Page 52 of Sworn to Silence
My heart begins to race when I realize he’s not going to comply. Adrenaline burns my midsection and spreads like an arterial injection to my limbs with enough force to make me shake. I step toward him, and he bolts.
Glock and I tear out after him simultaneously, two sprinters out of their blocks and running. Brower is agile and fast. He jets through the back door, upends a shelf to block our way, and heads toward the alley.
I hurdle debris and blast through the door after him. In my peripheral vision I see Glock trip and go down. My vision tunnels on Brower. Blue coveralls. Arms pumping. Occasional look over his shoulder. The ground is slick with snow. My boots slide, but I recover quickly and keep running. I hear a shout behind me, but I’m too focused to make out the words.
To my surprise, I’m gaining on him. I visualize taking him down, kneeing him in the small of his back, sliding the cuffs onto his wrists. But I’ve been in enough foot chases to know nothing ever goes by the book.
Fifty feet in, the alley tees. Brower veers left. I crash through trash cans and gain ten feet on him. “Stop!” I shout.
He keeps running.
Four more strides and I’ll be close enough to take him down. My heart thunders. Adrenaline is a jet engine in my ears. His left foot slides, slowing him. I dive, wrap my arms around his hips, throw my shoulder into him.
An indistinguishable sound bursts from his mouth. He twists in midair. His hands slam down on my shoulders hard enough to bruise. His fingers squeeze like vise grips. “Get the fuck off me, you Amish bitch!”
We hit the ground hard and slide. The impact knocks the breath from my lungs. Snow sprays into my eyes, in my mouth. Blind, operating on instinct, I get my knees beneath me. Sliding the baton from its holster, I snap it out. But I’m not fast enough. The blow comes out of nowhere. His fist is like a sledgehammer making nice with the bridge of my nose. The force rattles my brain all the way to my sinuses. My head snaps back, and I lose my grip on Brower.
Air whistles as I bring the baton down on his thigh. He snarls like a beast. “Bitch cop!” He draws back to hit me again. I try to get the baton in position, brace for the blow.
Glock moves in from the side, a Mack truck mowing down a VW. I scramble back. Snow flies. A single unmanly scream rents the air. Glock muscles Brower onto his stomach with the skill of a heavyweight wrestler. Climbing on top of him, Glock grinds his knee into the other man’s back and grapples for his wrists.
“Stop resisting!” Glock shouts.
Blinking back residual tears from the blow, I grab my cuffs and scramble toward the men. I snap the cuffs onto Brower’s wrists, cranking them down tight.
I see blood on the back of his coveralls, realize belatedly it’s coming from me. I wipe my nose with my sleeve and am dismayed to find it leaking like a sieve.
“You okay, Chief?”
I look down. Blood spatters the snow. I use my sleeve again, but I’m only making a mess. “I’ll let you know as soon as I find my eyeballs.”
“I’ve got him if you want to take care of that nosebleed.”
Because my eyes are watering and I don’t want him getting the wrong idea, I trudge toward the garage. Behind me, I hear Glock order Brower to his feet.
Blood drips into my mouth, and I spit before entering the garage. Inside, I glance around for something with which to stanch the flow. Blue workshop paper towels stick out of a dispenser mounted above the workbench. I yank out a handful and pinch my nostrils together.
“Jeez, Chief, you look like you just had a close encounter with Mike Tyson.”
I look up to see T.J. standing in the doorway. “Yeah, well, you should see the other guy,” I mutter. “What are you doing here?”
“Glock put out a call for assistance on the radio.” Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, T.J. approaches and hands it to me. “Here you go.”
“Gonna ruin it.”
“I got more. My mom buys them for me every Christmas.”
Tossing the soaked towels into a trash can, I put the handkerchief to my nose. “Thanks.”
Glock and Brower enter through the back door. An abrasion the size of a pear mars Brower’s forehead. His hair is wet with melting snow. He looks like a pit bull that just had its ass kicked by a roving band of Chihuahuas.
Glock muscles him inside. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to hit girls?”
The man with the rosacea stands at the door, craning his neck to get a better look. “Damn, that dumb sumbitch hit a cop?”
Gathering my composure, I cross to the two men and look Brower in the eye. “You want to tell us why you ran?”
“I ain’t telling you shit.”
