+18 - eps 6-11 - A unique city. A unique police team led by a unique woman. And an uptight fed set on a collision course.
On the second installment of the Blackbird Series, new cases push Brock and Gillian to work closer together, even in order t...
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Gillian headed in no hurry to Orlando's for her morning cappuccino. It was her third day since the doctor had removed her cast, and her leg felt funny. She still had a bit of a limp, but the doctor had said it would be gone as soon as she got used to walk without the extra weight again.
She waited for the traffic light to change as she talked with Ron over the phone.
"What the hell d'you mean useless, you stupid hothead?" she asked. "Not being able to run for a couple of months doesn't mean you're done!"
"C'mon, Reg, right now I'm only good for deskwork," replied Ron from his house, trying to seduce his baby girl with the old-and-always-ineffective trick of the flying spoon.
"Well, join the club! Or d'you think I'm in any shape right now? But it doesn't make me consider retirement!"
She walked into Orlando's straight to the counter.
The cashier greeted her with a bright smile. "Good morning, Lieutenant. Your usual?"
"Yes, extra cinnamon, please."
"Have a seat, Lieutenant, we'll call you."
Gillian headed to the restroom, resuming her phone conversation. Right in time to miss Cook coming in with his John Wayne smile at the waitresses on his way to the counter.
Brock floored the SUV down the I-93, a stormy scowl behind his sunglasses. Russell had Brandon on speaker, a hand on the dash in case Brock made any sudden swerve.
"Did you warn the PD about Palmer?"
"They keep leaving me on hold, sir!"
"Then call the SCU!"
"They still didn't arrive to their office."
"Then call Reg to her private number, dammit! Or T! Or any of them!"
"On it!"
But Gillian was still on the phone with Ron, washing her hands.
"Look, you stay on your rehab drill, and when you feel like showing up at the office, I'll be waiting for you to help me out with all the stupid paperwork Cook keeps sending me. I'll be more than glad to have somebody lend a hand with it."
"That may take another couple of months, Reg. What am I supposed to do till my trainer clears me to go back to work?"
"Cheat, you idiot! Call any of us and we can go pick you up and bring you over, at least for a couple of hours a day."
"Hum," murmured Ron, considering the option.
She felt a chilly gust in her back and turned around, spotting an open window.
"I mean, right now Aldana, Fred and Hank are doing all the field work, but that doesn't mean you cannot drop by. Else you're going bananas, locked up in your house for months." She tried to pull down the window and close it, but it was stuck. "Shit! Why the hell would they leave an open window? Not like this is frigging Jamaica!"
Ron was saying something when she heard a loud shout from the shop.
"Wait a sec, Ron," she whispered, going to the door.
Right then a shot thundered from the shop. Gillian stopped sharp, while Ron asked what was going on. She ignored him. That was no hand gun. She tiptoed to the door, noiselessly pushed it a bit open and peered out.
There was a young man, twenty-five tops, pointing a shotgun at the cashier. And right at his feet, sprawled on the floor by the counter, blood gushing off his leg, she saw Cook.
"Reg!" called out Ron.
The young man grabbed a waitress and took her to the door at shotgun point. Gillian stepped quickly back and stuck to the wall, taking a deep breath. The math was easy: officer shot + cops in charge = bloodshed. So she whispered on the phone, "Ron, I'm in Orlando's and Cook just got shot! Call Russell! Now!" And she disconnected.
She knew Russell was out of town with Brock, chasing some serial killer, but he would tell Cooper. And she trusted the Iron Lady would take the situation over. Hostage crisis used to be feds' business.
She went back to the open window and stuck half her body out to look around. Shit. Only the shop's backdoor opened to the tiny backyard. And there was no way to reach any window at the upper floors without a ladder.
Okay, no getting out that way without help. She texted three words and slid her phone into her jeans back pocket, breathing as deep as she could.
Cook, the cashier, two more employees behind the counter, the two waitresses, two more in the kitchen. How many customers at the tables and the counter? Eight, ten? One child, a little girl.
And a young man with a shotgun.
Her heart was beating in her throat. She tried to swallow it.
