If she let the fear in, it would paralyze her. If she contemplated the horror facing her, she’d be done. So before the tsunami of feelings that bore down on Nikki could immobilize her, she threw the cop switch. She made her emotional disconnect. She became all about balls and action. She went to work.
Throwing herself low, Heat rolled backward on the rug, to where the corner of the entry hall met the end of the counter, and snapped off the lights. A table lamp still burned in the living room, but any dimness helped give cover. Protected by the wall, Nikki stood on shaky legs and grabbed for her Sig Sauer and cell phone off the granite countertop. Her arm bumped one of the beers and it sailed into the kitchen, slamming against the oven door. The bottle was still spinning when she knelt at Don’s side, hitting 911 send while she pressed two fingers to his carotid.
“911, what is your emergency?”
“This is Detective Heat, One-Lincoln-Forty, reporting a ten-thirteen, officer needs help, shots fired.” With eyes on the door, Nikki spoke as low and calmly as she could, giving her address and cross street. “One man down, deceased.” She took her fingers off Don’s neck, wiped his blood on her gym shorts, and gripped her Sig. “Shooter has a shotgun. Shooter still at large.”
“Help is on the way, Detective. Can you describe the shooter?”
“No, I never saw—”
The chilling sound of a pump-action racking a round snick-snicked on the other side of the door. Nikki let the phone drop to the rug. Light that had been streaking in the gaping hole from the outside hallway got blocked out, eclipsed by movement. From her mobile on the floor, the small voice that kept asking, “Detective Heat? Detective, are you there?” grew smaller as Heat duckwalked back, taking cover once more around the corner and under the kitchen counter. Keeping in a low crouch, she peeked around the edge just as the fat muzzle of the single barrel poked through the ragged hole it had put in the wood. She knelt again, this time with both hands in an isosceles brace against the wall. “NYPD, drop it!” she called.
The barrel adjusted its aim an inch toward her. Nikki spun back around the corner for cover. A deafening blast filled the room and tore fragments from the wall beside her. Before he could rack another round, Heat rolled out, braced, and, with ten quick reports, emptied the magazine of her Sig in a diamond cluster under the shotgun. She heard a man moan, and the black barrel chafed as it tipped upward and retreated from the hole in the door. But amid the muffled neighbors’ voices of alarm coming through walls and windows, she heard another round getting pumped into the shotgun. Heat dove in the darkness, across the entryway to the living room, ejected her clip, and snatched a fresh magazine of 9mms from the gym bag she had left on a chair.
As she tiptoed through the entryway with her back hugging the wall, Nikki’s cross trainers crunched on bits of glass from lamps and a mirror shattered by the lead spray. She pressed herself against the cold plaster beside her front door to listen. After half a minute, she heard soft retreating footfalls on the carpet. Then a pause before a squeak of hinges and the hollow slam of a metal door. Heat pictured it as the service stairwell up the hall to the left. The elevator was still out and the shooter was avoiding the main stairs. Or wanted her to think so.