Nicholas Brandt turned around once more and looked at his daughter Lily, who was waving at him from the window of their house. Full of love and affection, he waved back and smiled at her briefly. Then he turned around, tightened the strap of his gray bicycle helmet a little, and pushed off forcefully from the sidewalk with his right foot.

The cold wind blew in his face, and Brandt shivered. While he held the handlebars convulsively with his left hand to keep from falling over, he pulled the zipper of his blue functional jacket up under his chin with his right hand and stumbled briefly. Brandt swore quietly but then caught the bike at the last moment. He let out a sigh of relief and turned right into the street. There was hardly any traffic on Sundays at this time. He decided to run the red light and then cycled across the intersection easterly.

Brandt hadn't had much time to ride his bike lately because of all the work he had been doing. He set a brisk pace for himself, so he was slightly out of breath when he reached his destination about seven minutes later: the bakery Aux Délice Francais. He got off his bike to chain it to the street sign and looked at the officer standing in front of the bakery.

"Good morning," he greeted the no longer relatively young officer in a friendly manner and smiled at him.

"Good morning," the officer replied curtly and scrutinized Brandt closely. Only when the latter continued on his way did the cop turn his attention back to his smartphone.

Brandt took a deep breath. He walked quickly towards the bakery but stopped abruptly before the entrance and turned around.

The officer, who had noticed this out of the corner of his eye, looked over at him briefly.

Brandt shrugged. "My bag," he said, pointing to the bike where his old cloth bag hung over the handlebars. The officer nodded and went back to looking at his phone.

Now, thought Brandt. It's now or never. His pulse rose, and his heart raced. He took another deep, nervous breath and walked back towards his bike. When he was level with the officer, he stopped suddenly and punched the man in the temple with all his might. A sharp pain shot through his knuckles as the officer slumped to the ground without making a sound. Brandt shook his hand. He panicked. It would all have been in vain if he couldn't use his fingers now because something was broken.

Carefully, he clenched his hand into a fist, then opened it again. It hurt like hell, but the motor function was still working. That was all that mattered.

Pull yourself together, he thought, fighting against the instinct to just run away. He took a deep breath through his nose and out through his mouth.

Don't freak out! One step at a time.

He gave himself a jolt and then quickly bent down to the officer.

I need to get the gun. Quickly!

Brandt rolled the officer onto his side, opened the safety catch on the holster, and took the gun. He had previously learned which weapons the Boston police used and visited a hunting supplies store to learn how to use them. Under the pretext that he wanted a hunting license, he had signed up for shooting training and quickly acquired a particular routine with handguns.

Relieved to discover that the weapon was ready to fire, he hastily pushed himself off the ground and hurried towards the bakery. His pulse was racing, and he had a cold sweat on his forehead. Nevertheless, Brandt tried to remain as calm as possible.

He opened the door with determination and entered the well-filled sales room. It smelled of freshly baked rolls and coffee, and it seemed as if the three saleswomen had their hands full trying to fulfill the wishes of the numerous customers. Brandt looked around hectically. He hardly had any time. He had to act now. One last glance. Then he raised his weapon and fired four shots in quick succession. The bang of each shot was deafening, and the people in the salesroom jumped in fright.

The blonde saleswoman, who was standing at the far left of the counter, was hurled backward by the force of the bullet. It had hit her right upper arm. She was now hanging on the shelf between rolls and baguettes. Instinctively, she pressed her left hand on her right arm on the wound. Between her fingers, a red spot formed on the white fabric of her blouse, which grew larger and larger. The shock was written all over her face. She stared at Brandt, horrified, her mouth open, then she collapsed unconscious.

The second and third shots hit a dark-haired man in a blue suit sitting at a table, enjoying his morning espresso. As if someone had pulled the plug out, he slumped forward and lay collapsed with his upper body on the table. He was no longer moving – his expression was rigid and empty.

The fourth bullet had hit the leg of an elderly gentleman in a brown coat who had been standing further forward in the queue. The man had immediately slumped down with a shrill scream. He now sat whimpering on the floor, looking back and forth between his bloody leg and Brandt with a mixture of pain and fear.

It all happened very quickly—not even twenty seconds had passed between Brandt entering the bakery and the last shot being fired. Only now did the others realize what was happening. Panic broke out instantly. An old woman in a raincoat fled past Brandt and out of the store while the other customers tried to find safety behind the sales counter and the tables.

Brandt only perceived what was happening through a filter. The images blurred into a colorful mess before his eyes, and he heard the people's screams as if through cotton wool. He thought he would faint for a moment, but he knew this was the last thing he could afford to do. He bit his lower lip until it bled to stay conscious. It took a while for him to perceive his surroundings again and for his hearing to return. Dazed, he looked around and stared into fear-filled faces. Then, from one second to the next, he dropped the weapon next to him, knelt on the ground, and put his hands behind his head. He had done it. Brandt closed his eyes and thought of his daughter Lily.

xxx

Was that an explosion? Was he dreaming? The sounds became more precise, and Officer Andrew Bailey regained consciousness. At first, he thought he was lying at home in his bed and waking from a deep sleep, but then reality brutally caught up with him.

Behind his left temple, he felt a pain that felt like an entire company of construction workers were working on his head with jackhammers. He opened his eyes. The bakery. Why on earth was he lying here in front of Aux Délices Francais? He carefully supported himself to get up when he heard screams. The bakery door burst open, and an elderly woman in a blue raincoat stormed out in panic. She paid no attention to anything or anyone; she ran as fast as her legs would carry her down the sidewalk.

At that moment, Officer Bailey realized something terrible had happened there. These weren't explosions in one of his dreams. These were actual gunshots.

He realized that at 61 years old, he was no spring chicken, and he admitted to himself that he had recently lost some of his physical strength. Ignoring the pain, he forced himself to his feet. Calling for backup was not an option; every second counted. Any delay could cost lives. Bailey reached for his gun and froze. His gun holster was empty. And then he knew why: the man with the bag and the bike had brutally knocked him out, obviously to get his service weapon. Anyway, that hasn't changed anything now. As fast as he could, he stormed towards the front door. He could see numerous customers crouching behind small tables and the associated chairs or at the side through the window. As he flung open the front door, Bailey looked hastily from left to right. Where was the guy? There was no one here shooting wildly. Then he saw two customers cowering against the wall to his right, pointing at a man kneeling on the floor in front of the sales counter. Bailey recognized him immediately. This was the man with the bag and the bicycle. "Don't move!" he shouted, rushing towards him in two quick steps. He pushed him forward and pushed him in the back with his right knee so that the perpetrator came to rest flat on the floor, face down, arms stretched out beside him. To Bailey's amazement, the man did not attempt to fight back. Then, the experienced officer spotted his service weapon lying on the floor of the sales area right next to him. He picked it up and ordered in a tone that brooked no contradiction: "Put your damn hands behind your back!"

The man obeyed. Bailey handcuffed him tightly.

xxx

Hi gang, after a long time, finally a word from me :-)

I decided to continue with this kind of family story for several reasons.

1: For some crazy reason, I can't stop thinking about how my version of the Rizzoli family dynamics will develop. I have a real crush on my version of this family, and I keep coming up with more and more ideas.

2: Because we have already discussed the development of all the family characters in my stories, I had the idea to discuss Ashlyn and Maggie in more detail.

Actually, those are all the reasons.

Finally, thank you all for continuing to endure and support my stories. Not everyone likes my version of Rizzoli & Isles, which is perfectly okay. After all, thank God tastes differ, otherwise life would be boring.

I hope you will enjoy this story as much as the others.

Enjoy the ride,

T73.