Rain Shadow(5)

“Stay where you are, Barringer.” Carson’s command sliced through the speaker. “I don’t need two men down.”

The woman screamed again. Then another sound followed that was tiny at first but then grew in intensity . . . and impact. Not much shocked us. We’d been on enough raids to expect anything, but a collective gasp rolled around the yard when a baby, not more than two years old, waddled through the splintered doorway. Dazed and confused as if he’d just woken from a nap, the toddler wandered aimlessly toward the yard, clutching a bottle and wearing only a loose-fitting diaper.

“Hold your fire,” Carson commanded unnecessarily.

Unfortunately, the assholes inside were not under Carson’s command. Shots rang out again. The baby startled and fell forward. The woman’s terrified screams were loud enough to be heard over the gunfire. Four squad cars came to a screeching stop along the street, and the red light of an ambulance loomed in the distance.

Increased manpower was going to push the suspects even further past the point of reason. Every muscle in my body tensed as I watched the baby push to his feet again, his wails now mingling with his mother’s screams.

“God dammit, Luke, stand down,” Carson always switched to my first name when he was pissed. And ignoring his orders was going to piss him off plenty. I slid my submachine gun across to Dex and hopped over the short wall. Bullets whizzed past my head. The heavy vest slowed my motion, and the distance between the baby and me seemed to stretch as I scrambled across the brittle front lawn. The baby’s eyes opened wide, and he fell back on his bottom just as my arms reached out and grabbed hold of him. With the toddler tucked securely inside my arms, I continued on the same trajectory across the grass. The men inside followed my path across the yard with their guns. I ducked behind the wall on the opposite side.

An officer squatted down and ran toward me. She grabbed hold of the infant and scurried back toward the squad car. Another round of bullets showered the front yard. I peered over the wall and across the lawn. My UMP40 was still in Dex’s care.

I pulled my Glock from my holster. Carson cast an angry scowl over his shoulder as I moved into position next to him. The woman’s screams had subsided. There was no telling what was happening inside the bullet riddled walls of the house. For a brief moment, the normal sounds of the neighborhood returned. Birds twittered on the electrical lines stretching overhead, and from behind fences and gates, dogs barked angrily at the uniformed strangers now filling the street.

Just as Carson signaled us to move in on the house, a large, unarmed male stumbled out onto the small front stoop. His steps were as wobbly as the baby’s, and he scratched himself as if parasites were swarming beneath his skin. Coke bugs, the delusional nightmare that critters were crawling under your skin was one of the scarier side effects of crack. His red face twisted, and his eyes rolled back in his head. He dropped to the ground, convulsing and writhing in pain. Carson lifted his hand for us to stay put and then a second figure burst from the house. It was the woman. She cried out and dropped to her knees next to the man. His seizure had stopped. In fact, he had stopped moving altogether. His skin began to take on the clammy glow of death.



As the woman lifted her face, it became clear that she was more a girl than a woman, not more than sixteen. A hard life and a lot of hits on a crack pipe could blur the lines of age. “Where’s my baby?” she asked weakly.

Carson moved toward her, his gun still aimed at the suspect on the ground. “Put your hands behind your head.” The rest of us kept our weapons aimed at the house.

She lifted her shaky arms and pressed her hands behind her head. Tears left clean streaks of pink on her cheeks as she stared up at Carson with round eyes. A large bruise stained one side of her face. “Where’s my baby?”

“Your baby is safe. Who else is inside?”

“Just one other guy.” She pointed to the body on the ground. “His brother. He’s been shot.”

Carson motioned down at the body. “Who is this?”

She sobbed once. “My boyfriend. He took a lot of hits of crack and then he just started acting crazy, started attacking his brother. I think the stuff was bad.”

The man’s contorted expression had smoothed and his color was draining away. “Good call, I’d say,” Carson said.

The medics had reached Dex, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw him being led down the sidewalk to the ambulance. He always complained about wearing the unwieldy vest, but today it had saved his life, and I was fucking thankful.

Three of us moved cautiously toward the shredded front door. The girl had no reason to lie at this point. She was in trouble either way, and she’d most likely lose her baby for awhile as well. There was a stained futon and table in the front room. The table was littered with pipes, lighters and several rocks of crack.