Hunter, who was just a couple of steps behind Garcia, knew that his partner wasn’t about to shoot the man ahead of them, but those words tended to have the desired effect on most people. The man, however, didn’t seem to care. Ahead of them, he splashed through another couple of puddles before swinging left, following the alleyway.
Hunter and Garcia were right on his tail.
The man finally emerged out of the alleyway and onto a residential road – Kalmia Street. Directly across the road from the alleyway exit was a communal basketball court and, since they were in LA, the home of the Lakers, no matter what time of day or night, someone would always be bouncing a ball and shooting hoops at a public blacktop court. That lunchtime, there were at least ten people on and around that court – four of them playing two-on-two, and the rest watching from the sidelines.
The man lost no time, quickly crossing the road to reach the gateless basketball court.
Using his right arm to point behind him, he shouted at the players and at everyone watching the game. ‘Cops, cops.’
It was as if someone had pulled out a gun and fired a couple of rounds. The four kids in the two-on-two game took a quick peek in the direction that the hooded man had indicated. As they saw Hunter and Garcia emerge from the alleyway, they simply dropped the ball and ran.
The people on the sidelines also turned to look in the direction of the alleyway.
‘Motherfucker!’ one of them shouted, throwing the can of soda that he had in his hand Hunter and Garcia’s way, before taking off like a rocket.
His move was immediately followed by a chorus of ‘fuck’ and ‘shit’. Everyone scattered each-and-every way.
Despite the mad, ten-way split, Hunter and Garcia never lost sight of their target. They entered the court and crossed over to the other end in less than four seconds.
Ahead of them, the hooded man took a quick look behind him before getting to a small grassy park. He clearly saw that the two detectives were gaining on him fast because Hunter saw him practically spit out the word ‘fuck’.
‘LAPD,’ Garcia tried again. ‘Stop.’
The man, who showed no signs of slowing down, got to the end of the park and veered right, aiming for the entrance to another alleyway just ahead of him. Garcia, who was still a couple of paces in front of Hunter, was just about to catch up with the man when – BOOM.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Officer Emiliano Esqueda appeared on the man’s left, flying through the air to tackle him down like a defensive guard smashing down on a quarterback. The man never saw Emiliano coming… he never stood a chance.
Emiliano wasn’t exactly a powerhouse when it came to hisphysique, but he sure as hell had enough strength and momentum to send him and the man crashing to the ground.
As Emiliano collided with the subject, he grabbed hold of him in an embrace that seemed watertight. They hit the ground awkwardly, rolling as one because Emiliano simply didn’t let go.
The impact was hard enough to dislodge the man’s backpack clear off his back.
‘Motherfucker,’ Emiliano shouted, as they came to a halt just inside the alleyway.
Behind them, Hunter and Garcia had also stopped running. They were now bending forward, resting their hands on their knees, trying to catch their breath.
Letting go of the man, Emiliano harshly rolled him over so that his chest and face were pressed hard against the ground.
‘You’re under arrest, you motherfucker,’ he said before grabbing both of the man’s arms, twisting them behind his back, and cuffing the man’s wrists. As he did, he began reciting the Miranda warning. ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…’
The man seemed to have already accepted his fate because he didn’t put up a fight.
While Emiliano recited the warning, Hunter collected the man’s backpack from the ground and unzipped it.
Garcia stood right next to him.
‘OK,’ Emiliano said, holding the man by the arms. ‘Up… nice and slowly.’
The man obliged.
Emiliano reached for the man’s hoodie and slid it back from his head, finally revealing his face.
It wasn’t a man. It was a kid. Tall and skinny, but still just a kid, who couldn’t have been any older than eighteen. Black hair, cut short, framing a round, childlike face where his cheekswere covered in acne. He had a gap in his front teeth that could hold a toothpick. His eyes were as dark as his hair and, right then, the only thing in them seemed to be fear and sorrow… a lot of both. But his most distinct feature, at least at that time, was a black-and-blue left eye, where blood had recolored his sclera red, and a swollen bottom lip, showing a nasty cut at its right edge.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the kid said, tears welling up in his eyes. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘Yeah, yeah, of course you are,’ Emiliano said, reaching for his shoulder comms. ‘Dispatch, this is PO 2842 in Watts. Respond.’
