Chapter 9
There was no rest for the weary once Emma left Bangor. Killian's unit had been running ragged chasing a string of robberies. One of the rookie patrol officers in the department had likened the crime spree to the Hydra– cut off one head and another grows back. While he'd joined the good-natured jabs at the detective's expense over his ability to weave a Captain America analogy into damn near anything (including his uniform if the shield-adorned undershirts were any indication), Killian found the description astute.
They were always a step behind and the brass had shut down his request for more manpower, using the amount of resources that went into the search for Grace and Jefferson as an excuse. It wasn't until a gas station clerk was pistol-whipped five days into it for moving too slowly emptying the register that Killian was able to score some approved overtime to offer his detectives' services. The only thing the higher ups hated more than a busted budget was the media shitstorm and scrutiny that came with citizen bloodshed.
It was the approval for overtime that found Killian sitting in a 24-hour diner with Locksley and Will, letting a second cup of why the fuck are you still up o'clock coffee go cold and a slice of peach pie uneaten. The two detectives were tossing out ideas about who was responsible for the robberies. The late (or early) hour had the theories ranging from vaguely ludicrous (an unknown kingpin who had set their sights on running the seedy underbelly of Bangor Fucking Maine of all places) to accusations Will needed to get out and find a woman because his lone nights with Netflix meant he could no longer separate reality from fantasy (hence the suggestion they team up with the Ninja Turtles to stop the Shredder's foot soldiers.
Barely paying attention when the two started bitching at each other, Killian chose not to take sides, instead telling them they were both fucking morons. In truth, he'd barely been paying attention to their animated conversation in favor of texting Emma. She was on the night shift, too – although hers wasn't the second half of a double – and, according to her last message, "bored as all fuck-out."
Grinning, Killian quickly typed back a salacious invitation to provide her with some entertainment via fucking, as was habit since she'd returned home and their relationship, whatever the hell it was, became long distance. Not that it was all sex. The method of communication had her opening up more than he would have expected, and he found the same was true of himself. Their conversations ranged from serious to the absurd – an argument over how many "alrights" there were in Outkast's "Hey Ya" and both too stubborn to Google for verification at the risk of being found wrong - but for every few of those, there was one that had him hard and aching for her.
The worst was an unsolicited photo that came four days after they'd said goodbye at the motel. Her face wasn't visible, but Killian would recognize the rest of her anywhere. Emma was kneeling on a bed, legs spread. The hand that wasn't holding the phone was between her thighs. He'd almost had an aneurysm during a brainstorming meeting and called her the second he was in his truck and on his way home. She answered on the first ring, sugary-sweet and innocent, the polar opposite of the photo.
"You are a very naughty girl, love." Her giggle was music to his ears and made him impossibly harder in his jeans.
"What's the matter, Captain? Not your…taste?" He could have sworn he heard Emma lasciviously licking her own essence off her fingers and her voice had been dripping with sex. He'd barely made it inside his front door before he'd talked and teased her into orgasm. She was coming, moaning his name when he unzipped his pants, pulled out his cock and stroked it twice, spilling over his fist in the entryway.
Tonight, they kept it light, texting back and forth about their date after getting the requisite flirting in. Killian had done some research and was taking her to a surf and turf place on the water with wine, candles, and tablecloths – everything bulk of time together wasn't. It was such a welcome distraction from Detectives Frick and Frack who couldn't shut the fuck up if someone duct taped their mouths that he completely missed Robin asking him a question until he was repeating himself. Loudly.
"I said, give the good Sheriff my regards."
"Will do." Killian realized a second too late he'd spilled the beans and looked up to see Locksley shoot him a shit-eating grin while a grumbling Will passed $20 to his partner.
"Knew it!" Robin crowed, kissing the bill his partner had handed him.
Killian slumped on the other side of the booth and shoveled a too-large bite of pie in his mouth. "Joke's on you, asshole. He probably nicked that from a lap dancer's jizz-soaked G-string." Killian laughed rudely around his food as Robin's face turned from glee to disgust and he started licking his sweater sleeve to get the taste of secretion-tainted money out of his mouth. "Seriously, though. If you two yahoos tell anyone, I'll kick your dicks so far up into your body cavities, you'll be blowing yourselves."
Robin crossed his heart. "You have my word. So is it serious or just, you know…" He smoothly transitioned into poking the index finger from one hand through the circled thumb and forefinger of the other in the universal, and wholly immature, gesture for sex.
Killian slapped his friend's hands. "We're going out in…" he looked at his watch. "Seventeen hours. Shift ends at six. I'll go home, get some shuteye. Do minimal work on this," he gestured to his face, "Because we all know perfection is hard to improve upon. Make the drive to Storybrooke with flowers and show her a good time." He rolled his eyes as Robin and Will exchanged knowing nods. "A gentlemen never kisses and tells. Not that you two Neanderthals would know a damn thing about that." He gestured for the check and shoved it in Will's direction. "I need to save my on hand cash for my date and Robin is going to be shelling out shortly for some blood tests to make sure he didn't contract syphilis from that twenty. You're paying."
Killian hushed his detective's complaining and turned the volume up on his radio.
"Possible 10-31 in progress at JG Pawn Shop, 99 Center Street. Silent alarm tripped."
Three streets over. He stood and radioed back that they were en route, sidestepping so Will could toss more than enough to cover their bill and a generous tip on their table. He took backseat in his detectives' unmarked car once they'd strapped on their vests and listened over the siren as they ran through their approach and a reminder that one of the prevailing (and actual) theories about the string of robberies is that they were using convenience stores and gas stations as practice for a bigger target.
The pawnshop wasn't exactly an Ocean's Eleven-esque knocking over of a casino, but it did have plenty of valuables. Even a half-assed grab inside the jewelry case would yield a better score than the few hundred dollars in cash getting stolen from registers across town. This was the first hit on the shop Killian recalled in his years with the department. Even scarier than getting caught trying to illegally lighten the inventory of the place and being taken to jail was the shop's owner.
Nobody knew what the "J" stood for, but the "G" was for Gold. Mister Gold, he would correct anyone who dared leave out the title. He put just enough of a hiss for it to sound snakelike, and the description matched the man himself: small in stature, but big in arrogance, assholery and shrewd business dealings. Anyone so much as an hour late repaying their loan were six tons of shit outta luck getting their stuff back. Gold would tsk tsk his angry customers, reminding them they hadn't held up their end of the bargain and call Bangor's patrolling finest if they so much as cursed under their breath at him to have them removed from his property.
He had been a vocal critic of the police department as of late, accusing them of not doing enough to protect local business owners and their employees from the influx of crime.
The radio cut back in: "10-00 at 99 Center Street, repeat, officer down at 99 Center Street." Robin floored it even harder for the last block and pulled into the parking lot at an angle.
The other cruiser's lights lit up the front of the store, a dizzying flash of blue and red. On arrival, Killian had seen two figures huddled behind the open passenger door of the vehicle. He threw his own door open wide and got out, crouching behind it as he unholstered his weapon. Telling Robin and Will to cover him, he dashed to where the officers were.
One was on his side, breathing short, rapid breaths. His uniform shirt had been ripped open and vest unbuckled at the shoulders, shoved away from his body just enough for his partner to be able to use her own shirt to apply pressure to the gunshot wound in his armpit. Shoved away from his body just enough for Killian to catch a glimpse of the Captain America shield on his undershirt.
Fuck.
His partner looked like she was shell-shocked and was babbling incoherently about what had happened until Killian barked, "Officer! Report." It pulled her out of the hysteria enough for him to learn she and her partner - ironically named Rogers - had been a block away when the 10-31 came through. Even though they heard another car was taking the call, they figured the more manpower the better given the recent hits in the area. They hadn't even cleared the front of their car on approach when a single shot rang out. Rogers dropped and she had dragged him out of the line of fire to the other side of the car and radioed in there was an officer down.
"Did see where the shot came from?"
"Not exactly, sir. But Rogers was advancing on the front of the store at an angle, gun up and got shot through the armhole of his vest from the left. If I had to guess, it came from the right window."
Killian nodded. Robin had stopped the car well behind and at an angle to the patrol officers' vehicle, but he didn't want to take any chances. He motioned for Will to climb through the car and take cover with Robin on the driver's side. Just as the detective was pulling himself over the center console on his belly, two shots rang out, one hitting the door Will had been behind, the other traveling through the cruiser's windshield. He fell out of the car onto the ground in a heap next to Robin, who started patting him down to see if he was hit.
Killian aimed his .45 in the space between the car and open door, but couldn't get a bead on a target before another shot rang out, this time in his direction. "Jesus Christ." He ducked, breathing the oath as a curse against the clearly targeted shooting. "Dispatch, more shots fired. Number of gunmen unknown. Suspect looks to be targeting law enforcement. Requesting Emergency Response Services be mobilized." Yelling over the wail of sirens as backup arrived, he turned to Robin and Will. "Rogers needs to be carried out. The ambo won't be able to get close enough for medics to come get him if there's an active shooter and ERT is at least thirty away from rolling." Killian looked directly at Will. "You okay?"
"I'll need to change my pants thanks to the spontaneous release of my bowels, but otherwise…" Will blew out a breath and half-assed a sign of the cross.
Three other units had joined them, fanning out to block the street, and it didn't take coordinating efforts to get Rogers off the ground and into an ambulance waiting on the other side of the blockade. Robin would provide front cover – he didn't earn the nickname "Archer" at the shooting range for nothing. Will would take Rogers' feet and Killian, his shoulders. The other officers were poised to return fire at the storefront should some shit go down.
Once everyone was in position, Will used hand signals for a silent countdown. On three, he picked up Rogers' ankles and Killian linked his elbows under the officer's armpits. It was hard to move quickly in a crouch and Rogers was getting jostled around far more than his delicate condition could stand, especially when the gunman opened fire again and they had to hit the deck.
"God dammit!" Killian looked at Will. "We're going to have to go for broke here. He can't take much more of this shit with a collapsed lung." Will nodded and signaled to the sergeant by the closest cruiser they were making a run for it. Once again, each hefted Rogers. "Go!"
A deafening exchange of gunfire rang out. He saw Will tripping over his own feet in their rush, losing grip on Rogers' ankles. Killian lurched, suddenly taxed with more of the burden of the unconscious officer's weight. He dug in, almost in squat position and used his legs and his back to propel himself and Rogers up and backward, adjusting his grip with each drag. Killian made it another few feet before he felt it - the searing pain.
Killian heard Will scream, "Captain!" before he went down. Rolling onto his back, he touched his neck, hand coming back covered in red arterial blood from the bullet wound. Before he passed out, all he could think of was Emma.
