grabbed Stone’s shoulder and shook him from his thoughts. “Hell of a catch, man. You were a straight up meat-eater today. You’re coming into your own out here.”

Stone exhaled slowly as the adrenaline ebbed from his system. This was the new version of himself. The guy who was no longer going to be pushed around. The guy who was going to make a name for himself on the street. The guy he liked being. A guy Garrett respected.

He heard it before he saw it—a large block engine whining in protest as it rounded a corner. A 1977 Ford Maverick slid to a stop in the small cul-de-sac near where they wait-ed.

“Yin and Yang,” Garrett muttered. “Always late to the party.”

“Looks like Ray’s mad,” Stone whispered.

Officer Ray Zielinski had already jumped from the driver’s side while Officer Jun Yang climbed out from the passenger seat. Zielinski, a white male in his early forties, wore blue jeans, a black T-shirt, and a ballistic vest. Yang was in her late twenties but wore almost the same outfit. It was the unofficial uniform of the Anti-Crime Team.

While Yang’s face remained impassive, Zielinski’s was twisted in anger.

“What the hell was that?” Zielinski yelled toward the two men as he stalked closer.

“What?” Garrett asked.

“You two were in foot pursuit of Mulvaney then all radio communication stopped. We’ve been driving all around the neighborhood looking for you guys.”

“I dropped my radio,” Stone said, flatly. Garrett was his partner, not Zielinski. If Garrett didn’t have a problem with him dropping his portable, then Ray should back off.

“Isn’t that convenient?” Zielinski snapped.

“How do you figure?” Stone replied.

Garrett chuckled. “Yeah, how is that convenient, Yin?”

Zielinski’s brow furrowed and he stepped toward Garrett. “What did you say?”

“I said, how is that convenient?” Garrett replied.

“You called me Yin.”

“I think you’re hearing things, old man.”

Zielinski ignored the jab. He checked out Stone’s hip, confirming that the radio was indeed missing. Facing Garrett, he said, “What about you, Ty? What happened to your radio?”

“Mine works fine or did you not hear my broadcast a minute ago?”

The older cop shook his head in disgust. He looked back to Yang. “You got something to add here?”

She shrugged, not saying anything.

Zielinski muttered something Stone couldn’t make out as he turned and stomped back to his car.

“He’ll be fine,” Yang said to Stone. Then she added to both men, “Nice arrest, by the way.”

“Tell that to Stoney,” Garrett said. “Today, the man delivered the goods.”

Stone smiled then because he realized that he had, in fact, done just that.