Jacked (Trent Brothers #1)(26)
The dash unit chimed, alerting us to a call, which thankfully caused the blood flow that was headed to my crotch again to revert back to my brain. Dispatch informed us we had a carjacking where a male suspect took the car at knifepoint. After coordinating with the other units, it was time to do my bit for the annoying camera behind me.
The rush of adrenaline kicked in when Marcus punched the gas pedal. This was the best part—the hunt—that secret thrill when the predators outwit the prey. We tracked them like a pack of hungry wolves, sneaking down different paths in the city to head off our intended mark.
I was manning the com unit while narrating our actions for the camera. “Okay, what we’re going to do is spread out a bit. Since this is a felony vehicle, we want to close in on it as quickly as possible. Our rules of engagement are changed whenever there is a gun or another weapon involved. Safety for civilians and for the team is our priority.” I scanned the streets while Marcus maneuvered us through town.
“We’ve got to be right on top of him,” Marcus muttered, eyeing cross traffic.
“Black Beemer, where are you?” Just like that, the car passed in front of us.
“Go, go.” I grabbed my com. “Romeo Seven to control. We have suspect vehicle northbound on Twentieth. Looks like two onboard, repeat, two heads onboard.” We followed, staying undetected by our mark while getting coordinated with the current positions of the rest of our team. My heart was strumming. A regular patrol unit crossed at the next intersection, causing our suspects to panic. The BMW took off, driving into a more residential section where the rundown units and tightly packed row homes made one hell of a maze.
The driver gunned it down the street, headed for an open spot on the sidewalk, and both driver and passenger were out of the car while it was still rolling.
“Bail out, bail out!” Marcus called out to the team. I was out of the truck, running before he’d fully stopped.
Two other units and local PD were on one of the suspects while I foot pursued the driver. My heart was hammering; f*cker was fast. Young black kid disappeared into the shadows of the night between the houses. He vaulted over a chain-link fence and I followed, getting tangled up in someone’s backyard shit pile.
Kid hefted over another fence, only ahead of me by maybe thirty feet. I climbed up over the fence and landed hard on something sharp, slick, and very unforgiving. White-hot searing pain sliced into my left palm, like a paper cut amplified with acid coated razorblades. I bit back a curse and tried to recover as quickly as possible, calling in my location while still pursuing the kid. No way in hell I was gonna let him get away. I could see Sidell running parallel; we had the little shit cornered.
The kid running slipped and faltered over some junk in the next yard, giving me a chance to get up on him. I snagged his jacket and tackled him, ignoring that my other hand had a pulse of its own.
Within seconds, I had him flush to the ground. I blew out a few gusts, trying to catch my breath while Officer Nate Westfield pinned him with a knee. Sidell holstered his weapon and relieved me to cuff the kid.
Ritchie caught up to us while the other two camera guys, Raj and another guy we nicknamed Squirrel, filmed the scene. My hand was wet and burning. Once Ritchie pointed his camera at it, that’s when I saw how deep it was. Fuck it hurt. The blood gushing out of it made it look even worse.
“What the hell happened to you?” Marcus asked, blocking the camera’s view.
A few of the guys crowded around, shining their flashlights on me.
“Good question.”
“Damn, Adam. That shit looks bad,” Marcus said. “What did you get tagged on?”
I pointed my flashlight in the direction I’d just come from, trying to figure that out. “Think I put my hand through an old window. I heard glass break.”
Marcus walked with me while I backtracked, sweeping my flashlight to see just what the hell it was that I’d landed on while silently cursing myself for not wearing gloves. Getting injured in the field was not good. It meant that I’d have a boatload of paperwork to fill out, not to mention playing twenty questions with my superiors.
“Ambulance is on the way,” Westfield said as he stopped to inspect my bloody hand again.
“Ambulance? You’re kidding me.”
“You know the rules. Blood like that gets spilled, you don’t sit in the waiting room waiting.”
I tried to walk it off, but no matter where I went, Ritchie and his damn camera followed me.
IT WAS ABOUT eleven thirty p.m. when Sarah met up with me in the small break room outside of the ER. I had been sitting in there by myself for all of three minutes, staring at the sterile white walls, feeling as though the small, square room was closing in on me, when Sarah’s cute pregnant lady waddle broke the solitude.
It had been the first time I’d sat down in five hours, having been on my feet and on the run since my boss went home.
I watched her retrieve her lunch from the refrigerator, grumbling about the disgusting contents inside, thankful for the mental reprieve her presence provided.
I pulled a shiny green apple out of my lunch bag and stared at it, trying to will myself to be interested.
I was hungry, well, at least my grumbling empty stomach was trying to tell me I was, but after spending a half hour up in ICU watching the life support equipment breathe for my Uncle Cal while my mother sobbed, nothing sounded appealing. My mind was still reeling—flashing between emotional overload and detached medical scrutiny—while years of medical terminology and clinical training bombarded the in-between.