No Such Thing (UNDER REVISION)

prologue.

JUNE 13TH, 2010

DALLAS, TEXAS

"Dispatch, this is Agent Teresi. I'm in position, 20 feet from the bank'sentrance... I've got a visual on two, armed males. Black clothes. Masks. ETA on any cars, any back up at all? I'm solo here. Over."

"Copy that. Standby."

Standby . . . Jesus Christ, glad you're comfy over there. I'm stuck out here sitting on my thumbs while these two goons line their goddamn pockets, sure, I'll stand-the-the hell-by.

Static crackled in her ear. "Agent Teresi, are you there? Over."

Brown eyes rolled upward in indignation. No, I decided these civilians weren't worth the skin on my ass. Special Agent Catherine Teresi knelt behind her car door, her Glock-19 firm against the frame. It was no use for the MGP-15s these men were wielding, but that's just the way it goes. Sometimes you can do it all right, and still be fucked.

"Still here. No movement inside, I don't- I really don't think these guys know I'm here. Their view of the street seems to be blocked by a large display."

It was calls like these, when Teresi was sticking her neck out by herself, the only good guy on the block, that she didn't remember why she'd chosen this profession. Why the Bureau? But the thumping of her heart in her ears and the acidic drip of adrenaline in her veins always served as a reminder.

A nasally voice droned over the radio. "SWAT is en route, ETA five minutes."

"Five?! Is there traffic? Are you-? " Catherine clamps her eyes shut.

"Repeat, Agent?"

"I was clarifying ETA. Keep me posted. Over."

An overwhelming, buzzing dread settled in her chest. She was stuck between one shitty place and one even shittier place.

"Unit nine approaching scene, Traphagan and Main." Blessed be Isaac Cullman, her partner, previously missing in action. His confident voice came down on her ears as welcome as it was physically possible. In the back of her mind she wondered what had gone wrong with his day off, he'd had a date, and she had tried not to get to stuffy about it. . . but she wasn't going to dwell too much further. He was here,well, less than a block away and would be seconds. More firepower the good guys had was just seconds away, and it was all the more likely that this would be resolved with the two robbers in cuffs and the two of them in one piece. . .

The dispatcher replied: "Roger, Unit nine."

Just after, there was the distinct sound of Isaac's Bureau car screeching to the curb beside her, and then, impossibly quick, the clank of metal on metal. . . her head pivoting back toward the bank. . .

But they were under fire, two men in black sweatshirts blew through that front door, their submachine guns emptying jackets onto the scorching asphalt. Glass and bits of frame and metal rained as she ducked, fairing luckier than her partner, it seemed-

- because Isaac Cullman was lying face down, his arm inches away, rubbing along the pavement, searching for something, somewhere, her hand...? But he was pointing. . . with a groan, he pushed himself up as much as he could, enough to roll on his back, to look her in the face.

"Go." It was so simple, over so quickly. He was trying to control it but she saw the raw pain as it flashed across his face.

Ike was right, she needed to go. Needed to act. Catherine tried to stand, which, in hindsight probably wasn't the smartest thing to do with bullets flying inches above her head but she had to do something.

As she rose again, a few sharp thumps struck her right thigh. The deep searing of a gunshot wound had taken over her immediately, the rich blood staining her slacks and the ground below. Wanting to feel it later, she pushed on, pushed the pain and the look of pain on Isaac's face far from her mind and gave herself to the job. The call. Like she was trained, she became what her partner once called the Robo-resi, more mechanical than man, and shot a few rounds. Her aim was mightier than the nickname, hitting the left sleaze in the gut, the chest, and missing the right guy completely, before she slithered to the ground again.

Teresi watched as the assailant bent at the waist and lifted the hefty duffel from his fallen partner's grip and began running through the desolate plaza. After his buddy became incapacitated, she reckoned it seemed only plausible to the other little chickenshit to just run with the money. And where was SWAT? Oh, yeah, that's right. Four minutes out. Missing the entire show.

She became accustomed to the ground, thought it would be nice, to just lie here, with Ike, let the money be someone else's problem. It was all she could do not to scream, the pain scorching her inside and out like the tip of a white-hot poker, but she wasn't going down like a little bitch. She wasn't going down at all. She may have been wounded and god, was she wounded. . . but that was this burglar's mistake.

"Federal Agent!" Catherine screamed, unable to stomach the pain any longer. "Freeze! Drop the fucking gun!" But that could never work, of course it couldn't. While he was out there being the cock of the walk through the unobstructed street, she had a clear shot, and really how lucky could a girl be? She knew what her team leader would say, knew what Ike would say, that if she was to get an angle to take it. So what did she do? What choice did she have?

CRACK. The smell of hot metal. A patch of summer breeze, warm on her face. She focused only on her own breathing as she clutched onto the mangled window frame, and flattened the perp, spilling his brain and his loot out onto the street. After, she joined Isaac in a heap, the tar burning her face.

Before she went dark, she struggled to keep his glance. All eyes of blue fire and trouble, he managed a weak smile before his eyes shut, still groping for her hand.

First thing the next morning, after being released from the hospital, she put in for an immediate transfer.