"It is strange how loud little sounds become when you are in the dark and doing something wrong."
~ Richard Llewellyn
~**~~**~
Jack concentrated on the road ahead as the rain pelted down against the windshield. It was a dark night and the rain made it even more soul consuming. The prospect of a murder and the chance for action had gotten his hopes up, but the arrival to the town had mercilessly crushed them.
The officer in the seat next to him shook with anticipation. The boy stared out into the black with a look of glee written across his baby face. However, since the moment he had plopped his scrawny frame into the passenger's seat, he hadn't stopped talking.
Not even to take a breath.
With that type of dedication, Jack reckoned the young man would make a fine SEAL— if only he could shut up for a minute or two.
The ten-minute drive to the crime scene yielded more information pertaining to the officer than Jack ever wanted to know. By the time he pulled up to the curb, he had learned every aspect of Officer Pierson's life.
Thomas, Jack amended.
The officer vehemently insisted Jack call him Thomas.
Not Tommy like the Sheriff had stated.
Just plain Thomas.
In order to stop the verbal waterfall tumbling out of Thomas' mouth, Jack quickly agreed.
Rhodes had barely shifted the car into park before his passenger was out of the car and scurrying up the walkway towards the house. With a shake of his head, Jack pulled the keys out of the ignition.
Outside the cruiser, the first thing he noticed was the noise.
Or rather, the lack of noise.
The house was dark and lifeless.
In fact, the whole street seemed to have escaped from a scene of a ghost town.
Jack always was wary of situations like this. If his time conducting covert operations had taught him anything, there was such a thing as 'too quiet'.
Further up the lawn, the only evidence that a crime took place was the yellow police tape splayed across the door in a haphazard fashion. The slapdash approach to the crime scene appalled him. He physically restrained himself from writing a citation for the local police department. He knew they probably never had to deal with crimes other than the occasional jaywalker in this sleepy town so they had neither the resources or the workforce to deal with an active crime scene.
He could let this go.
But not before righting the crime scene tape and establishing a base perimeter.
After all, he was only human.
Slipping under the fixed tape, Jack made his way into the house behind the eager rookie. Observing the area, he noticed the lack of decor and personal belongings. It was strange for a supposedly lived-in house.
Silvia Praxton obviously wasn't the sentimental type.
The smell of burnt food led him to the kitchen where he paused at the door to survey the scene. The floor tiles were covered in shattered glass and the window above the sink was missing. A wine glass laid tipped on its side with remnants of wine gracing the bottom.
Just as the Sheriff described.
Jack circled the shattered glass strategically and bent down. His eyes narrowed in on a thin metal sliver which lay in the mass of glass. It was nearly imperceptible to the untrained eye, but Jack's observation skills were off the charts.
SEALs didn't live as long as him without being perceptive.
After slapping on a pair of nitrile gloves, Jack retrieved it. Holding it up to the light, he examined the strip before sealing the fragment in an evidence bag. Before he had a chance to look around more, Officer Pierson redirected his attention with an excited 'over here'.
Jack rose, placing the bag in his left breast pocket and twirled to look at the officer. Thomas leaned against the adjacent side of the kitchen, his laser pointer directed at the holes in the drywall.
"It seemed the perp went to shoot Ms. Praxton through the window but missed when she fell. The bullets ended up lodged in the wall here. 10. . .no, 9 mm caliber if I had to guess"
"UnSub"
"What?"
"We call them unSubs, not perpetrators." Jack paused and considered, "But, I do agree with your crime scene recreation. Besides the obvious, why did you think it was an attempted murder and not some teenagers fooling around as your Sheriff said?''
Thomas looked at Jack with a glint in his eyes. "Let me show you!'
With that said, the aspiring detective turned to an aged door leading to the back of the property. Curious, Jack trailed behind the man. The wet earth squished under his loafers, creating a sucking noise with each footstep. He carefully eyed the ground, making sure not to slip in any of the mud.
About ten meters from the house, Thomas shone his flashlight onto scuff marks on the ground. As he drew closer, Jack saw the scuff marks actually resembled a pair of rough shoe prints.
"Look!'' Pierson exclaimed triumphantly, pointing at the ground.
Jack wondered why the boy was so exuberant.
So what?
He had found where the marksman had shot. It didn't take a genius to figure out the bullets were fired from outside the house. This piece of evidence didn't imply attempted murder.
Bending his knees to squat down, the Commander let his eyes roam the damp ground. He outlined the shoe prints with his finger, tracing the wet dirt. A small round indentation was pressed next to the prints.
Most likely from an overturned rock.
However, that was the least of his worries. As he surveyed the area, Jack noticed the absence of bullet casings around the impressions.
The shooter policed his brass. . .
Reconsidering his previous assumption that the officer was too eager, Jack questioned, "Officer. . . how many teenagers do you know who would take the time to pick up the casings after they shot out someone's window?"
Thomas met his stare head on and remarked, "None!"
"Exactly. . . it seems there is more going on here than meets the eye. Pierson, we have ourselves a case."
~**~~**~
Poking around the house for the next half hour was a useless endeavor. No foreign fingerprints were found anywhere in the house, only full and partial prints belonging to Ms. Praxton.
Deciding to call it a night around 1 a.m, Jack phoned the station to request for a cruiser patrol to be parked outside the crime scene. The Sheriff answered the phone with a drawled out 'hello' to which Jack replied in his usual bureaucratic tone.
"Sheriff. This is Commander Rhodes. 683B Cricket Rd is now an active crime scene pending an investigation into the attempted murder of Silvia Praxton. Put Ms. Praxton in protective custody until I get there."
Leaving the Sheriff stunned, Jack ended the call and paced up the drive to see Thomas leaving the house. Thomas, struggling to juggle the CSI kit and close the door at the same time, threw Jack a desperate look. Jogging up the steps, Jack slipped behind him to assist. He scanned the house one more time and then gripped the doorknob. As he was pulling the door closed, he heard a thump.
And then another one.
Directly above his head.
The thumps seemed to be resonating from the upper level.
Navy SEAL instincts kicking in, Jack flashed Thomas a quick 'stay' signal, eased the door back open and drew his weapon. The Glock slid effortlessly from its holster with little resistance. Flicking the safety off, Jack climbed the stairs with mouse-like silence.
As he reached the top step, the strikes ceased, closing the house in a blanket of dead air.
Lungs contracting.
Heart clambering.
Adrenaline crashed through his veins, a wave of energizing magnitude surging into the very core of his being.
His body preparing for the coming action.
Pace by pace, he measured the placement of each foot with precision as he approached the looming door.
One breath.
Two breaths.
Three.
The fourth breath had Jack face to face with his target.
With one final breath, he drew up his courage and twisted the doorknob open.
It slammed back into the wall with a resonating bang. The light from the hallway highlighted a figure in black. The figure turned at the sound of the door, files flying in the air at the abrupt movement.
"FBI! Hands in the air! Don't move!"
The unSub glanced at his unwavering gun and then at the window.
"Don't," Jack warned.
With lightning speed, the lithe shadow tossed the remaining papers in the air at him and dashed for the window.
Ugh, why do they always run?!
Releasing a growl, Jack holstered his weapon and lunged.
He tackled in a fashion fit for a football field and attempted to capture the daring spirit. An elbow to the jaw and a knee to the groin assailed him. The blow to the head made him see constellations that never existed. The knee to the groin—the knee to the groin didn't hurt.
At first.
Then the pain came rushing in, like the wave of intoxication from back-to-back-to-back shots of whiskey, and then it settled, deep in his soul, expending the life from him, one debilitating wave after another. His breath vanished, sucked out of him into space above.
His vision wavered and a tangle of limbs later, Jack found himself pinned under the shadow. He was pressed into the carpet, arms glued to his sides, completely immobile from his torso down. When the haze circling his mind faded, the Commander stared up into the silhouette above.
Hazel eyes greeted him.
Bewitching.
Calculating.
Familiar.
Jack swore more than he had in his entire life.
Because staring down at him with a cunning smile was the cause of his eternal torment.
"Coldwater," he breathed.
"Hello, Commander."
~**~~**~
A/N
Next Chapter is: Too Cheap To Buy Me Dinner
Blurb:
"Is this really necessary? I mean, handcuffs? Geez, are you going to frisk me next? C'mon Commander, if I wanted to escape, I would have been gone by now."
"Yes. It is necessary. You broke into my crime scene."
"That's funny, I didn't see your name on it." She retorted, a smile hanging from her lips.
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