Officer Down (A Digital Short Story) Read Online Free Page A

I carried in the other. My Colt .45 auto-loader sat snug and heavy in its holster, pressing into the small of my back. I didn’t have to check for my backup piece, either. The weight of the small .32 revolver strapped to my right ankle was hard to forget.
    I crossed in front of Parks, about an arm’s length away, blocking his path. “Tyrell Parks.”
    He snapped his head up. Dark, suspicious eyes stared at me. I grabbed for his arm but he bolted around me fast, dodging like a linebacker avoiding a tackle so that I ended up snatching air. He ran for the ramshackle old colonial.
    Shit.
    Up the worn steps two at a time and across the porch, he plunged through the front door, slamming it shut behind himself. Running close, two steps behind, I reached the decaying wood-and-glass door and paused, pressing my back against the clapboard frame. My heart pounded from the adrenaline surge, not the effort. I took a deep breath of cold, crisp air, drew my .45, spun and kicked in the old, weathered door.
    The latch splintered inward. The door banged against the far wall with a sharp thwack and a rattle of glass. I rushed inside. Low. In the entryway, an absence of light greeted me save for the pale glow from the outside streetlamp and what little moonlight managed to leak in through the door and broken windows. Dust particles danced in the pale, ghostly hue.
    I faced a center staircase. Beside it, down the left side, ran a hallway. Open archways dotted the left wall. What had once been a living room lay to my right, and opposite that, a den. Wind whistled through windows where panes were broken or missing. The walls were graffiti tagged. Broken boards, cinderblocks and other building debris littered the floor and chunks of sheetrock and gravel crunched under my feet as I moved inside.
    A skinny Hispanic teen stood frozen in the den, watching me. Shirtless, he had his fly open. I’d caught him urinating in the corner. He stared at me with wide, fearful eyes as his breath puffed out quick plumes of cold air.
    I shoved Tyrell’s mug shot into his startled face. “Where is he?”
    He shook his head, muttering something I didn’t catch. I jammed the picture into the pocket of my leather coat and pressed the .45 to the kid’s forehead. His wide eyes grew wider. I wrinkled my nose. Ewww. He’d started peeing again.
    “Where?” I repeated. “In English.”
    His answer came out as one long, fast word. “UpstairsIdidn’tdonothingpleasedon’thurtme.”
    “ Gracias.” I took the stairs two at a time.
    At the top of the stairs, an open bathroom faced me, reeking of feces and vomit and urine. I cleared a small room to the right with a quick glance and sweep of my gun.
    Down the far end of the hall I heard a door slam.
    Moving quickly, I made my way forward. Darkness filled the hallway. The air was thick with cloying dust and odors too offensive to try and identify. Open doorways stood both to my right and left. From inside came the sounds of irritated druggies rousted out of self-induced comas by the commotion. They shifted and groaned. A few shouted curses. Others remained dead to the world. Those who woke, like rats sensing danger, sat upright, listening, afraid to move and afraid not to, their addled brains racing at the speed of glaciers to make a decision. Freeze, hide or run.
    At the end of the hall, I hit the one closed door I came to with my shoulder. It gave a little then bounced back. Not locked—someone holding it.
    “Tyrell Parks!” I shouted, shouldering the door again.
    Pain radiated down my arm, but this time it flew open.
    Inside, a soiled mattress lay on the floor. Around it were some grubby blankets, matches, candles and other drug paraphernalia. Dull light streamed in through a busted window. Tattered, once-white lace curtains billowed from the window frame. The sash was thrown open.
    Climbing out to the porch roof, Parks banged a knee on the sill and cursed.
    I darted fast across the room. Crack vials and