Cavanaugh Judgement. Marie Ferrarella

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СКАЧАТЬ head in acknowledgment.

      She rose to her feet at the same time that Kincannon did.

      And then the commotion erupted so quickly, it took Greer a while to piece it all together later that day.

      One moment, the courtroom was buzzing with the semi-subdued rustle of spectators gathering themselves and their things together in order to leave the premises, the next, terrified screams and cries pierced the air.

      And then there was the sound of a gun being discharged.

      But the tiny half heartbeat in between the two occurrences was what actually counted.

      Greer had immediately glanced away from Kincannon the moment their eyes made contact when the judge dismissed her. Which as it turned out, she later reflected, was exceedingly fortunate for the judge. Because if she hadn’t looked away, she wouldn’t have seen Munro leap up to his feet and simultaneously push the defense table over, sending the table and everything on it crashing to the floor. That created a diversion just long enough for Munro, in his respectable suit, to lunge at the approaching bailiff, drive a fist to the man’s gut and grab the doubled-over bailiff’s weapon.

      “Gun!” Greer yelled and, in what felt like one swift, unending motion, she leaped up onto the witness stand chair where she had just been sitting a second ago, propelled herself onto the judge’s desk and hurled herself into the judge, sending the surprised Kincannon crashing down to the floor behind his desk.

      Scrambling, she was quick to cover his body with her own.

      The desk obstructing her view, Greer heard rather than saw what was going on next. There was the sound of terror, of people yelling and running and ducking for cover. And then there was the sound of a gun being discharged again—one round. Whether the gun belonged to the other bailiff or was the one that Munro had seized from the first bailiff she had no idea.

      At this point, everything was registering somewhere on the outer perimeter of her consciousness.

      What she was acutely aware of was that she was lying spread-eagle over the judge, that he was on his back and she was on his front. And that all the parts that counted were up close and personal.

      The infusion of adrenaline sailing in triple time through her body had her heart racing so hard she was certain that some kind of a record was being set. Greer felt hot and cold and light-headed all at the same time, a reaction definitely not typical of her. She struggled to regain control over herself and her surroundings.

      Her eyes met Kincannon’s. As if suddenly pulled into the belly of an industrial vacuum cleaner, all the noise and chaos surrounding them seemed to have faded into oblivion for just the slightest increment of a second.

      And then she blinked.

      “How long have you been under the illusion that you’re bulletproof, Detective O’Brien?” Kincannon asked her gruffly.

      The question instantly pulled her back into the eye of the courtroom hurricane. “I’m not,” she heard herself answering.

      “Then what are you doing on top of me?”

      “Saving your life, Your Honor,” she snapped.

      Her heart slowed down to a mere double time. There was a criminal to subdue. The thought telegraphed itself through her brain. Greer scrambled up to her feet. As did the judge.

      “Stay down!” she ordered sharply, circumventing his desk.

      Kincannon clearly had no intention of being ordered around or of staying down, cowering behind his desk. His court had just been disrespected. The judge stood directly behind her, his robe billowing out on the sides like some fantasy superhero’s cape.

      “My courtroom,” Kincannon informed her, raising his voice above the din, “my rules.”

      His courtroom, Greer noted as she swiftly scanned the area, taking everything in, was in utter chaos. It was also apparently missing one felon. The second gunshot that had rung out had come from the purloined weapon, and the bullet—whether intentionally or not—had hit the bailiff whose weapon had been stolen by Munro. The latter, on the job all of six months, was on the floor, clutching his shoulder. Blood was seeping out between his fingers.

      Munro was nowhere to be seen.

      Inside a secured courtroom with law enforcement officers throughout the building, Munro had done the impossible. The drug dealer had escaped.

      A glance to the left told her the chief of detectives was missing, as well.

      For one terrifying moment, an utterly unacceptable scenario suggested itself to her, but she dismissed it. Brian Cavanaugh was too much of a policeman to have ever allowed himself to be taken hostage. If Munro had even attempted it, she was certain the dealer would have been lying on the floor in several disjointed pieces.

      The man would have instinctively known that avoiding the chief at all costs was the only way he was going to make it out of the courthouse alive.

      Greer refused to believe that Munro had already gotten out of the building. Not enough time had gone by.

      She ran through the double doors that led out of the courtroom into the hallway. She didn’t have to look over her shoulder to know Kincannon was right behind her. Did the man have a death wish? she wondered, annoyed.

      There was more chaos beyond the leather padded doors. People, fleeing for their lives, were hiding in alcoves, pressed as far against the beige walls as humanly possible in an attempt to avoid the escaping criminal’s attention.

      Damn it, things like this just don’t happen, Greer thought angrily.

      Except that it just had.

      She scanned the hallway again, hoping that she’d missed something. Hoping that Munro was trying to hide in plain sight. But he wasn’t.

      At first glance, it appeared that Eddie Munro had turned out to be far cleverer than she’d initially thought. The drug dealer had managed to disappear.

      She saw the chief. He was standing a few feet away and had taken charge of the bailiffs who had come running in response to the gunshot. On the phone, he’d already put in a call for reinforcements.

      “I want everything shut down,” he ordered the uniformed men and women gathered around him. “Except for my people, nobody leaves, nobody comes in. Understand?”

      Acquiescing murmurs responded to his words.

      He looked at the bailiffs. “I want every courtroom, every office, every closet on every floor gone through.” His penetrating look swept over the collective. “Do it in teams. I don’t want anyone caught off guard. One damn surprise is enough for the day. You—” he singled out the closest bailiff “—call for an ambulance. I want that bailiff who got shot attended to.”

      The man rushed off to place the call. As the other men and women he’d just addressed scattered, Brian turned his attention to Greer. His eyes swept over her, taking full measure. Looking for a wound. Finding none, he still asked, “Are you all right, Greer?”

      Self-conscious at being singled out this way—did he think she couldn’t take care of herself?—Greer dismissed СКАЧАТЬ