“I dont suppose if I agreed to go to a game that youd agree to go dancing,” Zane suggested as he scooped more chopped potatoes into the water.
Ty looked up and snorted at him. “I dont mind going dancing. Its just the clubs that make me nervous, too many ways to get killed.” “And strobe lights,” Zane added, obviously remembering what Ty had told him when hed balked at the dance club on the cruise ship. “Id still have your back,” he said, looking up to meet Tys eyes evenly.
Ty stared back at him, feeling a shiver run up his spine as he looked into Zanes dark eyes. It was frustrating sometimes, how one look in Zanes eyes made Ty want to throw everything else out the window. But mostly it was fun.
The shift of his weight to stalk around the bar and steal a kiss was interrupted when the police-band radio he kept in a little-used corner of the kitchen crackled to life, the voice sounding marginally panicked as it asked for backup and the bomb squad.
“10-79!” Ty straightened as he looked at the radio. The signal was weak enough that it only picked up on calls from his neighborhood, alerting him to anything in the vicinity he might be able to help with. It rarely came to life.
Zane set the knife down and picked up a towel, drying his hands as he turned to listen, a frown on his face.
“10-79,” the radio spat again through the static. “501 East Pratt Street.” Another voice answered, also sounding panicky and out of breath. These people werent making official police calls; they had to be offduty.
“Jesus, thats the aquarium,” Ty told Zane.
Ty stood and pushed away from the counter as Zane turned off the burners. “What is it? Ten, twelve blocks?” Zane asked as he strode to the couch, plucked up his shoulder holster, shrugged into it in a quick and long-practiced move, and slid his gun into place.
Ty nodded as he jogged toward the coat rack by the door and the small table drawer where he kept his sidearms. He hurried to put the shoulder holster on, getting the straps tangled as he did so and not caring. Zane grabbed his keys and leather jacket.
“Well get there faster on foot in this kind of traffic,” Ty told him as he yanked at the front door.
“Ill drive between cars and on sidewalks if I have to,” Zane answered. Ty stood at the front door, momentarily indecisive. He would gladly ride on the back of Zanes deathtrap Valkyrie if he really thought itd get them through the Friday night traffic gauntlet of Fells Point to the Inner Harbor faster than he could hoof it. Maybe.
“You ride. Ill run,” he told Zane, completely sincere in his belief that he could get there quicker.
“Meet you there,” Zane said as he headed for the bike parked in front of the row house. Ty slapped his hand down on the badge that lay on the table, sliding the chain it hung from over his head as he pulled the door closed and hopped from the top step of his stoop to the sidewalk. He sprinted toward Fleet Street as Zane started the bike with a quick jump and revved the engine. He knocked back the kickstand and got the Valkyrie moving as he shoved his helmet on without buckling it.
Ty watched him weave into the heavy traffic and followed in Zanes path for half a block, but then he did what only a man on foot could do and parkoured his ass over someones fence and into the alleyway between two buildings. It wasnt just a matter of getting to the aquarium in time to help now—it was a matter of pride. Hed beat that damn motorcycle even if it killed him to do it.
Chapter Three
“THIS is a WBAL TV 11 News Special Saturday Report. Im Andrea Gregg.” “A false bomb threat last night had off-duty police officers and volunteer workers scrambling to evacuate a group of children from the Baltimore Aquarium. The aquarium was open late for Sea Life Safari, an educational evening program for kids in kindergarten through second grade. The program was sold out with forty children in attendance.”
The visual cut to a grim-faced older man with graying hair wearing a blue polo embroidered with the aquariums logo. The titles labeled him as a Facility Proctor. “We were having a great time,” he said. “The kids were really enjoying it. We were spread out all over the aquarium in little groups, to give them more one-on-one attention, but it made it harder to get them all out without panicking them. We didnt want to panic them.”
“How did you hear about the bomb threat?” the reporters voice asked. “A security guard came up and told me we needed to get the kids out quickly and quietly. He didnt tell me why, just that we had to go now. Now, you have to understand, these are little kids, and theyre all spread out through the room, and we just had two adults per ten kids, which is normally fine,” the man answered, starting to ramble.
The reporter cut in. “So you ordered the evacuation of the facility.”
“Security did,” he said, starting to look a little nervous. “We did it as fast as we could.” The video cut back to the outside of the aquarium and Andrea. “WBAL News arrived just as the children were being escorted from the building and, we are told, right after the first police car arrived.”
The picture changed to a well-lit nighttime scene of the front expanse of concrete along the harbor. For a few seconds, children rambled out through the doors, some skipping and singing, some jogging, others dragging along as the proctors tried to shoo them directly away from the front door. A voice-over started.
Two squad cars sat parked at the curb, blue lights flashing, but the uniformed policemen were fifty yards up the pier toward the museum, moving the children away from the building. At the same time, the rumble of an engine covered the chatter of childrens voices.
“As we filmed, several off-duty officers arrived on the scene.” The footage shook and swung around to a man sprinting toward the aquarium through the jumble of concrete and carefully manicured shrubbery between buildings. He leapt over a barrier, using his hand to support him as he literally ran sideways against the wall beside him and then hopped down again, running full-tilt toward the aquarium entrance, jumping over low barriers and concrete planters instead of going around them. The badge hanging from his neck was easy to make out as it bounced around, glinting in the various lights of the harbor.
“Over there!” a crew member shouted and the camera swung again. A cobalt blue motorcycle tore up Pier 3 from Pratt Street to the brick and concrete courtyard and skidded to a stop next to a lamppost. The mans helmet hit the concrete as he yanked it off in his hurry to get off the bike, and the camera zoomed in on a badge hooked onto his waistband before panning to the right to follow him as he ran.