Stolen from the Hitman: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance(144)
I’m so far away, so deep in these distant thoughts I have not visited in years, that I have to slam on the brakes to stop the car when it pulls into the nearly-empty parking lot near the entrance to the docks. The sky overhead is getting cloudy and a very light rain starts to drizzle as I catch sight of the police car down the way from me. I hop out of my car and barrel through the rain to tap on the tinted window of the squad car, hoping the cop inside doesn’t think I’m some crazed homeless person trying to start something.
I realize now how ridiculous I must look: eyes wide with panic, my whole body woefully overdressed for the occasion and underdressed for the weather, my feet bare and blue except for the holey hosiery. Slowly, the car window rolls down with a faint buzz, to reveal a middle-aged cop with a shaved head giving me a dubious look.
“Anything the matter, ma’am?” he asks flatly.
“Y-yes, sir,” I begin, my voice wavering. “I think I’m being followed.”
The cop leans out of his window and looks around the empty lot. “By who?”
“Some guys. From… from a warehouse.”
At this, the cop’s attention flicks back to me instantly, his eyes suddenly full of interest.
“Hold on a sec’, miss,” he says. He leans away and says something into a receiver, too low and soft for me to catch the words. Then he gets out of the car to stand up in front of me. He’s barrel-chested and paunchy, with a bit of a beer gut. He glances down and does a double-take at my lack of shoes before fixing me with a raised eyebrow.
“Where are your shoes?”
“I, um, took them off when I was running.” It sounds even stupider out loud.
“You must be freezing. Here, hop in the back,” he offers, opening the car door so I can slip inside. I hesitate at first, but then I slide into the seat to get out of the rain.
He shuts the door and stands outside, speaking quietly into the receiver. Over the gentle patter of the rain I can’t make out a single word. I hope that he’s calling for backup. For several minutes we wait like this, and I surreptitiously take out of my cell phone. It doesn’t look to be damaged or anything, but when it hits me that I totally forgot to record any of the scene I witnessed at the warehouse I want to smack myself in the face.
Maybe I’m not cut out for this investigative journalism thing, after all.
Finally, in the distance, I can hear the growl of engines approaching. I strain my eyes to look out the window and make out the approaching shapes of what looks like a fleet of motorcycles. I wrinkle my nose. That’s weird. Why would the cop call for backup in the form of moto-cops? Where are they going to put the guys when they arrest them?
But as the bikes get closer my heart sinks. These guys aren’t wearing police uniforms. They’re dressed in leather jackets and jeans, and they all look mean as hell. They look like trouble. They pull into the parking lot quickly and hop off their bikes, dusting off their hands as they walk over to the squad car. My heart is racing in my chest at this point. Where is the backup? Where are the other cops? We can’t face these guys without help!
The cop leaning against the car seems unperturbed by the bikers’ arrival, standing nonchalantly with his arms crossed on his chest. I want to bang on the window, tell him to take out his gun or something — anything!
What is he doing?!
“Yo! Caught this one. Held her for ya,” calls out the cop. I look up at the back of his head through the window, unable to process the words he just said. Caught me? Holding me?
“Get any information out of her?” barks one of the bikers walking up. I realize with a jolt that it’s the guy from the warehouse with the blue shirt — the one called Lukas.
“Didn’t ask. Just waited for you guys. Like I was told.”
“Good work,” says another biker. I recognize his voice long before I can make out his face: Leon. The guy in the black shirt who chased me.
The cop is working with these guys. He’s a crooked cop. I’ve been tricked. The realization is coming over me slowly, as it seems just too outlandish to be real. This isn’t happening. It can’t be. This only goes down in the movies, on true-crime shows.
I’m just some puff-piece journalist from the Big Apple — not an undercover detective.
What if they kill me?
“Whatchu want me to do with her?” asks the cop. In a panic, I slide across the seat to the other side and try to open the door, but there’s no way to open it. I’ve never been in the back of a squad car before, but I’m pretty sure he’s got me stuck in here. I pull my legs up to my chest and try to recoil from the scene unfolding outside.