The Biker Who Became Mia's Shield

“I handled what was necessary, Arthur,” Thomas said, his words carrying through my still kitchen and, without his knowledge, across the emergency channel to every officer listening. “I paid the truck driver. I created that phony shooting report on Maple Street so your intersection would be empty. And my people are entering City General right now to send air through my son’s IV. It is unfortunate, Arthur, but Julian is my problem to dispose of.”

My fingers remained close to the radio at my belt. His confession was not enough yet. I needed dispatch to hear him make the threat personal, to know precisely where he was holding me at gunpoint.

“And me?” I called out, louder than sense required. “What happens to Arthur, the crossing guard at 42 Elm Street?”

Thomas’s expression tightened. His eyes flicked over me, suspicious now. “Why are you suddenly talking that way?”

“Answer it,” I said.

“I will put a bullet through your chest, Artie.” He adjusted the pistol in his hand. “In this kitchen at 42 Elm Street. Then I will clean up, take the phone, and vanish before anyone knows what happened. Put the phone down.”

A blast of radio static cracked from my hip, ripping apart the silence.

“Unit 4, emergency transmission confirmed. All units respond: armed suspect, officer in danger, 42 Elm Street. Hospital units are being redirected. City General response is being secured.”

Every trace of color drained from Thomas’s face. His gaze snapped down to the flashing red indicator on my radio. For one bare instant, the celebrated former chief looked less like a man in control than an animal caught in a trap.

“You miserable bastard,” he hissed.

Then he brought the gun up, lining it with my face.

He was about to pull the trigger. I had no room to flee and no time to lower myself out of the shot.

Thought vanished. Instinct took over.

I swung my right arm across the counter and struck one of Helen’s broad ceramic cups. It was filled nearly to the rim with chamomile tea she had brewed not long before.

Steam rose from it. The tea was hot enough to hurt.

I seized the mug and flung it at Thomas with all the force my worn-out shoulder could give me.

His pistol fired as the cup smashed into his face.

The suppressed shot made a flat, ugly pop, more like a powerful stapler than a gun. The round punched into the wall beside my head, bursting plaster over my hair and uniform.

At the same instant, burning tea washed over Thomas’s eyes and cheeks. The mug broke against his cheekbone. He screamed and let the pistol fall, both hands leaping toward his scalded face.

I did not give him a second chance. Pain ripped through my bad knees as I drove myself forward. My work boots skidded over the spilled tea, but I hit him hard enough to carry us into the little dining table.

The table went over beneath us. Chairs clattered, wood scraped tile, and we landed in a confused heap of elbows, legs, and overturned furniture.

Thomas had more years on him than I did, but cruelty had kept him dangerous. He swung blindly and caught my ribs. The impact emptied my lungs, and I dropped onto my back trying to breathe.

He crawled through the wreckage, blinking against the burn, sweeping one hand across the linoleum for the missing gun. His fingertips found the grip.

“No!” I shouted.

I drove my steel-toed boot into his chest. The kick threw him backward into the lower cabinets with a hard crash.

Before he could lunge again, I scrambled to the pistol, grabbed it, and backed away from him. I aimed it at the center of his chest.

My hands shook so badly the weapon wavered in my grip, yet I kept my finger ready at the trigger.

“Stay where you are,” I rasped. Every breath scraped against my bruised ribs. “Do not move, Thomas.”

He sagged against the cabinets. His face was flushed and beginning to blister, and blood ran from a cut above his eye. He looked from the pistol to me and understood that his control of the night had ended. Slowly, he lifted his empty hands.

Sirens swelled outside from several directions. Red and blue light began sweeping through my windows, turning Helen’s floral wallpaper into a spinning blur of color.

The front door slammed open. Officer Miller rushed inside with his service weapon raised, three more armed officers tight behind him.

“Drop the gun!” Miller yelled, his face stretched wide with adrenaline.

I lowered the pistol carefully, set it on the floor, and pushed it away with my shoe. “That’s the Chief,” I said, pointing at Thomas. “He confessed over the open microphone. Every one of you heard him.”

Miller stared at the retired chief as though his mind could not make sense of what his ears had received. Then training took command. He and another officer hauled Thomas upright and locked handcuffs around his wrists.

“Artie, did he hit you?” Miller asked, seeing the pale plaster dust across my clothes.

“I’m all right.” I caught his tactical vest and held on. “City General. Thomas sent men there dressed as federal agents. They are trying to murder Julian Hayes in trauma. You have to get there.”

Miller’s expression hardened. “SWAT already has the hospital locked down, Artie. Julian is safe.”