Page 93 of Outsider

“Get that shotgun off me,” I snap back.

A thousand thoughts hit my brain at once. Are these men friend or foe? Is this a legitimate raid? Is the warrant official? Sanctioned by a judge? Or is this the scenario Gina warned me about? Is everyone in this house in danger of being gunned down like a herd of deer?

“Where’s Colorosa?” comes a gruff male voice.

I glance right, see a second man approach. Large frame. Moving quickly. Pistol in his hand. Pumped up and high on adrenaline.

“Show me the warrant,” I say. “Show me your IDs.”

They lower their Maglites. I do the same. I can’t stop looking at the shotgun, which is still leveled at my chest. For a moment, the only sound is the rise and fall of our breaths, the drumbeat of my heart against my ribs.

“Somebody turn on a fucking light,” one of the men growls.

There’s no doubt in my mind that Gina heard the commotion. I wonder how she’ll handle this. If she’ll acquiesce. She doesn’t have a firearm; I’ve kept hers unloaded and locked up in the Explorer. Facing two armed men—one of whom is as of yet unidentified—I wonder if that decision was solid.

“There’s a propane lamp in the corner,” I tell them.

“Turn it on. Do it slowly. Don’t do anything stupid.”

The familiarity of the voice clicks, stirs a distant memory. I’ve heard it before. Damon Bertrand, I realize, and a mushroom cloud of fear erupts in my chest.

I go to the lamp, strike a match. I spot my cell on the table next to the sofa, reach for it.

“Put it down,” Bertrand snaps.

“I’m a cop,” I say.

“Now.”

I do as I’m told. Turning my attention back to the lamp, I twist the key to turn on the gas, and set the match to the mantle. The dim glow of light fills the room. I turn to see Damon Bertrand standing a few feet away. Trooper hat. Heavy parka and boots. Blue polymer Glock steady in his hand. He was a detective back when I’d worked for the Columbus Division of Police. I’d only met him a few times. He’s older and heavier, but the same.

Next to him, Ken Mercer stares at me as if I’m some sort of apparition. He was a patrol officer way back when. I went out with him a few times. Slept with him. Looking at him, even now I feel the sharp pang of regret. The shotgun in his hands is trained on me, center mass.

Remembrance glints in his eyes. “It’s been a while,” he says.

My heart pounds pure adrenaline. Fear crawling beneath my skin. I feel my hands and legs shaking. My breaths coming too fast. Muscles jumping. I can’t stop thinking about Adam and the children upstairs. I know he’s awake by now. I don’t dare look in that direction.

“Get that shotgun off me,” I snarl. “What’s this about?”

“We’ve got a warrant for Gina Colorosa,” Bertrand tells me. “Where is she?”

“She’s in my custody,” I tell him.

The two men exchange glances; then Mercer turns away and enters the hall. I hear his booted feet against the floor, heavy stride, opening doors. The bathroom. The sewing room. At any moment, I fear I’m going to hear a gunshot or else he’s about to drag Gina out here.

“This would have been a lot easier if you’d just called my office,” I say to Bertrand.

“Apparently, there’s some question about your loyalties.”

“You got your information wrong.”

Never taking his eyes from mine, Bertrand steps past me and picks up my cell. He drops it to the floor, watches it bounce once, then crushes it beneath his boot.

I don’t react. “You guys are a long way from home.”

“So is Colorosa,” he says.

“I need to see that warrant,” I tell him.