The Accomplice

Book 1: Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson Presents

by Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson

Genres: African American Mystery & Detective; Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

The New York Times bestselling multitalented artist makes his fiction debut with this electrifying novel—The Accomplice combines the imaginative page-turning suspense of S. A. Cosby’s novels with the high-tension thrills of the Netflix blockbuster series Money Heist.

In The Accomplice, Curtis "50 Cent" Jackson introduces readers to New York-born and Texas-bred Nia Turner, who always dreamt of becoming a Texas Ranger. She knows the dangers of the job, and as the first Black female ranger, she knows the politics, but she’s never encountered a criminal like Desmond Bell. A Vietnam vet turned thief, Desmond steals more than money; he steals the secrets of the rich and powerful and blackmails them for millions. When Desmond steals from the Duchamps, the wealthiest family in the country, Nia’s investigation into the robbery threatens to expose him and the criminal enterprise he works for. As the bodies pile up, Nia digs deeper for the truth, putting her life and career in danger. It’s a deadly cat-and-mouse game between ranger and thief, but to protect their family’s secrets, the Duchamps won’t hesitate to kill them both.

Release date: September 3, 2024

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 272

Sample

Prelude
Nia

Palestine, Texas

2023

Nia Adams doesn’t have a green thumb but waters her garden diligently, cares for the soil, tends to the flowers, and tames the weeds. Her favorite perennial is the Lupinus texensis, the Texas bluebonnet. The bright blue petals are the showpiece of her front yard. The flowers thrive on full sunlight and damp soil and are resilient during dry spells. Like Nia, they’re survivors.

The midday sun warms Nia’s skin as she pulls the last dandelions. She’s worked up a sweat and welcomes the cool breeze that sets in. It shakes the leaves of the Mexican white oaks that shade her front yard. The sound of the air lashing the leaves makes her feel at home—makes her feel safe. She’s approaching seventy, an age when a misstep can mean catastrophe: broken hip, snapped ankle, injured spine . . . She thinks a dog might be a nice companion, though she dreads the responsibility of cleaning, bathing, and walking a dog. But dogs make good deterrents against hot prowlers who target single women, looking for easy scores.

Maybe one day, she thinks, a dog might aid her—once her hearing fades. But, for now, her senses remain sharp. She hears the chortle of the white four-door diesel pickup truck before seeing it barrel up the road toward her property. Visitors are rare, especially these days, but the vehicle moves at a deliberate pace.

She places the bundle of weeds into a small trash bag, removes her yard gloves, and steps out of the flower bed into the driveway. She sets off down her driveway with her .22-caliber Ruger in the right pocket of her soiled cargo pants. As the truck closes in, she pulls the weapon, brandishes it for the driver to see, and stands calmly. Cop habits die hard.

Nia likes to think she’s still intimidating without the badge. She’s lost half an inch in height since her days as a Texas Ranger. She was already petite, and then age set in. A chatty date suggested she’d look fifty if she dyed her graying hair. But age doesn’t matter to Nia—it means she’s lived a life. She’s got scars and stories to go with them.

The truck comes to a stop. Nia stands firm. A white man in a cowboy hat is behind the wheel. He looks young, but she couldn’t guess how old. A dusty windshield can soften features. She recognizes the woman in the passenger seat as Texas Ranger Brianna Castro.

Nia doesn’t lower the gun.

Brianna gets out of the truck. She’s older than the last time Nia saw her—heavier, slower. Still pageant-pretty, though.

“What’s with the sidearm, Adams?” Brianna asks.

“You just happen to be in the neighborhood?”

“Well, howdy to you, too, ma’am,” the man says. “We don’t mean to intrude.”

Nia can see him better outside of the truck. He’s got a hardened face—pockmarked, as though he’s spent years shaving with dull razors. Ex-military, Nia thinks.

“She isn’t intruding. Castro’s always welcome here,” Nia says, dropping the weapon to her side. “But I don’t know who the hell you are.”

“William Ray Boyd. Texas Ranger.”

Boyd has a Down South twang, but he isn’t a native Texan, just desperate to look like one. His gaudy belt buckle gleams. He probably polishes it daily.

“Boyd’s my

partner, Adams,” Brianna says.

“For how long?”

“Ten years now.”

“Ten years,” Nia says. “I guess it has been a while.”

“Castro’s told me a lot about you,” he says.

“She tell you why it took so long for her to see me?”

“I told him the truth,” Brianna says. “You taught me everything worth learning. Helped me see things clearer. I’m hoping you can help me again.”

Brianna still looks as if she lifts sandbags for fun. A man’s sports coat hangs over her broad shoulders. Her attire is typical of a Ranger: a white oxford, basic tie, tan Ranger hat with matching pants, medium starch, and a pair of cowboy boots—short heels, rubber soles—brown. Always brown.

“I suppose any visit is better than no visit.” Nia smiles. “We’re good, Castro.”

“Good enough for you to put that gun away?”

Nia puts the pistol back in her pocket but keeps her hands near her waist. Cop habits and all, or life in Texas. She isn’t sure which.

“You two staying for supper?”

“I’m afraid this isn’t a social call. We’re here about a case.”

“Desmond Bell,” Boyd says. “Suspected of a string of robberies back in the 1990s. His last score might’ve been in 2004.”

Nia hasn’t heard the name spoken aloud for decades. It exists in her head, rattling and working her nerves, sometimes all night.

“What can you tell us about him?” Boyd asks.

“Come on in. I’ll put some coffee on.”

Nia leads the Rangers into her home. It’s modest and comfortable, and it feels like a bed-and-breakfast, even to her. There’s floral wallpaper, hardwood floors, and exposed brick. She hasn’t had people over in years, but she tries to keep things tidy, aside from the dusty piano. Dust doesn’t bother her the way it used to. Besides, Castro knows her too well to be bothered by Nia’s poor housekeeping; as she said, this isn’t a social call.

Nia scoops coffee from a tin can into unbleached filter paper. She turns on the coffee maker and returns to the living room, where the Rangers wait on the sofa.

She sits in a burgundy leather recliner. Her hand trembles. Must be nerves, she thinks.

Boyd looks uncomfortable. Nia wonders how often he visits Black folk’s homes. He eyes an Annie Lee painting that hangs over her fireplace. The colors span a brown palette: rich, bold, and earthy. Children jump double Dutch in front of brownstone stoops, just Black people existing. It’s idyllic; reminds Nia of Queens, New York, where she grew up. She hopes heaven is as magnificent as the painting . . . if she gets there.

“It’s titled Juneteenth,” she says. “Black Americana, according to the

world.”

“Yes,” Boyd says. “It’s nice—real nice. But most art I see is.”

“It is,” Nia says, affirming Boyd’s humble assessment of the work. He doesn’t know shit about art, and he owns his ignorance. Most people work hard to sound smart, which annoys Nia.

“Do you remember the robbery at Colonial Trust?” Brianna asks. “2004.”

Nia nods. “Of course I do.”

“It’s happened again,” she says. “Not the same MO, but something about it feels similar to the Bell job.”

“What’s that mean? No—never mind. Spare me the details.” She rebuffs her question with the wave of her hand. “I don’t want to know anything about it. I’m past all that now.”

“Bell was never apprehended, was he?” Boyd asks.

“You know he wasn’t,” Nia says, failing to keep quiet. “But even if he were alive, which I doubt, he’d have to be over seventy. Y’all see many septuagenarians pulling off heists these days?”

“We’re only asking for your insights,” he says, opening his briefcase. “Maybe take a look at the case file . . .”

“Don’t,” Nia says sternly. “Don’t you dare open that damn case. I said I’m not interested.”

“You’d be helping us a great deal.”

“You don’t get it . . . Take my advice. Leave it be. Whatever it is, it’s bigger than you think, and believe me, you don’t want any part of it. It’ll ruin you. Same as it did me.”

“Please, Adams.” Brianna brings her hands together. She looks as though she wants to beg. Nia hopes she doesn’t.

The coffee maker clicks.

Nia sniffs the aroma. It smells like the Ranger’s station and the Houston Police Department precinct before that. “Coffee’s ready,” she says. “All I got is sugar.”

“Sure,” Brianna says. “Sugar’s fine.”

There’s a tingle in Nia’s chest. Starts small but grows and pulses. She can’t get up from the chair. She can’t move her arms. Legs, either. She’s not even sure she feels them.

It’s a goddamn heart attack or stroke, she thinks.

“Adams?” Brianna asks. “You all right?”

Nia can’t speak. Half her body feels numb.

She slumps and can’t see straight. Desmond Bell—she never wanted to die with him on her mind . . .

That son of a bitch . . .

Wherever you are, I hope you’re rotting.

Chapter One
Nia

Houston, Texas

2004

The radio cackles. 10–35. Robbery is in progress. Central Bank of Texas. 1100 Main Street.

Nia hates these calls. They never go well. She’s intercepted nine active robberies in her six-year career as a Texas Ranger, and she knows two things: suspects don’t surrender willingly, and there will be casualties. Sometimes, hostages. Other times, law enforcement. Usually, suspects.

Five minutes away.

Nia can see the bank in the distance. A Houston PD helicopter is already hovering.

Sirens wail. Lights flash. She drives the Blazer eighty miles per hour down Main Street. Abandoned cars line the shoulder. Local police have cleared a path. There are no civilians in sight. A Suburban carrying members of the Special Response Team follows behind Nia’s Blazer. Some of them have been waiting for this, itching for it—it’s the ticket to the show.

Downtown is the city’s epicenter, its heartbeat: energy companies, law firms, airline headquarters, St. John’s Downtown Church, Sam Houston Park, and banks—lots of banks. The city has approximately 150, with more than two thousand branches. As in most cities, the largest branches are downtown and usually hold the most money. Central Bank of Texas is no different.

The city has had twenty-two armed bank robberies in the past three months. Many suspects are serial offenders, hitting more than one branch in a day. Budget cuts have decimated the Houston PD. They’re low on resources and officers. They use the FBI to augment investigations involving major crimes—armed robberies, hostage situations, and terrorism. The FBI uses the Special Response Team as first contact because the SRT officers mobilize more quickly, know the area better, and typically are native Texans.

Nia wasn’t born in Texas but considers it her adopted home. She knows its culture and people—and wants to protect it. That’s what she told background investigators during her vetting process, but it isn’t the only reason she became a Ranger. There’s never just one reason anyone does anything.

The Blazer stops hard behind a police barricade. Nia glances at the Suburban in the rearview. It comes in hot and squeals out of sight. Her squad leader, Ranger Josiah Powers, is driving. He knows how to make a show of it.

Houston PD has done what it can. Cleared out the civilians. A half dozen squad cars are lined up. Plenty of blue suits are in position with guns drawn.

Members of the SRT fan out of the Suburban. Tactical vests over oxfords and ties. Six men: three Army veterans turned Rangers, one highway patrolman, and two DPS Special Agents from the Department of Public Safety’s Criminal Investigations Division.

Nia’s the seventh member of the squad. When they’re jelled and working like

 a machine, she swears they can read each other’s thoughts; it feels biblical. She’d never say they were of one accord, like the Babylonians, but something close to it. She tells herself that police work is God’s work. The tattoo on her right shoulder reads: Blessed are the peacemakers. But there’s a price for peace; it’s paid in blood. Nia knows this—the squad knows this.

“We’ll need to get set up here,” Powers says. “Who do you think is in charge?”

“Check your six,” Nia says. “Tan coat.”

“Copy.” Powers chews bubble gum like cud. It annoys Nia, but it’s his thing. Says it keeps him sharp. She watches as he canvasses the crowd of blue suits. He’s a big man who knows how to throw his weight around. Other cops don’t look him in the eye. He plucks a tall man from the crowd. He’s white with shaggy gray hair, wearing a Perry Mason trench coat. A pair of binoculars around his neck.

Trench Coat and Powers briefly converse, then the man in the coat walks over to Nia.

“Adams,” he says. “Always good to see you. Wish it was under better circumstances.”

“Likewise, Sergeant Keeler.”

“I hate that you had to come down here,” he says. “I’m not sure who called you, but we’ve got it covered.”

“You know who called us.”

Keeler draws in his cheeks and gulps air like a fish. “You know it’s bullshit, don’t you?”

“You rather the feds were here?”

“She’s got it out for our department. Thinks we can’t handle it.”

“The mayor just wants a peaceful end to this. We’ve been working these robberies north to south. We’re keyed in.”

“So who’s behind them?”

“We think it’s a gang. Fairly organized. Aside from robbing banks, they’re running guns and drugs. Cocaine. Heroin. Got a pipeline into California, Chicago, Detroit, even Mexico.”

“Cartel suppliers?”

“Balls aren’t that big yet. They’re working on it, though.”

“Not if we end it today,” Keeler says.

“That’s the plan. You establish contact?”

“Tried to. They won’t pick up.”

“Any idea how many suspects are inside?”

“One of my guys thinks he saw three. Another says four. Can’t be sure.”

“Hostages?”

“Take a look,” he says, handing her the binoculars. “Midday crowd. I estimate fifteen to twenty.”

Nia brings the binoculars to her eyes and scans the bank. “Looks like they’re corralled on the east wall.”

She gives Keeler back the binoculars; he loses the stale face. “Still can’t get used to it,” he says.

“What’s that?”

“The hat. The boots. The whole getup . . . You mean to tell me you don’t miss HPD?”

“Of course I do,” Nia says. “Needed a change, that’s all.”

“Yeah, but the Rangers? It’s not the same. We had a place for you.”

“Adams! We got movement on the second floor,” Powers shouts from the line. “Look alive!”

A second-floor window shatters. Glass rains on the street. A long barrel appears.

“Gun!” Nia and Keeler take cover behind the Blazer.

Pop . . . Pop . . . Pop . . . Pop . . .

“You get a look at it?” Keeler’s huffing; he’s out of shape. “What’s he packing?”

“Semiautomatic. Military-grade assault rifle.” Nia peeks from around the taillight and looks up at the window. “Shit. Here we go!”

A fusillade of bullets sprays onto the police cars. The bullets cut into metal and glass. Officers shout, voices taut with panic. Keeler radios for backup. He’s talking fast, still out of breath. It sounds like gibberish.

They’re outgunned. Nia watches an officer go down. More casualties follow. They’re dropping fast, Nia thinks. An officer’s rear cranium pops. She’d swear the detonation came from inside his skull. Other officers limp to safety, along with two of her team members, Powers and Cooper.

“Dammit,” Keeler says. “They’ve got us pinned down.”

The suspects have the high ground. Assault weapons. Maybe body armor. Firepower seems endless. It’s a disaster—a failure in command.

“Please tell me SWAT is en route,” Nia says.

“Ten minutes.”

The windows of the SRT’s Suburban are blown out. Cars are riddled with bullets, gaping smoking holes. Nia smells gasoline. “We need to move,” she says.

Some officers hunker behind an industrial work truck. Big tires. Lots of metal. Lots of open spaces, too. Not ideal cover, but there aren’t many options.

“You think we can make it?” Keeler asks.

“What?”

“The CenterPoint Energy truck,” he says. “It’s our best chance.”

“You go,” Nia says. “I’ll cover you.”

Keeler nods. He comes off his knees. Fixes his body like a sprinter—head straight, right leg back, chest square. He eyes the work truck. “Say when.”

There’s a lull in gunfire. She looks up at the window. Suspects must be reloading.

“Go!” Nia aims her Colt M1911 and fires. Keeler makes his move: he stays low and runs at a slight diagonal. “Get there,” Nia mumbles. “Get there.”

Keeler is struck down less than a foot from the truck. The impact propels him forward. His body strikes the pavement, arms outstretched and motionless. Seconds later, blood pools from his pelvis and abdomen.

“Shit,” she says. He’d once been her commanding officer during her time in Vice. He was a good man. Fair and honest. Never tried to grab her ass. Never called her out of her name. There will be time to mourn later. Right now, she needs to stay alive and put an end to the bank assault. Nia radios her team: “Status?”

“Cortez and Jimenez are down,” Powers says. “Cooper’s injured.” He sounds winded; words come out as fragments. “Browning and Navarro . . .” He tries to gather himself. “I saw them get hit, Adams. Nothing I could do.”

“Are you okay?”

“Grazed. Nothing critical.”

“I’m going in,” she says.

“No,” Powers says. “We hold until SWAT arrives.”

“We won’t make it that long.”

Everything that was once apt cover is splintered metal and crumbling cement. The suspects have turned the block into a war zone. Hundreds of bullets have pierced vehicles, store walls, and windows. The air is saturated with cordite.

The HPD helicopter circles and then hovers closer to the building. It retreats when it takes gunfire. There are no eyes on them. No one knows their location for certain. When SWAT arrives, they’ll be overwhelmed by gunfire. They won’t be ready. Their best approach will be gaining access from the bank’s roof, a tactical nightmare. It’ll take air support and coordination.

There isn’t much time for that.

“I won’t die here,” she says. “I’m going in.”

“Don’t be stupid, Adams.”

“You coming with me or not?”

Powers is silent, just heavy breathing over the radio.

“Powers?” Nia asks.

“Goddammit,” he says. “What’s the plan?”

“I’ll use the Blazer to gain entry into the bank,” she says. “We mobilize and take cover. Then make our way through.”

The day Nia was sworn in as a police officer, she understood the job increased her likelihood of death. Not an ordinary death, but a violent one. She revered that part of the profession, but human nature demands self-preservation. There’s a desire to live, to thrive. She can’t think about that now, though. If she is to die, she’ll at least put a few bullets into the people responsible for the carnage perpetrated on the city.

Nia moves around the Blazer, opens the driver-side rear door, and climbs across the back seat. Bits of glass press into her knees and shins. She takes hold of her tactical rifle, along with additional magazines. She tosses the gun into the passenger seat, then pitches her body forward until she can squeeze behind the wheel. She belts in and starts the Blazer. The engine grumbles. Nia shifts into drive and then mashes the pedal, sending the Blazer through the wooden barricade. It travels across a strip of green and banks into the street. Bullets enter through the roof, burning holes into the cloth seats. Pedal to the floor, the Blazer smashes through the bank’s window and stops short of demolishing the teller’s station.

Smoke pours from the engine bay and fills the cabin. Nia’s hat is lost in the wreckage. She feels a gash along her forehead. Blood is smeared on her fingers. She’s been cut, maybe by the jagged pieces of windshield that have collected on the dash and seats.

Powers appears at the vehicle’s rear holding a shotgun; shells are strapped across his chest. “Come on, Adams. Move out!”

Nia’s dazed. She looks to her right and sees hostages huddled near an open vault. Two lie dead—a security guard still holding his pistol and a woman in a pencil skirt and blouse. There are nine others. Some are rendering aid to the injured.

“Adams, you okay?” Powers asks.

Nia’s chest feels sore from where she hit the steering wheel. She coughs hard. No blood. “I’m okay. Let’s move.” She snatches the rifle from the passenger seat, gets out of the Blazer, and falls in behind Powers, who takes point.

“Tight on me,” he says, moving toward a staircase to the left of an elevator.

Powers goes upstairs, keeping snug to the wall. Nia listens for suspects. It’s deceptively quiet. As they round the corner, gunfire erupts, nearly striking Powers. Nia takes hold of his tactical vest and yanks him out of the fray.

Powers positions himself against the wall. “They’ve got plenty of fucking ammo, that’s for damn sure.”

“Looks like two gunners by the window. And I clocked gunfire from that office. We’ll have to be on the lookout for a possible fourth.” Nia eyes the branch manager’s office. “If we clear that office, we might be able to take cover in there.”

“I say we unload on the fuckers,” Powers says. “Drive them into the corner.”

“We won’t stand a chance against their firepower.”

“Then, I’ll have to get close,” he says. “Won’t hit shit at this range.”

“Understood.”

“Aim and spray, Adams. Don’t stop until I get that office cleared.”

“Got it.”

“On my count,” he says. “One . . . two . . . three.” Powers leaps from the staircase while Nia fires at the suspects near the window. She hits one man. His body slams against the glass and slides to the floor. Blood smears the pane. The other takes cover as Nia continues her assault.

Powers ducks and

rolls. Once he’s beside the office’s entryway, he crouches and aims his Mossberg. The door is slightly ajar. Nia can see a suspect moving inside.

The end of a long-barrel rifle appears and nudges the door open wider. Nia makes eye contact with the gunman. He’s dressed in black military fatigues. Plucky eyes, a rabid grin.

Powers remains crouched, out of sight.

Wait for it.

Wait for it.

The suspect aims his weapon at Nia. She mouths “Go” to Powers, who pushes off the wall, angles his body, and fires a slug into the suspect’s chest. The suspect drops his weapon and falls backward into the room. Powers charges in with his shotgun poised and ready.

“Clear!” he shouts a moment later.

Nia advances across the room. The other suspect has taken cover near the windowsill. She can see a black combat boot sticking out from behind a long executive desk. She concentrates her barrage on the desk, tearing through particle wood and metal. The computer tower and monitor are ripped apart.

“Fucking bitch!” The suspect cries. “I’m going to kill you, puta!”

The suspect pops up clutching the semiautomatic rifle Nia glimpsed from the street. She doesn’t hesitate. Before he can take a shot, she fires a burst of bullets. They enter the suspect’s chest and stomach. A single bullet penetrates his eye, blots out the socket, and exits through the back of his head.

Nia stands over the lifeless man. He’s young, no older than twenty-five, she thinks. His face is tatted: tears dotted below where his eye once was, skull and crossbones on his cheek. Buzzed head, eyebrows shaved, and more tattoos on his neck. Street bangers outfitted with cartel guns.

Three down.

“Adams?”

“I’m fine,” she says. “Let’s keep moving.”

They reconvene and advance toward two offices at the end of the room. Doors are closed. Lights off. Powers motions Nia to the door. She turns the knob, leans in with her shoulder, and crouches.

The room is empty.

The relief doesn’t last. They move on to the next office. Nia turns the bloody door handle and pushes it open.

“I got movement,” Powers says, aiming his shotgun at a suspect on the floor. He’s dressed like the others in black fatigues. A green bandanna is tied around his forehead. He’s bearded. Looks older. He could be the ringleader, Nia thinks.

“Put it down!” Powers orders.

The suspect’s pistol slips from his grasp. “I give up. Don’t shoot.” He’s sitting in feces and blood.

“How many of you are there?”

“Four,” he says. Blood gurgles in his throat and spills out the corner of his mouth. “Just four of us.”

“You better not be lying to me.”

“I’m not, man. Please, I’m hit. I need help.”

“Yeah, I see that.”

Nia pulls out her cuffs from their holster, grips the chain, and approaches the dying man.

“Wait,” Powers says, his arm keeping her back.

“What? We need to take him into custody.”

“Hey, hombre,” he says. “Pick up the gun.”

“Nah, man.” 

 

“Do it!”

“Powers?” Nia asks. “What’s happening?”

“Stand down, Adams.”

“I said do it,” Powers repeats to the suspect.

“You don’t need to do this, man,” the suspect says. “I’ll work with you . . . I know shit. I can tell you everything.”

“You don’t look like a rat.”

A tear rolls down his cheek. “Please, man. Anything you want to know.”

“Pick it up,” Powers says. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

The suspect weeps softly.

“Pick it up, asshole.”

The suspect grabs the gun and slides his finger into the trigger guard.

“Raise it,” Powers says.

The man’s hand turns rigid as he lifts the pistol. He knows what comes next—he’s docile and accepting of his fate.

Bang.

The cacophony shakes the room. An alarm goes off in Nia’s head. She thinks her legs might give out. She steadies herself and tries to focus. Calm down. Get a grip. She looks at the dead suspect. Smoke spirals out of the wound; a softball-size hole at the top of the sternum. Chunks of blood and mangled tissue resemble ground pork—puffy and pink.

She can hear heavy footsteps. SWAT has arrived. They’re shouting commands. She can’t make out what they’re saying . . .

A SWAT member calls out: “Hands up!”

Powers drops his weapon. Nia’s mindful enough to do the same.

“We’re Rangers!” Powers says. “SRT!”

SWAT officers march closer. “Turn and face us,” the commanding officer says.

The Rangers turn around slowly, their hands high above their heads.

What a clusterfuck.

“Give the all clear,” Powers says calmly. “We got ’em. It’s over.”

*  *  *

A paramedic assesses Nia’s cuts and bruises in the back of an ambulance. The medic lightly presses the injured skin on her chest. Nia flinches. It’s tender—hideous shades of purple and gray over her breastbone.

“You really should go to the ER,” the medic says.

“And wait five hours for an ice pack? No thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

The FBI is on-site. Forensic investigators in blue jackets with yellow lettering

move about collecting shell casings, reconstructing the scene, and creating a timeline of the events. Agents haven’t made their way over to talk to Nia, but she knows it’s coming. Powers has been jabbering with the feds for thirty minutes. Periodically, he looks over at Nia, smirks, and keeps talking.

It’s shaping up to be a long night.

Lieutenant Mitch McCann gets out of a white Ford sedan and starts walking in the direction of the ambulance. He’s fair-haired with a country-boy tan. There’s an awkwardness to him: he tends to stare; allows too much space between sentences. Nia’s gotten used to it, but others on her team call him weirdo and creep. Doesn’t matter. He’s a good cop—a Ranger’s Ranger—who does things by the book.

McCann taps the medic on the shoulder and flashes his badge. “Mind if I have a word with her?”

The medic leaves to assist other injured cops.

“How is it?” McCann’s eyes focus on Nia’s chest. “Anything broken?”

“Contusion.”

“Well, it looks bad.”

“I’m alive, that’s all that matters.”

McCann sighs. “It’s a fucking mess, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“FBI has their work cut out,” he says. “They’ll reconstruct what went wrong here, but I prefer to hear it from you.”

“There were aspects of the situation that weren’t clear to us,” she says. “We should’ve been better prepared.”

“Is that what you’ll be writing in your report?”

“I intend to provide a full, detailed accounting of the events, sir.”

“Two team members are dead, and one is in critical condition.”

“Yes, sir,” she says with a tinge of shame. “We experienced serious failures. People lost their lives because of it.”

“And you’ll get the Medal of Valor,” he says. “Despite the piss-poor communication and tactics displayed today, you and Powers saved lives.”

“Sir, I don’t know what to say . . .”

“Don’t say anything. Powers will talk enough for both of you.”

“About Powers, sir . . .”

“What is it?”

Nia swallows hard and whispers. “The last suspect was attempting to surrender. I was prepared to cuff him when Powers ordered the suspect to grab his firearm. Then Powers shot him.”

McCann stares as if he sees through Nia—as if she’s become translucent. He clears his throat and slips his hands into his pants pockets. “I see,” he says. “Even if I were to believe such a thing, what outcome are you expecting?”

“I don’t know. But it happened.”

“People died at the hands of these animals. These piece-of-shit bangers come up from the cesspools of LA, New York, Phoenix, and Chicago. They flood our good state with their dope and filth and murder. Frankly, I’m tired of it.”

“I understand that, sir, but what Powers did—”

“Enough,” he says sharply. “You don’t mention any of this to anyone. Not a word to the FBI or HPD. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” she says.

“Now, ...