"Gina Gallo - Night Moves" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gallo Gina)

When Andre got home, the candles were already lit and some smooth sexy jazz was pulsing on the radio. Chantel was waiting for him. He could hear her voice in the bedroom, that deep throaty sound that made him hunger. Slipping out of his coat and shoes, Andre grabbed the wine and headed into the bedroom.

Chantel was naked. Gilded by the candle's glow, her body was a ripe offering of gold and bronze splayed across the bed. Her lush lips were open, moist as bruised berries, and her hooded eyes glinted in the candlelight.

It was something about the candlelight, Andre recalls. The flames reflected in her eyes, just the way they glinted off the muzzle of the gun held by the man who stepped forward. The man who was Andre's brother.

Andre doesn't remember much after that. The candlelight and muzzle fire flashed together - a burst of gold light and white-hot pain as five rounds were pumped into his chest. He recalls Chantel screaming, and thudding footsteps - his own- as he stumbled out of the apartment and down to the lobby.

Now Andre slumps against the wall, sweating profusely.
She must have been raped, he tells us. His brother Aaron always was a no-count jealous fool - begrudged his brother everything he had - even Chantel.

Andre reaches out a clutching hand as his eyes roll in supplication.
"You got to help her, officer. You got to take care of my woman."
But it's all we can do to take care of Andre. The wail of sirens in the distance tells us the ambulance has arrived. But in the projects, paramedics won't enter the premises unless escorted by the police. Since we're the only cops around, we'll have to walk our victim out of the building and across the 200 yards or so to the waiting ambulance rig. Which means negotiating this deadly terrain with a bleeding man while the crowds scream that it's our fault - the police who never show up, never protect the innocent people. Some people think WE shot Andre, and their angry shouts join in the furor.

We're shoved and jostled as we push through, dragging the trembling man with us. Fear pushes up like bile in my throat, a taste as sharp as the smell of Andre's blood. Supporting his lax body, surrounded by the frenzied mobs, there's no easy way to get to our guns if someone makes a move. Nothing to do but push our way through, nothing but prayer and guts to get us out of here.

When a crying woman approaches us, we nearly push past her until Andre cries out. It's Chantel, his lover, he tells us. The woman who owns his heart. Immediately, the crowds part to allow the sobbing woman closer.

"I thought you were dead!" she cries piteously, reaching out to Andre. Chantel hugs him tight, so close we almost don't see her plunge the knife in, pull it up in a quick, vicious thrust, finally stilling the heart that she owned.

"Motherfucker wouldn't die!" she shouts. "Shot five times and he wouldn't die."

A freeze-frame of images follow - the gasping crowd, the repeater blast of smoke and flame as we drop the knife-weilding woman. And then the quick swivel spin - our final move in this deadly scenario- as we level 9 millimeter bores on the advancing mob.

"First one comes closer is dead!" my partner shouts. "We'll put you down like a rabid dog! Anybody here ready to die?"

Smoke and cordite burn my eyes, sweat slicks my back. My finger strokes the trigger, and I wait for any takers.

Copyright 2000 by Gina Gallo