Page 8 of Sachie's Hero

“I’m not the attacker,” Teller said. “Ms. Moore’s friend sent me.”

“Are you hurt, Ms. Moore?” the officer’s partner asked. “Can you move toward me?”

The woman’s body shook so much that her voice trembled when she answered. “I’m not hurt.” She struggled to her feet and moved toward the officer. Once she made it past the officer who’d been holding his weapon aimed at Teller from the start, his partner moved forward.

“Hands against the wall,” he said. “Spread your feet.”

Teller wasn’t going to argue with armed men who might spook and start shooting. Having been shot once that evening, he didn’t want to risk taking another bullet from well-intentioned, if nervous, young officers. He turned and planted his palms flatagainst the wall and spread his feet wide. The fact that he could still move his arm with minimal pain was a good sign. The bullet had only grazed him. It was just a flesh wound.

The man holding him at gunpoint called out over his shoulder to the two officers who’d just joined them. “He said there’s another armed assailant who left through the rear of the building. We’ve got this one. Go!”

Teller shook his head as the two men ran past him, down the hallway and through the kitchen. The gunman would be long gone by now.

The officer approached him, kicking Teller’s heels out wider, then proceeded to frisk him, starting at his shoulders and working his way downward. When he reached his hips, he removed Teller’s wallet from his back pocket, slid it into his front breast pocket and continued. When he reached the bottom of Teller’s right leg, he stopped and jerked the denim up, revealing the Ka-Bar knife he kept as backup. The policeman yanked the Velcro loose and tossed the knife in its sheath toward his partner. After running his hands over Teller’s other leg, he finally stood and flipped open the wallet he’d confiscated. “Driver’s license says this is Teller Osgood. If this is, in fact, his wallet.”

“That’s my face on the driver’s license and mymilitary ID,” Teller said, still leaning against the wall. “While you’re holding me at gunpoint, the real bad guy is getting away.”

“We got a call saying this woman and this house was under attack. On our way here, we got another call stating neighbors heard gunshots and a woman screaming. Since you were the only one with a gun when we arrived, we have to assume you’re the attacker. By rights, we need to haul you into the station and sort things out from there.”

“They heard gunshots because the attacker fired three rounds.”

“Those rounds could have come from your gun,” the man holding his wallet said.

“Check my gun. It hasn’t been fired.” Teller straightened and faced the officers. He couldn’t protect this woman if they hauled him into their station tosort things out. “Check the kitchen. You’ll find two bullets lodged into the wall. Small caliber rounds, not nine-millimeter. And I didn’t shoot myself in the arm.” He turned just enough to point at the wound on his left shoulder, which had gone unnoticed when the officer had frisked him.

“Speaking of which,” the man holding him at gunpoint said, “Does he have a license to carry?”

His partner dug through Teller’s wallet and pulled out a card. “Apparently, he is licensed to carry.” Heturned to the woman behind him. “Do you know this man?”

Standing barefooted, dressed in nothing but an oversized T-shirt, the woman had wrapped her arms around her middle. She shivered, though it wasn’t that cold in the home. “No, I don’t know him,” she said, her voice trembling along with her body.

The officer pointing his gun at Teller sent him a narrow-eyed glare. “Officer Jacobs, cuff him.”

Jacobs unclipped his cuffs from his service belt and approached Teller.

Teller’s fighting instincts roared to the surface. It took every ounce of control inside to beat it back. The situation was bad enough with a stalker on the loose. Being led away to the police station made things even worse. Yet, punching a cop would only land him in jail. Then, who would protect the blonde who looked more like a homeless kid than a young woman? Alone, Sachie Moore would be exposed and vulnerable to the next attack. He had to work through this obstacle legally and get back to the job he’d been sent to do.

“I don’t know him,” Ms. Moore repeated, her voice more controlled this time, “but he took a bullet that was probably meant for me.” She squinted at the nametag on the officer’s shirt. “Officer...Layne, Mr.Osgood got me out of the backyard and into the house safely. This man saved my life.”

Officer Layne’s gaze never left Teller. He didn’t say anything for several seconds and finally said, “Well, until we figure this out, he’s coming with us to the station.”

“What about Ms. Moore?” Teller demanded. “I was sent here to protect her.”

“Tell your story to the chief,” Layne said. “Ms. Moore is welcome to come with us or follow us to the station and make her statement.”

Jacobs snapped the cuffs on Teller’s wrist, pulled his arms behind him and cuffed the other wrist. He hooked a hand around Teller’s arm and led him toward the front door, passing the woman.

“Ms. Moore, you need to come with us,” Teller said. “You can’t stay here alone.”

Her eyes were wide. She looked more like a child in the well-worn T-shirt, her bare knees green with grass stains.

The two officers who’d gone in search of the assailant appeared in the doorway.

The first man through the door said, “We didn’t find anyone, but we did find a couple of casings.” He held up a plastic bag with two brass bullet casings.

As Teller had suspected—they were a smaller caliber than his Sig Sauer’s nine-millimeter rounds.

“And we just heard from the chief,” the officer continued and turned to Teller. “Are you Teller Osgood?”

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