“Sheriff Burke!” she said, actually relieved to see him. “Help me!”
A security light revealed his face as he raised his gun.
It wasn’t Burke.
“Stop where you are,” said the man. “I’m placing you under citizen’s arrest.”
EIGHTY-SEVEN
JORDAN
11-99. All available units to 8201 Chelan Drive. Repeat 11-99. All available units to 8201 Chelan Drive.
—LAPD radio transmission
Jordan arrived in time to see Campbell streak through large wooden gates and freeze in the middle of the road. His eyes searched the darkness until he saw what she saw.
Silverman. Drawing down on her, holding the gun in one hand like a wannabe gunslinger.
Jordan was so stunned he could hardly think. Then instinct kicked in.
Not a man. The goddamn sheriff.
He threw the car into park and kicked open the door, unstrapping his Glock and slipping off the safety.
Dylan Danvers came through the gates, dripping wet, one hand holding his face.
“You’re Cara Campbell, and as a citizen of California, I have the authority to—” Silverman was saying.
“Get that bitch!” yelled Danvers.
“PUT THE GUN DOWN!” bellowed Jordan, drawing a bead on Silverman.
All three heads swung toward him in surprise.
Silverman’s arm moved, too. There was a report as his pistol fired.
Danvers staggered and screamed in pain. “Troy, you fucking idiot!”
Campbell bolted into the trees while Silverman stared at the gun in his hand.
Letting her go for the moment, Jordan closed the space and clubbed Silverman’s hand with his Glock. Silverman’s gun—a chrome-plated Colt revolver—clattered on the pavement. Jordan kicked it away, then grabbed Silverman’s vest and kicked his feet out from under him.
Silverman flailed his arms, fighting back, giving Jordan an excuse to put a knee in his back.
It felt good.
Ten yards away, Danvers sat down in his street. He was holding his thigh and looking down at the blood oozing through his fingers.
“Face down, with your hands behind you!” Jordan ordered. “Lace your fingers together!”
“My leg . . .”
“Do it. And what the hell are you doing here, Silverman?”
“Catching your . . . fugitive.”
“Yeah, great job on that,” spat Danvers. “You fucking shot me.”
