Trust in the Fast Lane, page 8
Upstairs in the bedroom, we stripped and spent absolutely minimal time on prep. We were back to wrestling and biting and licking whatever was close. God, I was so hard it ached. Michael hauled my legs over his shoulders and pushed into me. Looking up at him, his pupils were blown wide, his lips parted and he had an expression of pure concentration…on me.
Every thrust stretched and pressed and zinged pleasure all the way out to my fingers. I grabbed my dick and stroked. Maximum sensory input. The orgasm hit and everything in my body scrunched and throbbed. I gasped for breath and heard Michael groan as he pulsed inside me.
He lowered my legs and sank down beside me. I rolled over enough to put an arm around him and kiss him. Our world finally slowed down. We lay tangled together, just kissing and petting for a long time. No words.
Chapter 22: Chicago Detective Michael Branham
Getting me a dress shirt was going to serve double duty. I would need to look halfway decent to go talk to that Metro Police Department guy as well as for the wedding that Sully wanted to drag me to.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“One of the malls over at Tysons. They have business wear.”
“I still wonder if I should buy a suit for the interview.”
“It’s not an interview. It’s off the clock, lunch in a restaurant. Believe me, what you wear is not going to influence him,” Sully teased. He parked the Cherokee in a two story lot outside the mall.
We had just started to get out of the Jeep when we saw people running out the doors of the mall, screaming and looking terrified.
Sully held up his badge and grabbed a man by the arm. “I’m a cop. What’s going on?”
“Guy with a gun, inside. Shooting!” The man looked completely rattled.
“Go, get out of here. Call 911 ASAP,” Sully ordered. “Jesus fuck…The only security this place has is a bunch of rent-a-cops,” Sully reached back in the Jeep and popped open the glove compartment and pulled out a Sig. He handed it to me. “Hold up your hand.”
“What? Why?” I was still trying to figure what the hell we could do to help.
“Do you swear to uphold the law and all the federal statutes there-in?”
“Yeah. Sully…”
He made a crossing sign with two fingers in my general direction like he was some priest giving a blessing. “Now you’re a deputy. I hope this is some bullshit miscommunication.” He also handed me his badge on a chain. “Just in case someone doubts you’re mine. I will deal with the damn fall out of violating protocol later.”
Now I got it. I hung the badge around my neck. There wasn’t going to be any sitting and waiting for back up and local LEO’s. If there was an active shooter inside the mall, we were going to manage the situation. We jogged in the direction of the doors into the mall. Panic-stricken people were fleeing in droves.
Sully had his folded federal ID out in his hand, flipped open, and we went inside. There was some barely-old-enough-to-shave security guard, looking terrified, trying to shepherd more people out the door.
“US Federal Marshals.” Sully held up his ID so the guard could see it. “Tell me what you know.”
“Th-there’s a guy with a gun on the upper level of the food court. He fired a couple of shots. I think someone’s dead. Teddy called 911. There’s only four of us on duty,” the young guard blurted out.
“Try to get as many people out as fast as possible.” To me he said, “Come on.”
We crept up the corridor past a kitchen supply store, pausing at the corner. Sully had his gun out and he took a good look at the open center court area. A woman ran from a store on the opposite side of the space and a shot rang out. She dropped like a broken doll.
“Shit. I think he’s on the third floor, at about one o’clock,” I said.
“Did you see a weapon?”
“Something long. I’m thinking rifle. How the hell did he get it in here?”
“No idea. I’m going to try to get to the woman. Cover me.” Sully crept forward, taking cover behind the wall that backed a coffee shop. I followed at an angle, ducking behind a column. He crouched down and took a peek out toward where the woman lay, then he looked at me. I nodded and took aim at the upper floor. I thought I could see an elbow poking out from behind a cart that sold some kind of hats.
Sully made it to the woman and tossed her over his shoulder, carrying her back toward me. A shot pinged off the floor inches from him and I fired a blind shot toward the ceiling. Sully dumped the limp woman back around the corner and flagged a security guard to come pull her to safety. As Sully returned to his semi-protected position, I could see the blood that stained his shirt.
“Her blood?” I asked, hoping it wasn’t his.
“Yeah. Did you get a look at where he is?”
“Sort of.”
A teenager wearing headphones came ambling in our direction. I tried to wave at him, but the kid’s attention was focused on his phone and the headphones covered his ears completely. He was a slow moving target.
“Go,” Sully snapped.
I darted out and tackled the boy, who immediately struggled against me. The headphones fell off about the same time more shots rang out. Sully intervened, squeezing off several rounds as I wrestled the teen behind a car that was parked on display. Sully dove over a planter and I heard a grunt of pain from his general vicinity. Was he hit? “Sully? Sully? Fuck it, answer me!”
Fueled by blind panic and stupidity, I sprinted in his direction, hearing a bullet splinter tile way too close to me. I dove behind the big concrete and steel planter in a slide that would have done a major leaguer proud.
Sully lay motionless, face down. It looked like he’d impacted the “L” shaped corner of the planter. I groped along the side of his neck for a pulse. He groaned. I didn’t see any blood. I did feel his pulse, fast and strong.
“Sully?”
He made a whimpering sound and rolled over, which lead to a sharp gasp. “I think…I think I broke my shoulder.”
Another shot came from above, and sent a shard of concrete flying.
“Stay still.” I finally had a halfway decent look at where the shooter was. I could see a good portion of his body through the safety rail around the third floor. My angle was poor though. Standing up to get a good shot would expose me.
Above the man hung a big electric sign though. It advertised some new restaurant. It was supported by two wires that supplied power and it blinked on and off. I gauged the sign to weigh at least forty to fifty pounds. If I shot one wire, pendulum action would ensue and assuming the curvature of the arc stayed fairly true, the sign would swing far enough to hit the shooter. It was still a dicey shot. I raised up on one knee and took a two-handed shot.
The wire snapped. The sign swung wildly downward but not too far off from my estimate. It struck the shooter in the side and toppled him forward, flipping him over the rail. He fell two full stories and hit the floor in a bone-shattering thud.
I knelt there watching him, gun aimed at him for another few seconds. SWAT swarmed into the mall. I held up the badge Sully had given me in plain view, the Sig on the ground. “Federal Marshalls,” I called out.
It took a couple of minutes for SWAT to verify Sully’s ID, and I had to explain I was a Chicago cop deputized by the Marshal. All the while, I sat there on the floor, with one hand on Sully, who was in enough pain I thought he might pass out before he finished answering the questions put forth by the SWAT incident commander.
“Can we cut this short? He needs a hospital,” I said. Sully was pale and sweaty, laying as still as possible.
The commander nodded, still looking less than thrilled, and beckoned for paramedics to come over.
A few minutes were spent checking Sully’s vitals and loading him onto the stretcher.
“He’s coming with me,” Sully croaked out, pointing at me.
I was relieved. I was still worried about him and wondered if I’d have to figure out which hospital they were taking him to.
In the ambulance, he clutched my hand hard enough to just about crush my fingers. I didn’t care. He was alive even if he was injured. The whole thing could have gone horribly wrong in so many ways.
Chapter 23: US Marshal Ken Sullivan
The verdict was a broken left collar bone. After X-rays and pain meds and making sure it was all lined up, they put me in a sling. I insisted Michael be allowed to stay with me for everything but the X-ray. He looked more than a little rattled. Hell, I felt rattled…and not hitting on all cylinders due to the pain meds. We were currently waiting for some orthopedic doc to show up long enough to give his opinion on if I was going to have to have my collar bone pinned.
Tazewell walked into the cubicle. “Glad to see you alive.”
“Sir.”
“That way I get to tear you a new one.”
“If we hadn’t acted when we did, more people would have died. Um…what was the final body count?”
“Two,” said Tazewell. “The first guy he shot up on the third floor and the shooter himself. Five injured, six if I include you.”
“The woman I pulled off the floor is okay?” I asked.
“Okay is relative. She’s in ICU but they seem to think her chances are good. Back to the almighty risks and the protocols you bent pretty damn badly.”
“I’ll take whatever reprimand you deem appropriate.”
“Yes, you fucking well will.” Tazewell stared at me. “Off book…you probably did the right thing. Call me after the weekend and let me know how long they think you’ll be out of commission. There’s going to be an eight inch stack of paperwork for you to fill out because of what happened.”
“Yes, sir.”
“This is the Chicago cop?” Tazewell asked, looking at Michael.
“Yeah, Michael Branham. Michael, Martin Tazewell, Director of the local US Marshal’s office.”
Michael shook hands with Tazewell. “Sir.”
“I’m glad Sullivan had some back up.”
* * * *
I sat down on the sofa in the living room very gingerly. The whole front of my shoulder throbbed in time with my pulse. My forearm was bound across my ribs by the brace. My left shirt sleeve dangled empty. Three buttons held the shirt barely closed above my waist. The hospital had cut off my T-shirt. Michael dropped the sheaf of discharge paperwork on the coffee table and sat beside me.
“What do you want to do about your Jeep?” he asked.
“Go get it tomorrow. We’ll do the taxi thing again.” It was how we’d gotten home. I tipped my head back and closed my eyes. I felt him thread his fingers through mine on my right side.
There was silence for quite a while before Michael said, “When you didn’t answer me…”
“I’m sorry. It hurt like fuck and I was trying not to pass out.”
“I know. I get it. I just thought…” His voice caught.
I opened my eyes and squeezed his hand. “I’m kinda dinged up but I’m okay.” When I looked at him, I could tell he was holding it together by a thread. I let go of his hand and put my good arm around him, hugging him against me.
He turned his face toward mine, his mouth hovering an inch away. “I love you. God, I thought maybe I’d lost you before we ever had a chance to see if we can make this work.” Michael kissed me.
It didn’t matter how damn bad my shoulder was hurting. I felt a flood of warmth at his words. “I love you, too. We’ll find a way to be together.”
Chapter 24: Chicago Detective Michael Branham
Weddings and funerals are always an episode of small talk and touching base with relatives you rarely see. Sully leaned against the wall, talking to a woman at the reception. I returned from getting him a drink and handed him the glass of soda.
“You could’ve at least gotten me a beer,” he said.
“Oxy and beer are not a good mix.” I gestured to the impressive brace that secured his arm to his body.
“Spoilsport.” He gave me a grin. “Michael, this is my cousin Sarah. Sarah, Michael Branham.”
We shook hands.
Sarah asked. “So are you a friend, or just the designated driver for the guy with the broken wing?”
I looked at Sully, not sure how he wanted to play this.
“Boyfriend,” Sully said evenly.
“Cool. So are you a Marshal, too?” Sarah asked.
“A detective for the Chicago PD currently, but that may change.”
“You’re kind of young to retire,” she said teasingly.
“Not retiring.” I looked at Sully and smiled. “I may be changing jobs, moving to the DC area.”
“To be closer to me.” Sully said and gave me a nudge with his free elbow.
I heard conversation behind me and glanced over my shoulder. The bride was getting ready to toss the bouquet, not something that concerned me.
“That’s only part of the reason,” I said in self-defense.
Sully drained his glass and set it on the table beside him. “The best part.”
Suddenly, something hit me in the back of the head. “Ow. What the hell?” It wasn’t something terribly heavy.
Sully began laughing. Sarah, too. Sully bent over slowly and picked the bouquet off the floor. “Kelsey has really crap aim.” He slapped the bouquet against my chest. I hastily shoved it into Sarah’s hands. “Or really good aim,” he whispered as he cupped his hand on the back of my head and pulled me into a kiss.
THE END
ABOUT A.R. MOLER
A.R. Moler is a chemistry professor at a community college, a homeschooling mom, and an avid science fiction fan. She is a devotee of first hand research for her writing whenever possible and to this end has: learned to fire a handgun, been rappelling, ridden with both EMS and the police, flown a helicopter, bought a motorcycle and learned to ride it. She has traveled to nearly all the places where her stories are set and taken hundreds of photos for documentation. She has been writing since her high school years, but only recently has become published. For more information, visit armoler.com.
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A.R. Moler, Trust in the Fast Lane
