Chasing China White by Allan Leverone (best time to read books TXT) 📗

Derek yanked the door closed with a teeth-rattling slam as Greg eased the cop’s head and shoulders onto the floor. He dropped to one knee next to the man’s head and tried to catch his breath, conscious of Derek pacing back and forth next to him, muttering something Greg could not make out. He closed his eyes and pressed his ear to the cop’s chest, listening for a heartbeat and trying to wrap his head around the notion that a little more than an hour ago, his biggest problem was his crumbling marriage.

Now he was probably watching a cop die and would likely see his brother follow suit.

And he might not live much longer, either.

To his surprise, Greg heard/felt a heartbeat through the bloody shirt. It was weak but it was there. He lifted his head and swiped his cheek onto his shoulder, wiping away the blood that had smeared onto his face.

Next to him, the sound of Derek’s shuffling feet stopped suddenly and everything was quiet. The diner customers and staff had apparently all escaped the building. Derek began chanting softly, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” as he stared through the front door.

Greg leaned and looked past his brother’s body and lifted his eyebrows in surprise. Cops were everywhere, and more continued to pour into the lot. He’d known they were coming, but the sheer number of them was staggering. Police cars were parked randomly, light bars flashing but sirens off, and Greg could see men in blue uniforms crouched behind their open doors. He couldn’t see any guns but knew they were there.

“Get away from the door, asshole,” he said.

Derek spun and met Greg’s eyes and did as he was told. “I’m fucked,” he said, and Greg couldn’t disagree.

9

For a few minutes not much happened outside. It seemed obvious to Greg that the first responders—the beat cops—had been told to secure the area and wait for the hostage negotiating team to arrive on-scene.

He imagined cops sneaking in the rear service entrance and putting bullets in the backs of both their heads, and that possibility seemed to occur to Derek at the same time it occurred to him. His brother disappeared into the kitchen and a moment later Greg heard the heavy scraping sound of a metal security door being slammed shut and then locked.

Greg stepped behind the counter and rummaged around until finding a stack of clean towels. He grabbed several and returned to the downed cop, who was still alive but also still unconscious, breathing erratically and looking almost as pale as Derek.

He knelt on the floor, checking out the bloody wound and debating whether to try to remove the knife. It stuck obscenely out of the man’s stomach/chest, quivering like a flagpole in a heavy wind with the cop’s every labored breath. He decided to leave it, fearing one final gush of blood that would kill the man should he pull it out.

Instead, he unbuttoned the soaked shirt and began packing towels as tightly as possible around the wound. The shirt was sticky with blood and the floor was slippery with more blood and it was all he could do not to puke on the unconscious man. When he’d packed the area around the wound as best he could, he squeezed the two sides of the dress shirt back together and refastened the buttons, hoping the shirt would hold everything in place.

Then he sat back on his haunches and examined his handiwork. He doubted it would make a damned bit of difference. It seemed clear the man would be dead soon. He looked up to see Derek looming over them, holding the cop’s gun by his side, his eyes wet and terrified.

“You’ve got to end this,” Greg said.

“I already told you, I can’t go to prison. I’ll be dead within a week, and it won’t be quick, either. Crowder’s guys will drag it out. They’ll torture me and do things to me that you can’t even imagine.”

Greg tilted his head, indicating the cop while keeping his eyes focused squarely on his brother’s. “We’ll figure something out, I promise. In the meantime, this man is still alive. For now. You can save him, Derek.”

“Save him? I’m the one who stuck the knife in his ribs. If he dies, it’s because of me.”

“I’m not gonna try to argue that.”

“There is no argument to that.”

“Fine. But what’s done is done. The point is he’s still alive and if you make the right move—you put the gun down and let me go to the door and talk to the cops, negotiate your peaceful surrender—you’ll save his life. He can recover and go back to his wife and kids, or his girlfriend or even his lonely shitty life in a one-room apartment. Whatever. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that whatever else happens from this point on, you will have saved this man’s life.”

Derek stood uncertainly, swaying on his feet. Greg thought he looked like a little kid, lost and alone.

“You’ll save a life, Buddy. That’s gotta count for something, to the cops and the judge and a jury, but most importantly to you.” Greg hadn’t called his little brother “Buddy” in at least fifteen years and wasn’t sure why he’d done so now. It had been a long time since he thought of Derek as his “Buddy,” but the words came out without any conscious thought and they seemed right. Appropriate.

Derek continued to sway, his eyes still wide and terrified but also now thoughtful. He looked around the diner absently and Greg knew he was seeing not the smashed dishes and overturned chairs and half-eaten meals but the consequences of a lifetime of bad decisions.

Then he nodded sadly and Greg knew he’d convinced him.

“Put the gun down,” Greg whispered, “and let me go talk to the cops. I’ll protect you, I promise.”

Derek reached for the nearest table and placed the cop’s gun on top of it. It looked absurdly out of