Free Blown Away by Shane Gericke Page B

Her chin was strong, her neck slim.
    Her chest was a little too small for her taste. Other people seemed to like it fine, though. The constant stares told her what she needed to know about that. Careful tweezing kept her thick eyebrows from being too Brooke Shields. Her skin was cream with a splash of coffee, limiting her make-up requirements to lipstick. Her teeth gleamed when she smiled, which she did easily and often. All in all, she told herself, the Total Emily, while far from perfect, had been good enough to hook a great guy like Kinley Jack Child.
    â€œAll right, all right,” she scolded her reflection. “The nuns said too much self-admiration makes you go blind. Let’s go catch some desperados.” The reflection winked, then vanished as Emily walked into the bedroom to lay out her uniform and equipment. Everything’s here , she noted. Good. She never violated her dressing ritual. Part of it was her need for order in her life, which intensified after Jack’s death. The rest was life insurance. The tools of her trade had to be in the same place every time so she could grab them without thinking. Quarter-seconds counted in a fight for your life.
    Starting to shiver now that she was dry, she donned thong panties and a navy blue sports bra. She slipped a tiny slashing knife inside the left cup, a last-ditch survival tool she’d deploy if a bad guy took everything else. She slid on a T-shirt, athletic socks, bulletproof vest, navy uniform shirt and trousers, then clipped her seven-pointed badge to her chest.
    Time for the third cup of French roast.
    She double-timed back up the stairs, slopping on the sixth tread. Add it to the spring cleaning list! Movement in the large octagon window overlooking her front yard caught her eye. It was Shelby, clawing at her mailbox. “Geez Louise!” she said, shaking her head. “You just won’t go home till I see what’s up, will you?”
    The Lab looked up and barked. Emily saluted. “You win. Soon as I’m done dressing.”
    Shelby dipped his head as though he were nodding and went back to clawing.
    Emily sat on the bed, swaddled her feet in steel-toed boots, knotted the laces, and wiped dirt spots off the leather. One less thing for Cross to complain about. She dreaded what came next, the twenty-odd pounds of equipment that street cops toted around their waists. The Mule Train, Annie called it. She sighed, then snapped, buckled, clipped, and Velcroed a gun belt, “garter” straps that married it to the trouser belt underneath, a Glock pistol, four spare magazines holding seventeen bullets apiece, a carrier for the two-way radio she’d sign out at the station, handcuffs, a collapsible baton, a folding knife, two flashlights, extra batteries, pepper spray, latex gloves, cut-resistant search gloves, an all-in-one tool with pliers, file, saw, knife blades, screwdrivers, wrenches, awl and scissors, lock picks, a pager, a cell phone, and a steel ring with eleven keys. Into various pockets went pens, a notebook, a ticket book, sunglasses, a key to unlock the handcuffs, a spare handcuff key, a third taped to her left ankle just in case, Kleenex, red-and-white Starlight Mints for coffee breath, a tube of lipstick in the muted cherry she liked….
    â€œNow I know how Atlas felt,” Emily groaned as the gear dug into her hips. No matter how many miles she ran or sit-ups she knocked out, her lower back ached like grandma’s bunions by shift’s end. And it wasn’t even winter yet, with its hats, coats, gloves, boots, and cold tablets.
    She shadowboxed into the bathroom and skipped rope on the way out, making sure everything was locked down. The badge rattled. She fixed it, then removed the bayonet from her nightstand. She kissed it for luck and slipped it into the scabbard inside her left boot. Every cop needed backup weapons. Many packed a second pistol, but she preferred this battered steel bayonet. It had