Part 1 (1/2)

Raw Deal.

An Amber Farrell Novella.

Prequel to the Bite Back series.

by Mark Henwick.

Chapter 1.

FRIDAY.

”This is Car 148, we got a 510, southbound Lincoln, pa.s.sing Colfax,” the radio squawked.

Cars racing. Better than nothing on a slow night. I grabbed the mike before Officer Knight reacted. To be fair, a coffee in one hand and a donut in the other slowed him down.

”This is Car 152, on Humboldt. I'll make Lincoln and 7th in one minute.”

I swung the Ford Crown Vic around and let the tires talk to me as I hustled us back to cut them off. At least there wasn't much traffic to worry about in Denver at 4 a.m.

”You said one minute, Farrell,” Knight said, dumping his coffee overboard. He switched on the lights and grabbed the chicken grip. ”Not five seconds.”

p.u.s.s.y.

He took the mike. ”Car 152,” he said. ”Requesting a buddy to help block at Lincoln and 7th.”

”Car 142, oh sh-” The call broke off for a second. ”We have a 480! 480! Lincoln and 13th.”

s.h.i.+t, it'd gotten serious quickly. Somehow, one of the racers had found someone to hit.

”Suspect vehicle has turned east on 11th. Car 142 in pursuit, 148 stopped to provide a.s.sistance. Requesting ambulance, Lincoln and 13th.”

12th Avenue. I turned hard, tires shrieking protest.

Knight joined them. ”What the f.u.c.k? Quit hot d.o.g.g.i.ng,” he yelled. ”This isn't a friggin' TV show.”

”Relax, Knight. I've been trained to handle vehicles at high speeds,” I said. And my reflexes were a couple of notches above those of normal people. To be fair, Knight had no way of knowing that, but I wished he'd stop acting like I was your average wet-behind-the-ears police rookie. My military training had given me a clear sense of my own abilities and limitations, and the sooner he learned to trust me, the better partners we'd be.

”On 11th, pa.s.sing Harrison,” came from the radio. That was Wilc.o.x in Car 142.

We pa.s.sed Harrison on 12th. I knew what the racer was going to try next. And Knight and I were going to be there to stop him. Thankfully, Knight had decided to shut up and let me drive.

”Turning service road, west of Gerritsen,” Wilc.o.x said.

Right on cue.

”s.h.i.+t! He's. .h.i.tting dumpsters,” Wilc.o.x said. ”We're blocked. We're blocked.”

I slammed on the brakes and hauled the car, screeching and slipping, around into the southern end of the service road.

”f.u.c.k!” Knight yelled, bracing for a crash. It didn't come. The headlights hurtling toward us in the alley suddenly dived as the racer braked heavily and skidded to a halt, the nose slewing to one side. The doors opened and two guys piled out.

Gotcha!

”This is the police,” Knight was saying through the bullhorn. ”Come out with-”

I was out of the car and running before he finished his sentence. The alley was long and dimly lit, with plenty of cover from the overturned dumpsters. If these dirtbags were armed and we let them establish a defensible position, they'd be invisible and we'd be silhouetted against the light as we tried to come in. Not to mention all the apartment windows lining the alley-an invitation for stray bullets. But if I could stay close enough, the perps would either have to keep moving and get picked up by Wilc.o.x and his partner, or stop and give me the chance to take them down hand-to-hand. Which I was more than happy to do.

The racers were picked out in our headlights. A tall, skinny guy, with sweats hanging halfway off his a.s.s, fell over the trunk and scrambled mindlessly back up the alley to get away. The driver was a different story entirely-he had a compact, athletic build and he was trotting backwards, head up and looking around, hood up to keep his face hidden. When he saw me coming, though, he abandoned caution and took off.

”Hold it, Farrell,” Knight called out after me. He wanted to do this by the book. There wasn't time. It was things like this that made me really miss the instinctive understanding of my old special forces team.

I leapt, hit the hood of the racers' car at full stretch and kicked off, launching myself into the air. Beanpole, for all his frenzied scrabbling, had been outdistanced by his partner. He heard me land behind him and turned, shocked I had gotten so close, so quickly.

Surprise!

I didn't give him time to get over it. I shoulder-charged him against a dumpster, winding him. Sweeping his legs out and dropping him to the ground, I had the cuffs on him before he got enough breath back to even think about struggling.

There was no sign of the driver ahead. Knight was coming up behind me, framed in the headlights.

”Wilc.o.x,” I said into my radio. ”One of them is heading back toward you, on foot.”

I heard Wilc.o.x yell, cut off by the flat sound of a shot echoing up the alley.

c.r.a.p. That wasn't Wilc.o.x or his partner shooting.

I vaulted the dumpster and sprinted into the darkness. Knight could handle Beanpole, and it'd mean he wasn't standing silhouetted in the lights.

The alley was a mess. The racers had sideswiped over half the dumpsters and they'd either spun around and rolled into the middle, or overturned and spilled their contents onto the road. The smell was overpowering.

The driver was scaling a chain-link fence about halfway down. No sign of a gun. Or a hoodie, for that matter.

I jumped up and hauled him back by his belt. He landed on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, balanced and not at all giving up, especially when he saw he'd been caught by a woman.

Unlike other areas, people underestimating my hand-to-hand skills never gets old.

I let his punch slide past me, guiding his momentum with one hand, feeding a little more into his rotation and pulling him off balance. Then I kicked him hard in the back of his knee. As he crumpled, I followed him down, twisting his arm behind his back.

It didn't take him long to figure out that struggling would only dislocate his shoulder.

I didn't have any more cuffs, but Knight or Wilc.o.x would get here eventually and I pa.s.sed the time by reminding my prisoner that even he had some rights.

He chose to remain silent. Probably thinking how to spin it to his homies when they found out he'd been taken down by a girl.

There was no sign of his gun.

Knight arrived with Beanpole in tow and cuffed the driver just as Wilc.o.x and his partner crept in cautiously, guns drawn. I spared a glance to check that their fingers weren't on the triggers and then set about searching for the driver's missing gun.