Free Red Tide by G. M. Ford Page A

brown, her complexion had taken on a burgundy tinge, as if the skin were merely floating on an ocean of blood. Her eyes had leaked water down her cheeks, and she’d lost one of her gold hoop earrings.
    “You gonna be okay?” Corso asked.
    She gave a small nod and then reached out and grabbed his sleeve. “My…” she croaked. Swallowed twice and tried again. “My children…”
    Corso put his hand on her shoulder. She was trembling like an idling engine.
    “I gotta go,” he said. “Everything’s gonna be all right.”
    She reached for him again, as he got to his feet. He took a step back and looked around. The crowd had turned its collective shoulder and was grudgingly giving ground. An umbrella lashed out from the crowd, its wicked point deflected by a black visor. Out in the middle of the melee somebody bull-rushed the officers and was quickly thrown back.
    Corso groped in his pocket and found Slobodan Nisovic’s key. Satisfied, he ducked under the barrier and veered left, heading for the door to the Underground.
    The second he stepped out from behind the SUV, a shout stopped him in his tracks.
    “You there,” the voice boomed.
    He didn’t stick around to check out the source. Instead, he turned on his heel and retreated down the narrow alley between the vehicles. When he looked uphill again, the woman had risen to one knee and was looking directly at him as he lifted his foot and stepped up into the huge van.
    Bigger than the biggest motor home, the Critical Incident Mobile Squad Room was a cornucopia of cop equipment. On the left, a compact communications center ran a third of the way along the wall. Lots of colored lights. Every kind of radio and telephone known to man. Across the aisle, half a dozen orange haz-mat suits hung on a steel bar, black breathing devices on a narrow shelf above. On the left, a series of shelves and bins bursting with god knows what. On the right, four closets about the size of airplane bathrooms. The rear of the coach consisted of four individual holding cells, each with its own little seat allowing the occupant to rest in relative comfort.
    The sound of scuffing feet sent Corso across the aisle to the closet doors. He went down the line, trying the doors. Locked. Locked. “Shit.” Here they come. Locked. “Fuck.” The fourth door wasn’t quite latched. It swung open at a touch. The walls were covered with tools. Picks, shovels, axes…a winch hung from the back panel. In the center of the floor sat a wicked-looking device Corso thought he recognized as the Jaws of Life. He fit his legs around the mechanical pincers, wiggled his shoulders inside and closed the door.
    Five seconds and the van rocked hard. Heavy breathing. Corso listened as an arm rifled through the orange coveralls, sending the suits swinging and squeaking on their metal hangers. Then the rattle of the first closet door and then the next and the next and then, finally, the one he was in. The door had locked itself. Corso held his breath.
    The van rocked again. “What the hell are you doing in here?” came a voice.
    Corso heard somebody swallow hard. “Thought I saw one of them duck in here, Captain. I was…”
    “Everything locked?” the captain asked.
    “Yessir.”
    A short silence ensued. “They need you up the street,” was all he said, but the sense of disapproval was palpable.
    “Yessir.”
    Footsteps and the clank of boots on the metal stairs. The squeak of a chair and the flat click of a button. “Patch me through to the chief,” the captain said.
    Didn’t take but half a minute. “Harry…it’s George. Yeah…but listen…we’re stretched way too thin. I need another…” Corso could hear the scratch of conversation coming through the line, but could not make out the words. “I’m not kidding, Harry…I’ve got a serious problem down here. I don’t get some help…” The scratching interrupted him again. This time for good. “Yes. Yes sir. Yes I do.”
    Ten seconds passed. Long