ANGEL BLUE [1]

LEAD 25: divide and conquer

      Sam and I sit in the unmarked black SUV, staring out the windows for any signs of Helena Quinn or an informant. My hands are shaking out of sheer excitement, I’ve waited for almost a year to put cuffs on Helena and now it’s finally going to happen―and if I’m lucky, I can send her plastic arse to jail.  

      I then frown to myself; I’m fitting my suspect to the evidence instead of the other way around. I shake my head and listen for any radio communication to come over the rectangular black walkie-talkie in my left hand from the patrol officers staked out in their own patrol cars that surround the precinct. 

      “How are you feeling about this?” Sam asks cautiously.

      “What, the fact that I can finally stop the woman that’s destroyed my relationship with Papa Stevens, or that this game has gotten all the more complicated?” I can’t help but grin. “It feels fantastic.”

      Sam simply sighs at me and shakes his head, it would’ve conveyed disappointment if his warm hand hadn’t reached out for mine to clutch. It’s become a common gesture between us, holding each other’s hand―obviously not in public for the prying eyes or media to see, but whenever we’re alone in the SUV or reading through old cases, it’s a comforting signal which might help our Mr Hyde’s to stay in check.

      I don’t know what this ‘thing’ is between me and Sam, but I hope it doesn’t end abruptly or just become an office fling. For once in my life I want, no demand, consistency―I want reliable love, caring, acknowledgement. I want someone to actually get my name right, or address me by the right title instead of shooting at me or stabbing me with syringes.  

      “Detective Stevens?” one of the patrol officers, Mercer he calls himself, disturbs my inner pleads.

      My thumb presses down in the side of the walkie-talkie and I bring it close to my face, instantly pressing my lips into a thin line. The joyous blanket has been pulled off me and replaced with a cold vehemence; I clench my jaw and answer, “Have you got visual on Agent Quinn?”

      “Not exactly Detective, Chief Stevens has arrived on the opposite corner to me and is making a B-line to Agent Quinn, shall I intercept?” crackles Mercer.

      “Christ,” I pull my hand from Sam’s and unbuckle myself, “stay at your post.”

      “Post, Detective? If Chief Stevens spooks Agent Quinn then she’ll bolt,” says Mercer.

      I slam the car door behind me, Sam following not even two steps behind me. I’m not going to let Helena run away again, she’s been slipping through the NYPD’s clutches like sand and it’s about time that I run this show how I want it to be done. I reach for my holster and flick the buckle, “I’m on the move. Quinn’s going to bolt anyway, it’s inevitable.”

      “Understood Detective,” Mercer signs off and I continue my pursuit.

      I round the corner of the precinct on Rivingston Street and fasten my easy-walking pace to a light jog and then a flat-out sprint when I see Dad grab Helena’s wrist when she tries to slap him. There’s an obvious argument going on and I have to put a stop to it. Papa Stevens may have chosen her over me, but he’s still my Dad―nobody lays a hand on him.

      “Agent Helena Quinn you’re under arrest!” I shout.

      Dad turns around, perplexed and livid. He doesn’t have time to reach for his own cuffs; Helena socks him in his moment of weakness and breaks from his hold, making a fast dash to the road. Dad attempts to chase after her but I grab onto his shoulder, pushing against him for fastened momentum.