Page 9 of Make You Mine

“No. This one will be easy.”

“Got him!” The owner pulled up the outside camera feed on his phone and turned the screen toward us. His eyebrows are furrowed, but a second later, he’s glaring at the device. “I know this guy,” he says more to himself than us, but it wouldn’t surprise me. Most criminals visit their marks days, if not weeks, in advance. “He comes in every morning around eight and gets a medium coffee and two bananas.”

“Every day? For how long?” I ask him while the other detective moves closer to the mop station. It’s near the door, but the placement keeps him out of sight. “Did he come in alone?”

“Yeah. For about the last month, give or take.” He nods, face pinched tight with anger. “I’m usually here by six to help with the morning rush, and you remember a customer after the third visit. I can prove it.”

“Good. Get the video ready for us.”

“And I’ll watch the front from here. I’ve got a clear view.” My colleague is new and has less than a year’s experience, but the guy is dependable. Has a good head on his shoulders. “I’ll put my parkour training to good use. He’s not getting away.”

With a nod, I head out the door with my cell phone pinned between my shoulder and ear. No one says or looks my way, but I make a jerky hand movement showing annoyance and move toward the small hallway where the emergency exit is.It’s already propped open, has been since we arrived, and the forensics duo working tonight have already dusted for prints.

Within seconds, my phone is in my pant pocket, and I’m running around the side of the building. At the edge, I pause and look toward the station wagon where the culprit is still standing. He’s fidgety, eyes staring toward the area where the knife was dropped while failing to blend in.

“Fucking idiot.” In all the years I’ve worked in the LAPD, I’ve never seen a lazier criminal. I’ve dealt with cartels, gangs, and drugs to some capacity—assisted the narcotics team in dealing with cases attached to a homicide or assault charge of some kind. They go together. Repeat offenders escalate, and each offense is usually worse than the last, but this…?

He hasn’t moved, much less looked behind him. Surveyed the scene.

Instead, the male is almost leaning against the car with its chipped paint and a sharp white strip across the center that makes it stand out, especially when parked close to a red Mercedez SUV and a newer model electric car.

Pulling my weapon from its holster, I make my way behind him. A few of the officers outside notice my move and begin to spread out, blocking possible points of escape—I’m a few steps behind him when a few bystanders turn their heads in my direction. It’s a domino effect.

He does, too, and for a split second, his brown eyes widen in fear. Panic.

“Down on the ground,” I shout while people scramble to get out of the way. “Now!”

Many rush away, their aim on the main street outside of the parking lot. There’s one woman who’s frozen, though. She’s shaking. Her eyes are frantic and full of fear, but her body refuses to cooperate.

Son of a bitch.

The perpetrator notices, too. His hand twitches and begins to rise—she whimpers.

“Don’t even think about it. On the fucking ground.” I don’t raise my gun, but his eyes flick to it.

“I’m not going back.” He moves to grab her, his hand barely skimming her arm, when another officer yanks her away, and I rush forward. It’s a split second later when my body crashes into his, the impact knocking the air out of him while his head bounces crudely against the pavement. Doesn’t help that I’m fully adding my weight as I place my gun back in its holster and then grab my handcuffs. “Fuck, man. Fuck, that hurt.”

His speech is a little slurred, but the man remains alert.

Doesn’t stop me from securing cuffs on him, but once he’s subdued and lying face up and groaning, I shout out to Baez. “Get him checked and, once cleared, booked. There’s no blood, but he hit the ground hard.”

“Head or body?”

“Both.”

“Got it, Ford.”

Patting his back, I turn to head back inside and wrap up my conversation with the owner when Baez says my name. Looking at him from over my shoulder, I notice his expectant expression and raise a brow. “Something wrong?”

“I expected for you to be a little more…”

“More what?”

“Check your phone.” That’s all he says, but when I make no move to do so, he shakes his head. “Captain Perez sent out a mass text fifteen minutes ago to everyone who worked the case. After the news broke out and?—”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“They caught the son of a bitch, Ford. Jason Ripley was arrested in Dallas a few hours ago.”

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