In Death 11 - Judgment in Death

quickly, before innocent civilians are injured."
    She had a choice to make and made it fast. The weapon seemed to leap in her hand as she fired it, struck the man holding the boy between the eyes. She saw the kid fall, heard with sweet relief his screams of terror and, diving for cover, fired again.
    She rolled under the car, grabbed the boy by the foot, and scraped off a few layers of his skin when she dragged him under. "Stay. Shut up."
    Even as she rolled again to block his body with hers and come out on the other side, she heard the whine of another weapon.
    "Drop it! Drop it, fucker, or what's left of your brains'll be leaking out of your ears."
    Webster, she thought, then came out from under the car like a lightning bolt, hit her target mid-body with a full tackle, and sent him crashing to the street. She lifted his head, bounced it smartly off the pavement, then looked up to see that Webster had the only remaining problem standing, unarmed, with his hands lifted.
    "You trailing me again, Webster?"
    "I needed to talk to you."
    She got to her feet, winced a little, and glanced down to see a long, nasty gash in her knee. "You sure run off at the mouth a lot lately. You got that one?"
    "Yeah." He smiled a little at the sound of sirens. "There's the backup. I took the liberty of calling for some."
    She limped over, picked up weapons, scanning the three unconscious men. Then she went back, crouched, and peered under the car.
    The kid had shut up, she gave him that. And big, fat tears ran down his freckled face. "Come on out. It's okay."
    "I want my mom."
    "Can't blame you. Come on."
    He crab-walked out, swiped his hand under his nose. "I wanna go home."
    "Okay, in a minute. You hurt much?"
    "No." His lip trembled. "Did I wreck my bike?"
    "I don't know. We'll get somebody to look at it for you."
    "I'm not supposed to ride in the street. My mom said."
    "Yeah, well, next time, listen to your mother." She gestured to a uniform the minute the black and white pulled up. "Send somebody after the kid's bike. Give your name to this policeman," she told the boy. "He's going to take you home. If your mom wants to talk to me..."
    She dug in her pockets, mildly surprised when she discovered she'd remembered her cards. "Tell her to call me at this number."
    " 'Kay." He sniffed again, studying her with more interest than fear now. "Are you a policeman, too?"
    "Yeah." She pulled her restraints out of her back pocket. "I'm a policeman, too."
    She rolled the first man over, checked for a pulse, lifted one of his eyelids. She wasn't going to need restraints for this one.
    "You couldn't risk a stun," Webster said from behind her. "You had to take a kill shot to insure the safety of the civilian."
    "I know what I had to do," she said. Bitterly.
    "You'd been slower, less accurate, or if you'd lowered your weapon, that kid wouldn't be going home to his mother."
    "I know that, too. Thanks for the help here."
    He nodded, then stood back and waited while she organized the scene and had one of the uniforms disperse the small crowd that had gathered.
    The MTs rolled up, and right behind them a cab. He saw Peabody leap out, rush to her lieutenant. To his surprise, she shook her head when Eve gestured her aside. What appeared from his viewpoint to be a short, snarly argument took place. In the end, Eve threw up her hands, then hobbled over to one of the MTs to have her leg treated.
    Amused, he wandered up to Peabody. "How'd you manage that?"
    She was surprised to see him, and it showed, but she shrugged. "I threatened her with Roarke."
    "What do you mean?"
    "Reminded her that if she went home without having that gash seen to, he'd be pissed, treat it himself. And pour a pain blocker into her. She hates that."
    "So, he handles her."
    "They handle each other. It works for them."
    "I noticed. Will you give me a minute with her?"
    "It's not up to me." But Peabody walked away to oversee the transportation of the suspects.
    Webster strode over to the medi-van, crouched down, and studied the gash being treated. "Not so bad, but those pants will never be the same."
    "It's a scratch."
    "Got grit in it," the MT stated.
    "Got grit in it," she mimicked and scowled at him as he closed the cut. "I hate you guys."
    "Oh, we know. My partner paid me twenty so I'd treat you instead of him." He finished the job while she sat and stewed, then stepped back. "There now. Want a lollitape?"
    Because her lips quivered she didn't risk cursing him but simply got to her