Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

embroiled in what ever’s going on, they don’t even notice. Or maybe they don’t care.
    I park behind the Nova, shut down the engine, and hail Mona. “I’m ten-twenty-three.”
    “What’s going on out there, Chief?”
    “I’d lay odds on a fight.” I’ve just opened my door, when a scream echoes from within the bridge. “Shit,” I mutter. “Is Glock there yet?”
    “Just walked in.”
    “Get him out here, will you?”
    “Ten-four.”
    Racking the mike, I slip out of the car and hit the ground running. Several of the teens look up and scatter as I approach, and I catch a glimpse of two people on the ground, locked in battle. The agitated crowd throbs around them, shouting, egging them on, as if they’ve bet their life savings on some bloody dogfight.
    “Police!” I shout, my boots crisp against the wood planks. “Back off! Break it up! Right now!”
    Faces turn my way. Some are familiar; most are not. I see flashes of surprise in young eyes alight with something a little too close to blood-lust. Cruelty in its most primal form. Pack mentality, I realize, and that disturbs me almost as much as the fight.
    I thrust myself into the crowd, using my forearms to move people aside. “Step away! Now!”
    A teenage boy with slumped shoulders and a raw-looking outbreak of acne on his cheeks glances at me and takes a step back. Another boy is so caught up in the fight, he doesn’t notice my approach and repeatedly jabs the air with his fist, chanting, “Beat that bitch!” A black-haired girl wearing a purple halter top that’s far too small for her bustline lands a kick at one of the fighters. “Break her face, you fuckin’ ho!”
    I elbow past two boys not much bigger than I am, and I get my first unobstructed look at the epicenter of the chaos. Two teenage girls are going at it with the no-holds-barred frenzy of veteran barroom brawlers. Hands grapple with clothes and hair. Nails slash at faces. I hear animalistic grunts, the sound of ripping fabric, and the wet-meat slap of fists connecting with flesh.
    “ Get off me, bitch! ”
    I bend, slam my hands down on the shoulders of the girl on top. “Police,” I say. “Stop fighting.”
    She’s a big-boned girl and outweighs me by about twenty pounds. Moving her is like trying to peel a starving lion off a fresh kill. When she doesn’t acquiesce, I dig my fingers into her collarbone, put some muscle into it, and haul her back. “Stop resisting!”
    “Get off me!” Blinded by rage, the girl tries to shake off my hands. “I’m going to kill this bitch!”
    “Not on my watch.” I put my body weight into the effort and yank her back hard. Her shirt tears beneath my hands. She reels backward and lands on her butt at my feet. She tries to get her legs under her, but I press her down.
    “Calm down.” I give her a shake to let her know I’m serious.
    Ignoring me, she crab-walks forward and lashes out at the other girl with her foot, trying to get in a final kick. I wrap my hands around her bicep and drag her back several feet. “That’s enough! Now cut it out.”
    “She started it!” she screams.
    Concerned that I’m going to lose control of the situation before backup arrives, I point at the most sane-looking bystander I can find, a thin boy wearing a Led Zeppelin T-shirt. “You.”
    He looks over his shoulder. “Me?”
    “I’m not talking to your invisible friend.” I motion to the second fighter, who’s sitting on the ground with her legs splayed in front of her, her hair hanging in her face. “Take her to the other side of the bridge and wait for me.”
    I’m about to yell at him, when a girl with a pierced eyebrow steps forward. “I’ll do it.” Bending, she sets her hands on the other girl’s shoulder. “Hey. Come on.”
    I turn my attention to the girl at my feet. She’s glaring at me with a belligerent expression, breathing as if she’s just come off a triathlon. A drop of mascara-tinged sweat dangles from the tip of her nose and her cheeks glow as if with sunburn. For an instant, I find myself hoping she’ll take her best shot, so I can wipe all that bad attitude off her face. Then I remind myself that teenagers are the only segment of the population entitled to temporary bouts of stupidity.
    “If I were you,” I say quietly, “I’d think real hard about what you do next.”
    I look around, gauging the crowd. They’re still agitated, a little too close for comfort, and restless in a way I don’t like,