Overkill (3 page)

“Promudobliadskaja pizdoprojebina.”
Fucking bitch.

“She will pay. I will make her my
shestiorka
,” Radimir promised. “And then I will put a bullet in her brain.”

“Kill her in my name, my brother. For I am already dead.”

Radimir wanted to tell him that was not the case. But they’d always been straight with each other. He knew unless his brother found an ally in prison—or joined one of the many gangs—he would most likely never see the end of his sixteen-year sentence. The most he could do was assure him that his death would be avenged.

Radimir picked up his cell phone and wallet at the security window and dialed the number on the way to his car. “Pack your bags,” he said when the familiar voice answered. “We have some killing to do.”

TWO

The moan of the prairie wind had to be the loneliest
sound on earth. At least in Chicago the hiss of traffic, the din of arguing neighbors and barking dogs reassured Marty that she wasn’t the last person alive.

She lay on the lumpy, twin-size mattress and tried not to think of the state of her life or the downward spiral of her career. She tried not to think of tomorrow, her first day on the job, or that she simply didn’t have the energy to muster any enthusiasm.

“Hogan, you are frickin’ pathetic.”

Sitting up, she threw her legs over the side of the bed and put her face in her hands. She rubbed her eyes, almost wishing she could cry just to get the feeling of sand out of them. The alarm on the nightstand mocked her, telling her Father Time didn’t give a damn that she wasn’t going to get any sleep again tonight. Three A.M. and going strong. Like the Energizer Bunny on speed.

Rising, Marty padded to the kitchen. She hadn’t made it to the grocery. Hadn’t bothered with dinner. But she had brought with her from Chicago the one thing that might get her through the night.

Standing on her tiptoes, she reached into the cabinet above the refrigerator and pulled out the bottle. At the sink, she found the drinking glass she’d turned upside down earlier, and she carried both to the table. Sitting, she broke the seal and poured.

She knew drinking straight vodka at three o’clock in the morning was not the answer to her problems. In fact, Marty was smart enough to know that alcohol, no matter how carefully or therapeutically administered, would only make everything worse. Just ask her father, who’d been a functioning alcoholic—and drank himself to an early grave.

If only she could turn off her mind . . .

“Here’s to you, Dad.” Marty drank the vodka straight down. She was in the process of pouring another when the wall phone trilled loud enough to make her jump. The first thought that popped into her mind was that one of her cop buddies from Chicago had been hurt on the job. Nothing good ever came from middle-of-the-night calls.

She snatched up the phone on the second ring. “Hogan,” she snapped.

No response came, but she heard the hiss of an open line. Holding the phone snug against her ear, she listened, certain the caller was still there. She could hear the faint whisper of his breathing and some background noise she couldn’t identify.

“Is someone there?”

The instant the words were out, Marty knew they were a mistake. It had been a while since she’d received a late-night call from her underground fan club. Had some fruit-cake tracked her all the way from Chicago to Caprock Canyon? Or had some local passerby seen her lights on and decided to call the infamous Marty Hogan for a little late-night entertainment?

“Wrong number, asshole.” Shaking her head in disgust, Marty hung up with a tad too much force and went back to her vodka, the tumult of her thoughts, and the incessant cry of the midnight wind.

 
“Watch this.”

“Holy crap! She freaking
tased
him, man. He’s goin’ down!”

Marty stood in the hall between the reception area and the break room of the police station and tried not to panic. She couldn’t believe her soon-to-be coworkers had recorded the worst moment of her life and were now watching it as if it were some raunchy and hilarious sitcom.

Break out the popcorn, everyone. Now showing,
Jackass Meets COPS
, starring the one and only Marty Hogan.

How the hell was she supposed to handle this?

Someone hooted like the Hollywood version of an Indian on some hokey late-night Western. “Look at that! She knocked that dumb ass for loop, didn’t she?”

“Hell of a right hook on her, that’s for sure.”

“She ain’t that big. Look. The poor idiot’s trying to defend himself. Bam! He gets a right in the chin for his trouble.”

“I read somewhere that she broke her hand. Crazy bitch.”

“Don’t mess with frickin’ Hogan, man. She’ll Rodney King your ass.” This followed by a whistle.

“I heard she put him in the hospital.”

“Fucker deserved it. Killed a little kid.”

The break room atmosphere sobered at the mention of the real victim, but within seconds the colorful commentary resumed. “Look at her go! She’s wailing away on that guy like freakin’ Mike Tyson!”

“Blammo! Pow! Duck, you dipshit! Oh, you can’t. Your hands are cuffed.”

Another round of raucous laughter erupted.

Backing more deeply into the hall, Marty stood there with her back against the wall and tried to decide the best course of action. An experienced police officer herself, she knew many cops tended to be politically incorrect with regard to humor. They saw too much, too often, and they became immune to the things that would send your everyday Joe Blow running to his mommy.

Marty herself had partaken in her fair share of bad behavior. But to hear coworkers she had yet to meet hooting it up at her expense was like a sucker punch to the solar plexus. They were ridiculing her. Laughing at her. Making fun of her when she’d been at her lowest, caught up in a moment that would haunt her the rest of her life.

She couldn’t let this stand. Unless she wanted to spend her tenure here in Caprock Canyon on the receiving end of cruel comments and back-room jokes, Marty was going to have to put a stop to this before things got to that point.

She knew how to look out for herself; she’d done so many times over the years, facing down far worse characters than these milk-fed farm boys. Still, the thought of confronting three men she didn’t know—cops she would soon be working with—thoroughly unnerved her. But what was the alternative? Sit back and let them ruin any chance of peace she might find here?

Her heart pounded like a piston in her chest as she started toward the break room. Acid churned in her stomach when she stepped inside. Three sets of male eyes swung around to face her, widening as if she were some South Side Uzi-toting gangsta. For the span of several seconds no one moved. No one spoke. Except for the hard pound of her heart, you could have heard a pin drop.

Marty’s legs shook as she crossed to the coffee station, but her hand was steady as she reached for the carafe and poured. Behind her, she sensed her counterparts signing messages to one another, trying to figure out how to handle their gargantuan faux pas. Six months ago she would have been pissed off, but mildly amused, and would have shot off some remark that might have cut just as deep.

This afternoon she felt humiliated and quietly enraged, with no outlet for either emotion.

“You must be Officer Hogan.”

She forced herself to take a sip of coffee before turning to face the man with the tenor voice. He looked end-of-shift worn, still wearing the navy departmental uniform. She guessed him to be twenty-five years old. Muscle just starting to turn to fat. She guessed he was married. Too well fed to be single. He was just starting his life. Maybe a kid on the way or a little one at home. His wife wore the pants. A fact he tried hard to hide from his cop pals, but never quite managed.

Marty looked into his eyes and took another sip of coffee. “You should be a detective.” She tapped the name tag pinned to her breast. “Your powers of deduction are pretty goddamn amazing.”

He held on to his smile, but some of the I-wasn’t-part-of-that facade slipped. “Hey, I’m just trying to be friendly.”

“Yeah, that was some real friendly commentary I heard when I walked in. I especially liked the part about crazy bitch. Was that you?”

“No.”

“You sure about that?”

“We were just goofing off. No harm done, okay?”

Marty was an expert on harm. She knew she should let this go. But her temper was like a wild beast, teased by a cruel master and straining against its chains. She let her eyes skim the other men, both of whom were watching the exchange with unconcealed anticipation. Everyone loved a good knock-down drag-out, especially a bunch of bored cops. “Anyone got the balls to fess up to the crazy bitch line?”

“Come on, we were just kidding around.”

Marty smiled, praying her lips didn’t tremble. “Don’t worry. I promise not to use my right hook. Look, I don’t even have my Taser on me.”

A buff young officer put his hands on his hips. “It was me. But like Dugan said, we were just messing around.”

She looked at his name tag. Jett. “Next time you have something you want to say to me,
Jett
, you can say it to my face.” She scanned the other men. “That goes for all of you.”

Jett’s cheeks reddened. His eyes flicked to the other men and Marty knew this was no longer about her; it had suddenly become a matter of pride. Jett’s pride. And she knew he wouldn’t back down in front of his cohorts. “Look, I said I was sorry.”

“No, you didn’t.”

His cheek twitched. “We tried to apologize. If you’re not going to accept that, fine. But we don’t need you walking in here like you’re some kind of pseudo-celebrity and breaking our balls.”

“I didn’t realize anyone in this room
had
any balls.”

Smiles fell. Booted feet shuffled. Tension sucked the air out of the room, like in the seconds before an explosion. A thin man with a pasty complexion, pockmarks and blue black hair stepped forward. His name tag told her he was Smitty. “You think that little video clip and your big city credentials give you license to strut in here and cut us down?” He motioned toward the small television where the worst moment of her life had been played out just minutes before. “Let me tell you. It makes me sick to watch it. Makes me ashamed to be a cop.”

Marty looked him up and down. “Makes me ashamed you’re a cop, too.”

If she was good at anything, it was finding people’s hot buttons and pushing them. Smitty hadn’t been too hard to figure out. One-up him in front of his cop buddies and he was frothing at the mouth. She knew the type. Hell, she’d
been
the type once upon a time.

Marty could feel her temper winding up, a jet engine barreling down the runway, seconds before takeoff. In the eight years she’d been a cop—and aside from
The Incident
six months ago—she’d never gotten into a physical confrontation with a fellow officer. But this snot-nosed, wet-behind-the-ears little shit didn’t realize he was walking a minefield.

“You know what you are?” he snarled. “You’re a fucking disgrace. The only reason you’re not in jail right now is because you’re a woman.”

Marty didn’t defend herself. She’d tried too many times and it never worked. Instead, she stood there and watched the sweat bead on his forehead, and she found herself wishing he’d take a shot at her so she could punch him between the eyes.

“You
tased
the guy,” he said. “You cuffed him. When he was down you beat the shit out of him. Don’t walk in here like you’re some kind of high and mighty robocop and—”

Marty wasn’t sure who moved first, but the next thing she knew she had her forearm against his chest and was shoving him against the wall. She gave him points for not fighting back. For not doing what he wanted to do and punch her lights out. Had she been in his shoes, she probably would have. He might be a smart-assed idiot, but his mother had taught him well.

“You weren’t there,” she snarled. “You don’t know what went down.”

“You think you’re the only cop who ever had to face something tough?” He shoved her back hard enough to make her stumble. “Get over yourself.”

Vaguely, Marty was aware of another officer putting his hand on her shoulder. “Come on, Hogan. We were just goofing. Let it go.”

But it was too late. The fury that had been boiling inside her for so many months gripped her with such ferocity that for a moment her vision went black and white, tunneling on the other man’s face. She could feel her heart rate jacking into the red zone. Every muscle in her body going rock hard. Adrenaline running like acid through her veins.

She lunged at him. The hand that had been placed so gently on her shoulder scraped down her back. Her mind’s eye blinded her with images from that day. The sight of the girl lying in a pool of blood on the backseat of the car. The blowback from a horrific head wound sprayed on the window like red paint. Marty had forgotten who she was and went after the killer with everything she had. Now she was taking that pent-up rage out on this bozo and would probably pay another hefty price.

At the moment, she didn’t care.

Clay Settlemeyer’s voice cut through the fog of rage like a gunshot. Marty had drawn back to hit Smitty. The realization of what she was about to do jolted her, and she froze. Abruptly, she was aware of strong hands digging into her arms, pulling her back. A soft male voice telling her to take it easy. Let it go. Cool down.

Glancing over, she realized one of the other officers had grasped her arm and was hauling her back. He talked to her as if she were some nutcase wrapped in a straitjacket about to hurl herself off a bridge.

It wasn’t too far from the truth.

“In my office.” Settlemeyer stepped between her and Smitty and motioned angrily toward the door. “
Now!
”

Marty shook off hands that were reluctant to release her and struggled to pull herself together. She could hear her breaths rushing from between clenched teeth. Her pulse hammered like fists inside her head and against her ribs. Without looking at either man, she brushed past them and strode into the office.

“Sit the hell down.”

She turned to see Settlemeyer and Smitty enter the room. It didn’t elude her that both men watched her the way an animal trainer might watch a lion that had just mauled its handler.

She was too keyed up to sit; her heart rate was still in the red zone. But one look at the chief’s face and she knew it wasn’t a request.

Taking the farthest chair, she fixed her eyes on the floor at her feet. Next to her, Smitty plopped into the chair and proceeded to squirm like a recalcitrant teenager in the throes of being grounded.