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  Another gunman zeroed in on the car. A burst of bullets tore into the front grille. One of the headlights shattered and went dark.

  Erin thrust her pistol just over the doorframe of the car and fired three quick shots at the nearest muzzle flashes. She had no idea if she'd hit anything. Jones had her own door open and was firing rapidly. Rolf, trapped in his compartment, was barking his head off.

  Rolf. Erin reached behind her for the release on his compartment. “Rolf, fass!” she shouted. There was no time for more detailed instructions. She just turned him loose and hoped for the best.

  Rolf was out of the car so fast she hardly saw him move. He was a dark-pattern German Shepherd and was almost invisible in the shadows. The dog streaked forward, low and hard, toward the closest gunman. Erin let off four more shots over him. Somewhere to her left, someone else was firing a pistol, but she didn't know if it was an enemy, or Vic, or maybe even another officer. More bullets hit her car, punching holes in the bodywork. The window of her door shattered. A shot smashed the rear-view mirror just under her elbow. She didn't think she'd been hit, but couldn't honestly tell. The only thing she could think to do was to keep shooting, so she did. She shifted her aim away from Rolf's target, afraid of hitting him, and returned fire on the other rifleman.

  The slide on her Glock locked back. She didn't remember firing seventeen shots, but the gun was empty. “Loading!” she called to Jones and dropped into a crouch, releasing the empty mag and reaching for her spare. As she slid it into the butt of the pistol, she heard more sirens, thank God. A man screamed from the direction Rolf had gone. Jones was screaming, too. Erin risked a sideways glance in time to see Jones toss down the rifle and draw her own Glock.

  Erin came up with her gun reloaded, looking for a target. She didn't see any more muzzle flashes. Gradually, she realized they weren't taking fire. Jones had stopped screaming, but the man in front of them hadn't. That was the only sound besides the approaching sirens of an awful lot of police cars.

  “You okay?” she called across the car.

  “I'm fine,” Jones said shakily. “You?”

  “I'm good,” Erin said, wondering if it was true. She didn't want to take her eyes away from the scene long enough to check for injuries, but she didn't feel any pain. She raised her voice. “Vic? You there?”

  After what felt like a very long pause, she heard him. His voice came from the underside of the stairway on her left that led to the elevated train tracks. “I'm here.”

  “You hit?” she called.

  “Fuck yes, I'm hit,” he said. “Goddamn it.”

  Erin leaned into her car and grabbed the radio. “This is O'Reilly, four-six-four-oh. I need a bus at Brighton Beach and Seventh, forthwith!”

  There was no answer.

  “Dispatch!” she shouted into the handset again. Then she saw the bullet hole clean through the radio. She dropped the handset and went for her cell instead. It took a little longer. By the time she got an acknowledgment, the first backup cars were arriving on scene. Four uniformed officers jumped out of a pair of cars, guns drawn. More were coming. A 10-13 was guaranteed to bring every available officer at top speed. The 60th Precinct was only two miles’ drive from the shootout, so plenty of cops had shown up.

  Erin grabbed her shield in one hand and held it high as she ran forward, going for her dog. She found Rolf surrounded by cops. He was standing over a downed man, a skinny, dark-haired guy. An assault rifle with a banana-clip magazine lay nearby, spent brass scattered all around. He'd been taking cover behind a trash can on the corner, but Rolf's charge had flung him headlong onto the sidewalk. The dog had the man's arm in his teeth, jaws clamped tight. The little guy had stopped screaming, but that was probably because he'd gone into shock. Even in the limited light of the headlights and emergency flashers, he looked pretty pale.

  Erin didn't care. “Take him in,” she ordered the uniforms. Then, when they were ready with the cuffs, she called Rolf off. He obediently let go of the man's arm and turned to her, tail wagging, ready to be praised. She envied her dog. This was all just a rough game to him. He was having a fantastic time. She, on the other hand, was starting to feel pretty shaky.

  Erin caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Still jumpy, she swung around and half-raised her Glock. Vic was coming toward her, limping. He was leaning for support on a skinny girl half his size. The girl looked fine, but he had blood soaking the upper sleeve of his shirt and staining his left pant leg.

  “Jesus, Vic,” she said. “Sit down! You've been shot! Twice!”

  “I'm fine.”

  Erin's emotions cut loose. “God damn it, you're not fine!” she shouted at him. “You're lucky you're still alive! Sit your ass the hell down!”

  Vic blinked. To her surprise, he sat down on the curb without any further argument. “Just tell me one thing,” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Tell you later.”

  “Got another one over here!” one of the uniforms called. A short distance away, partially screened by one of the train-track stanchions, lay another man. The cop kicked a rifle away from the downed man, but it was pretty obvious this guy wouldn't be doing any more shooting. He was lying in a pool of blood that was only getting bigger, and he wasn't moving.

  “There's another by the stairs,” Vic said.

  “He dead?” Erin asked.

  “I sure hope so.”

  “Oh, man,” Jones said. She ran a hand through her hair, rubbed the back of her neck, and shook her head. “Oh, man,” she said again.

  Erin's phone rang. She was so hopped up on anger and residual adrenaline that she didn't recognize the sound right away. It rang two more times.

  “You gonna get that?” Vic asked.

  “Oh,” she said, swiping the screen. “O'Reilly.”

  “O'Reilly, I'd like you to take a deep breath and think about your next words very carefully.” Webb's voice was calm and quiet, which worried her a lot more than if he was shouting. “Then I want you to tell me just what happened. After that, you're going to go to the nearest precinct house and wait until I get there. Do you understand?”

  She closed her eyes. “Yes, sir,” she sighed.

  Erin kept it together during her report to the Lieutenant. She stuck to the facts, ignoring the emotions that were right under the surface. Mostly what she felt was restless. She paced on the sidewalk while she talked. She wanted to hit something, to shout, to scream. She knew she was shorting Webb on the details, but she really didn't want to go into the whole thing right then. She finished her explanation, slipped her phone into her pocket, and took in her surroundings.

  Jones was really shaken. She seemed disoriented and confused. One of the uniforms took her in tow, sat her down in a squad car, and gave her a cup of coffee. She'd gone quiet and pale. Erin thought the other woman might throw up any minute.

  Vic tried to stay still, but like Erin, he was having trouble doing it. The girl at his side, Tatiana, was wrapped around his uninjured arm. She was crying softly and talking to him in Russian. Erin caught the name “Mila.”

  Rolf lay nearby, gnawing busily on his Kong ball. Erin had reflexively dropped his reward toy for him after getting him off the shooter, and that was all he was interested in at the moment. As far as Rolf was concerned, life was pretty good.

  An ambulance pulled up, then more blue-and-whites and another ambulance. A couple of fast-responding news reporters were also on scene, but the Patrol officers kept them at a distance. The paramedics took charge of Vic and the guy Rolf had chewed on. Remarkably, no one else was injured. An EMT looked Erin over and found she'd gotten a small cut on her cheek, but she was otherwise untouched.

  “Bullet?” Erin asked.

  He shook his head. “Glass,” he said, pointing to her car... what was left of it. Now that they had the illumination of a dozen pairs of headlights, plus the squad cars' spotlights, she could see the condition of the Charger. The windshield, front and back, were shot out. So was th
e driver's window. The body was peppered with bullet holes. The engine block had taken more rounds than she could count. The radiator was shot to pieces, the fuel lines torn up, and a mix of water, gas, and brake fluid had pooled under the car. Both front tires were flat and one headlight was out.

  “Shit,” Erin said, staring at her ride and trying to figure out how she and Jones had survived.

  Another medic came over, leaving Vic in the care of his partner.

  “How is he?” Erin asked.

  “He's gonna be fine,” the EMT replied. “Took one in the tricep, close-range handgun, right in the meat, through-and-through. Must hurt like a son of a bitch, but should heal up fine. The other one's a rifle round through the calf, also missed the bone. He was really lucky. It's all soft-tissue stuff, nothing to worry about.”

  “Good,” Erin said. “I want him healthy when I kill him.” She stalked over to the ambulance. Vic was sitting on the stretcher, gingerly rubbing his bandaged arm. Tatiana was still at his side, kneeling on the ambulance floor, holding on to him.

  “Hey, Erin. Thanks for the assist,” Vic said.

  “Whatever,” Erin said. “Is this Tatiana?”

  The girl looked up at her, tears streaking her face. She nodded.

  “You got a last name?” Erin asked.

  The girl looked at Vic.

  “Fedorova,” he said.

  “Tatiana Fedorova,” Erin said, “you're under arrest for the attempted murder of a New York Police Detective. Turn around and put your hands behind you.”

  “Erin? What the hell?” Vic demanded.

  Tatiana said something in Russian to Vic, clutching at him.

  “You have the right to remain silent,” Erin went on. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law, whatever language you say it in.”

  “She's a goddamn victim!” Vic snapped.

  “That doesn't mean she’s innocent, Vic,” Erin said. She turned her attention back to Tatiana. She snapped one of her cuffs around the girl's right wrist, then twisted her around to face away. She did it briskly but not brutally. The other girl was smaller and weaker, and wasn't fighting back. She got the other cuff on. “You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be assigned to you by the court. Do you understand these rights?”

  Tatiana didn't answer.

  “Vic, does she speak English?” Erin asked.

  He glared at her. “Look, just calm down a second.”

  “Will you use your head, for God's sake?” she shouted. “These guys were gonna kill you! How'd they find you? She's working with them, damn it!”

  “They were shooting at both of us!” Vic shouted back. “They were gonna kill her, too!”

  “What the hell difference does that make? These guys kill girls all the time!”

  Vic started to say something else, then stopped. He turned to look at Tatiana, as if seeing her for the first time. “Anna,” he said in English. “Why'd you ask me about the case? How'd you know Ludmila's name?”

  The Russian girl stared at him. “Victor, please,” she whispered. “I am sorry. So sorry.”

  “Vic,” Erin said more gently. “We have to take her in.”

  He looked at her with eyes that had gone completely empty. “I know.”

  “Victor!” Tatiana begged. “They will send me back to Russia!”

  “That'll be up to you,” Vic said.

  Tatiana straightened up. She blinked back her tears and stiffened her jaw. “I understand my rights,” she said to Erin. “Suka.”

  Erin didn't know the word, but from the tone of voice, she figured it was pretty accurate.

  Chapter 15

  They couldn't go straight to the 60th Precinct station, whatever Webb had said. Erin, Vic, and Jones had been participants in an officer-involved shooting. The patrol supervisor had already showed up. They had to turn over the guns they'd fired. That meant all three sidearms, plus the AR-15 from Erin's car. A Patrol Borough Shooting Team was getting thrown together. The District Attorney would get involved soon. Then there'd be a Grand Jury hearing.

  In the meantime, of course, was the breathalyzer test. Erin remembered her three beers from earlier in the evening. The first two had been a couple hours ago, and the third wouldn't give more than faint fumes. She tried to remember how many drinks Vic had in him, but couldn't.

  “I gotta say, I'm looking forward to the administrative leave,” Jones said to Erin in an undertone.

  “Why?” Erin asked. She hated being sidelined. Since it was their conduct that was being scrutinized, they weren't allowed to actually investigate the crime scene, and it was driving her crazy.

  “No one shoots at you on admin leave.”

  “Hey, Kira?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You okay?”

  Jones gave a shaky laugh. “I just got shot at with frigging assault rifles, Erin. Am I supposed to be okay after something like that? Are you okay?”

  “They'll have the psych guys talk to us,” Erin said. “They'll know better than me.”

  “We fired so many shots, I’m not even sure I can remember them for the firearms discharge report,” Jones said, always mindful of the paperwork angle.

  “You guys are fine,” Vic said.

  Both of them looked at him. It was the first words he'd spoken since Tatiana's arrest.

  “They were already shooting when you showed up,” he went on. “Your car looks like Swiss cheese. The Grand Jury's gonna think things over for half a minute, give you a medal, and let you go.”

  “What about you?” Jones asked.

  He shrugged. “You said it, Erin. They were gonna kill me. I did what I had to do.”

  By the time they got to the 60th Precinct, all hell had truly broken loose. Reporters were all over the parking lot. The place was full of cops, jumpy as hell. Erin, Jones, and Rolf had hitched a ride in a couple of blue-and-whites while Vic went on to the hospital, and no one had ID'd them yet, but they were the only ones coming in with a prisoner, so attention zeroed in on them. They ducked through a volley of shouted questions like “Is this a terrorist attack?” and “Can you confirm that an NYPD officer fired first?”

  They worked their way to the building, half a dozen uniforms clearing a path for them. Erin tried not to look directly at any of the TV cameras. She hoped Jones wasn't going to faint or puke. She kept a firm grip on Rolf's leash with one hand, and Tatiana's right upper arm with the other. Jones held the Russian girl's other arm and kept moving, staring straight ahead.

  When they were finally secure in the station, Jones leaned against the wall and closed her eyes. Tatiana looked like she'd just gone through another gunfight. Her eyes were wide, staring right through them. Erin, still running on anger and adrenaline, went through the usual steps.

  The desk officer looked them over. “What's the charge?” he asked.

  “125.27,” she replied. “Attempted first-degree murder of an officer. A-I felony.”

  The desk sergeant's eyes widened. “She's the one who shot up our guy?”

  “She didn't pull the trigger, but she set him up,” Erin said.

  “She violent?”

  Erin gave Tatiana a glance. The girl stared back defiantly. “Not yet.”

  “All right, she's high-risk, just on the basis of the charge,” the sergeant said. He called two uniforms over for extra security. While they took charge of Tatiana, the sergeant grilled Jones and Erin about the arrest, including their use of force, Tatiana's condition, and what exactly had happened. The detectives knew they'd be telling the same story over and over again, but they tried to be patient while they talked it through.

  Then, even though Erin had searched Tatiana at the scene, she did it again in front of the sergeant. This wasn't a strip search, but it was more thorough than the field frisk she'd already done. The girl didn't have any weapons. In fact, she was hardly carrying anything at all. She had a few dollars in loose bills, some coins, and a set of keys.

&nbs
p; And then came the paperwork. Arrest report, voucher for Tatiana's keys, documentation checklist, and all the rest of it. While Jones started working on that, Erin turned her attention back to the prisoner.

  “Miss Fedorova,” she said. “You've got the right to make up to three phone calls, within the United States, no charge. You have anyone you want to call?”

  “No,” the girl said in a near-whisper. “I have no one.”

  “You sure about that?” Erin pressed. “Maybe call your pimp?”

  “What for, suka?” Tatiana spat. “Maybe you think he offers you a job?”

  Erin let it go. She'd had worse things said to her by plenty of suspects she'd hauled in. “So you're waiving your right to your phone calls,” she said, just to be clear.

  “Thrust your telephone up your ass,” Tatiana retorted.

  “Okay, y'know what?” Erin said. “I'd love to keep talking about this. It’d be fun.”

  “You would not know fun if it bit you on the behind.”

  “Dunno about you, Detective,” the desk sergeant said. “But I'm pretty sure I would.”

  The two uniformed officers took Tatiana into the interrogation room while Jones and Erin kept working on the arrest report. Since Tatiana hadn't lawyered up, there was no real rush to talk to her, but the detectives knew they were under time pressure anyway. The Russians would be moving.

  “We've got to get her talking,” Erin said.

  “I know,” Jones said. She was still pale. She brushed back her hair with a hand that was trembling. “Seriously, Erin, I don't know if I'm up for this.”

  “Up for what?” Lieutenant Webb asked, walking up to the desk. He was scowling.

  Erin spun around. “We've got Tatiana Fedorova in lockup,” she said. “We've gotta take a run at her, get her to flip on Vlasov.”

  “In a minute, O'Reilly,” Webb said. He took a long look at her, then at Jones. “You two okay?”