Assholes.
He couldn’t focus on that right now, though. The unit had to finish “slicing the pie”.
Clearing a house was dangerous. With potential death lurking around every corner and in all the closets, cops “sliced it” into small chunks, each team focusing on one area at a time, so the task wasn’t quite as dangerous and overwhelming.
Keeping the barrel of his shotgun angled slightly downward at a “low ready” position, Jack finished his sweep of the room and yelled, “Clear!”
The same cry resounded from others, indicating the house was secured.
Yet something still didn’t feel right, Jack noted. But he just couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
Sure, they were trying to close in on a major gun-smuggling operation. And yes, there were crates in the garage and other parts of the house containing lethal weapons. It was also true that this was all connected to an arms-dealing cartel.
So, there were plenty of reasons for Jack to feel uneasy.
But this was something more. Something floating just beyond his grasp. He’d done the job long enough to know when things weren’t right.
And things definitely weren’t right here.
What was going on?
He walked past other members of his team, down the narrow hallway, and into the kitchen. Staring out the window above the sink, he pointed to an old shed that rested across the yard, against the chain-link fence.
“Anyone check that?”
A young, uniformed officer shook his head. “No, sir.”
Looking at him and the two others close by, Jack jerked his head toward the backyard. “Come with me.”
The four exited the kitchen, stepped down into a small utility room, and continued through a back door that Jack had to pull on hard to tear free from its warped frame.
Jack motioned for the officers to fan out before proceeding. His shoes flattened the overgrown grass in the path he walked toward the shed. He approached the door at an angle, just in case it burst open and someone took shots at the approaching cops.
The main house wasn’t in good shape aesthetically, but the doors had been reinforced and secured, along with bars bolted over the windows, to make it a more appropriate place to storehigh-dollar, black-market weapons. SWAT had had a hell of a time breaching it.
The shed Jack was approaching, though, was in far worse shape. The dull white paint was chipped and falling off in many places, exposing rotting gray wood. And it didn’t seem to have those extra security measures. One look at it told Jack that he should be able to easily get inside.
At least, it appeared that way.
The first rule he’d learned as a detective: never assume.
Assuming could get you killed fast.
He would die one day, but it sure wouldn’t be right then, in that overgrown, ratty-ass backyard.
So, he kept his gun at the ready just in case.
It was a good thing he did, too. Just as he’d feared, the shed’s door flew open. Orange flame bloomed from the end of a silver handgun, and Jack dove to the side while yelling, “Down!” just as a bullet thudded into the grass where he’d been only a second earlier.
The gunfire was still echoing as the shooter bolted from the shed and ran around it, most likely heading for the back fence.
Jack effortlessly rose to his feet and gave chase but stopped shy of running around the building’s corner. Just charging recklessly ahead was a good way to get killed. He didn’t think the perp was trying to ambush him, but again—never assume.
He gave a quick glance over his shoulder to the officers behind him. “Anyone hit?”
“We’re all good, Detective.”
He nodded.
