Cause to Kill

“Who’s the loser now?” he said. “Who!?” he screamed.

“Drop it!”

Ramirez groaned from the wound between his ribs. The arm around his neck clearly made it difficult for him to breathe. He reached for his gun but the point of the blade pressed deeper into his temple. George hugged him tight and whispered in his ear.

“Be still.”

A groan from Ramirez and then he screamed out.

“Shoot this fucker!”

Avery watched as George pressed the knife tight against Ramirez’s head, and a trickle of blood began to flow – and in that moment, she knew she had no choice. It was her partner’s life or this creep’s – and any second could make the difference.

She fired.

Suddenly, George screamed out in pain and went stumbling backwards, releasing his grip on Ramirez.

Avery looked over and saw him covered in blood, grabbing his shoulder. She was relieved to see it was a clean shoulder shot, just as she had hoped.

Ramirez scrambled to get his gun, but before he could react, suddenly George was back up on his feet. Avery couldn’t believe it. Nothing could stop this kid.

Surprising her even more was that George did not charge Ramirez, or her.

He was charging for the open balcony.

“WAIT!” Avery screamed.

But there was no time. He had a good ten feet on her, and she could see from his sprint that he was going to jump.

Again, she made a hard choice.

Again, she fired.

This time, she aimed for his leg.

He went down, face first, grabbing his knee, and this time he didn’t get back up. He lay there, groaning, feet from the balcony.

Ramirez stood and whirled around. With a hand on his wound, he grabbed his gun and pointed the muzzle at George’s face.

“You fuckin’ cut me!”

“I’ve got him,” Avery said.

Ramirez threw a kick to George’s side and Ramirez cringed from the pain as he did so, holding his wound tighter.

“Fuck!” he screamed.

On his side on the ground, George smiled, blood pouring from his lips.

“Did that feel good, cop? I hope it did, because I’m going to get out of this.”

Avery stepped forward, pulled out her cuffs, yanked his arms behind his back, and clamped them tight.

“You,” she said, “are going to jail.”

CHAPTER TEN

Avery called 911 with her gun trained on George. She used her walkie-talkie to dial backup. Ramirez couldn’t get over how stupid he’d been, or how much the wound actually hurt. Every so often, he’d shake his head and mumble to himself.

“Can’t believe this punk got the jump on me.”

“He’s fast,” Avery said. “You have training, George? Army? Navy? Is that how you were able to abduct Cindy?”

George sat cross-legged and silent with his head low.

“How’s the wound?” Avery asked Ramirez.

“I don’t know. I can breathe, so maybe he missed the lung. But the fucker hurts.”

He then stopped and looked at her with awe.

“Thanks, Black. You had my back. I owe you one.”

When the ambulance arrived, the EMT applied pressure to the wound and asked Ramirez a few questions. The initial diagnosis was that the knife might have missed the lung. The entire time, Ramirez kept shaking his head. “Stupid,” he said. “Stupid.”

A gurney was brought in to take him away.

“I’ll be back,” he said to Avery. “Don’t worry. This is nothing. Just a scratch. Hey, George,” he called out. “You assaulted a cop. That’s six years maximum. And if you killed a little girl, you get life.”

Harvard security stayed with Avery until the police came for George. Nobody spoke the entire time. Avery had been around killers before, lots of killers, in her three years on the force, but it was kids with guns and knives that always gave her pause: kids like George. College student. Harvard University. Someone that seemingly had it all, and yet on the inside he was fractured, broken.

Once the cops came and took George away, Avery stood alone in the apartment. The word “why” kept going through her head.

Why did he do this?

Why? Why? Why?

The face of Howard Randall kept appearing. What’s wrong with this world? she wondered. Look at this place. Sky view. Luxury all the way. Young, good-looking, physically fit, and yet he just attacked and stabbed a police officer. Other faces came to mind: gang faces and angry husbands and drunken psychos that killed innocent people and other kids, some six years old with Uzis strapped around their chests.

Why?

Was it pain? The pain of such a hard life?

A memory came: her father, unkempt gray hair, missing teeth, a shotgun in his hand. “You want to talk about pain?” he’d snapped. “I’ll shoot you in the fucking head! Then you’ll know pain, won’t you, girl? Won’t you!?”

Avery stood up.

It had been had been hard to focus on the apartment until everyone was gone. Now she made the room, and George Fine, her top priority.