~
They stopped by the precinct to grab the address, then hightailed it over to the house. Only one out of ten street lights cast a small globe of brightness. Both he and Quarles looked out at the darkness. Brit’s gaze shifted to the house on the corner. No white pickup. No silver Civic. Not even a light on in the house. Yet, his sixth sense told him that someone waited.
Quarles must have felt it, too, because they both reached for their guns at the same time.
“Should we call for backup?” Quarles asked.
Brit considered it. “We don’t know if anyone is there.”
“You’re right.” Quarles opened his door, but didn’t get out. “You want the back or front?”
Raking a hand over his face, Brit wished like hell he’d caught a few hours sleep. Being dead on your feet in a time of crisis could land you dead on your back.
Brit’s grip tightened on his gun.
As if reading Brit’s mind, Quarles asked, “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Brit said, and collected his wits as he squared his shoulders. He could do this.
“Ready?” Quarles asked.
“Yeah. Why don’t I take the front this time?” Brit’s gut told him if Humphrey hid within those shabby walls, he’d shoot before trying to escape. The longer a man ran, the tenser the situation got and the quicker he drew his weapon. If bullets were going to be fired, Brit would rather they were aimed at him. He couldn’t live through losing another partner.
Their eyes met. Quarles shifted. “You die on me and I’ll get fucking pissed. I’m not breaking in another partner.”
Brit smiled. “Back at you.” Right then, Brit knew for certain that somehow Quarles had jumped over Brit’s emotional hurdle. He hadn’t wanted a partner. He’d been determined to keep a distance between them, but that distance had been bridged.
“Let’s do it.” Brit opened his door.
They got out of Brit’s SUV and moved in the shadows leading to the house. With every step Brit took, the more his gut told him to get ready. Something was about to go down.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Brit zipped up his thin coat to shield himself from the bite of cold. As he watched Quarles slink to the back of the house, every noise seemed amplified—the distant roar of traffic traveling with the cold rush of November air, the scratchy vibrations of maple leaves finding a place among those that had fallen before, and the sound of Quarles’ footsteps moving around the house.
Brit counted to fifty before taking action. The wood porch creaked with his steps. He blocked out all the other sounds and trained his ears to listen for a noise from inside the house. A sign that someone lingered there, that someone knew they were here. He heard a scuffle, maybe a footstep. His heart stopped. Suddenly, the smell of cigarette smoke filled his nostrils. Someone was inside smoking.
Instinct screamed for Brit to move. He darted to the side of the door, his gun raised. He drew cold smoke-scented air into his lungs.
“Police!” Loud pops of gunfire filled the night. Brit pressed his back against the wall. Splinters from the wood door fell like snow to the porch. “Give it up!”
Footsteps pounded, the sound shrinking as those steps moved deeper inside the house. “He’s going out the back!” Brit shouted, praying Quarles could hear him.
Brit lurched off the porch and ran to the back. He heard the backdoor open then slam.
“Police! Stop or—”
Quarles voice rang in unison with the cracking pop of gunfire. His unfinished sentence hung in the darkness.
Cold air lodged in Brit’s throat. No! “Quarles!” Brit bolted around the corner, following the darkest shadows against the house. His gaze darted left, right.
Then Brit saw him—saw Quarles hunkered down behind an old Chevy truck. Dead vines clung to the bumper.
Quarles waved. Alive. Hopefully, unharmed.
Brit let out the gasp of air that lodged in his throat.
Quarles pointed to the patch of pine trees clustered to one side of the yard, then started shouting orders. “Throw down the weapon! Come out with your hands up.”
Brit spotted the caved-in fence behind the perp that led to the alley in the back. If he was the perp, that’s where he’d run.
Brit started moving in. Quarles shook his head, but Brit had made up his mind. Humphrey wasn’t getting away, not this time.
The cold bit into Brit’s skin, even as sweat pooled on his brow. He inched closer, his steps muffled by the layered pine needles blanketing the ground. Finally, he made out a figure crouched behind a tree. Quarles continued talking and the perp’s gaze appeared trained toward the rusted Chevy, giving Brit just the opportunity he needed.