Blow Out

“No!” Callie jumped to her feet and landed against him, knocking him back against the wall. She grabbed his shirt. “You’re not going anywhere. Are you crazy? We’re going to wait for help.” She actually pulled him tight against her, hanging on for dear life. “Do you want to get yourself killed?”

“For God’s sake, Callie, I’m a cop.” He grabbed her hands, trying to pull her off him, but she held on tight. “Stop trying to strangle me. Listen to me, it’s what I do for a living—serve and protect. Now get back down on the floor and crawl over to that staircase.”

Her fingers dug into his shirt. “If you want to be a damned hero, I’m coming with you.”

Sherlock gave Sean to her husband, and simply tackled Callie, took her down. Callie didn’t stand a chance, black belt in karate or no, and now she was helpless, couldn’t move. “I can’t believe you’re actually doing this to me,” she gasped, her face in the carpet. “You really shouldn’t be able to.”

“I learned from the best. Be quiet, Callie, and don’t move or I’ll hurt you. Ben, go, and be careful. As soon as I get Callie to listen to me, I’ll let her up. Dillon, you got Sean? Fleurette’s down?”

“Yeah, we’re fine. You keep Callie’s face in the floor.”

“Why did he try to kill me?” Fleurette whispered, coming up on her knees, clutching Savich, her breath hot against his neck, Sean trapped and crying between them. “I don’t know anything, but he fired into your house. To kill me. Why? I really don’t know anything that could harm him. Why would he come after me?”

“He obviously believes you do know something,” Sherlock said over Sean’s yells, “and it doesn’t look like he’s going to stop. Now, Callie, you got it together, or do you need to get more splinters in your face? Sean’s crying, in case you hadn’t noticed, and it really pisses me off that I’m not comforting him right now.”

“I’m okay,” Callie said, “or very nearly. I’m sorry. Ben’s already out the door, the idiot. I swear I won’t go after him. Go get Sean, Sherlock.”

“Fleurette and I have him,” Savich said. “Get yourself together, Callie. Don’t make me regret bringing you into this investigation.”

Callie drew a deep breath, hiccuped, and said, “I’m sorry, it’s just that Ben—”

“I know. But it’s his job. Let it go. Get yourself together.”

“Okay, okay, I’m trying but, he’s such a macho moron, saying he’s going to go out there and dance with that monster.”

“That particular macho moron is an excellent cop,” Sherlock said.

“That was just a touch of cop humor,” Savich said.

“He knows what he’s doing. Now, Callie, we’re going to glide slowly across the floor to sit next to Dillon and Fleurette. I’m going to hug Sean. We’re going to wait for the cavalry. You just stay down, you got that? Ready?”

They were both breathing hard by the time they could lean against the staircase. Sherlock pulled Sean from between Fleurette and Dillon, and pressed his small face against her shoulder. “It’s okay now, champ,” she whispered against his wet cheek, “don’t worry, it’s okay. Mommy’s right here. It was just a loud noise. You can yell louder than that.”

Not even a minute later sirens sounded loud, at least a half dozen of them. When the front door opened, both Sherlock and Savich had their guns aimed at it. Ben called out before he showed his face, “Jimmy Maitland is here along with lots of my guys and FBI agents. They’re already spreading out, searching for Günter, talking to every neighbor who’ll answer the door. You guys okay?”

“Yeah, we’re fine,” Sherlock said.

Ben made his way over to one of the living room side windows, pulled the drapes tight. Once the room was shrouded, Ben turned on the light switches. Everyone blinked. Savich said, “All of you, stay away from the windows. No telling what that maniac might try. Thing is, after that first shot, he knew he was shooting blind, knew we wouldn’t just stand in the middle of the living room. So why did he keep firing?”

“He thought he might get lucky,” Ben said.

“But the chance he’d hit Fleurette?”

Sherlock said, “You know, I don’t think he cared. I think he wanted to terrify us, let us know he was close. I don’t know about the rest of you, but it worked for me.”

Callie came up on her hands and knees, and stared at Ben. Then she was on her feet, running at him. She grabbed him close and held on, her face buried in his shoulder. “I should kill you, you macho asshole, running out there like that and this madman with a gun, shooting like crazy. He’s a good shot, and he would be really happy to see you dead, even if you aren’t Fleurette. Dillon is right, he didn’t care who he hit, and here you were making that lame joke about dancing with him—if that’s an example of cop humor, you need a new writer.”