Cellar Door

Milton holds up his hands in defense as the other man storms his way. I straighten up and press closer to my car window. The lens butts the glass. I whisper a curse and hit the control to lower the window, and in the short time it takes to do this, the man has wrapped his hands around Milton’s neck.

Shit.

I glance around, looking for someone to intervene. There’s no one. The office building is closed. I reach inside my jacket and unclasp the snap on my gun holster, then grab the door handle.

I’m not a cop.

Not anymore.

PIs watch; they don’t interfere.

I’m not a real PI.

But I’ve taken too long to make my choice. Milton has broken the man’s chokehold and races for the door. I grip my camera and refocus the lens. In a matter of seconds, Milton is through the door and barreling down the hallway. I lose sight of him…and the man enters my view.

A gun outstretched in his hand.

Through the camera lens, I make out his black suit. He’s tall. Broad shoulders. Short-cropped dark hair. He’s the right build…

Without thought, I snap a picture, then toss the camera on the passenger seat and open my door.

A shot rings out.

One foot planted on pavement, the other inside the car, I hold my breath. A second shot is fired, forcing me into motion, and I move.

I tear across the street, Glock held at my thigh, my other hand dialing 9-1-1 on my cellphone. I give the operator a brief rundown of what I witnessed and the address before ending the call so I can grasp the weapon with both hands.

Rounding the corner of the building, I creep into the parking garage. I expect to see security, but the gate is vacated. I look inside the gatehouse. A man in uniform is lying on the floor.

My heart speeds. Adrenaline scorches my veins. I swallow down the heavy thud in my ears and open the door. I check his neck quickly for vitals. He’s dead, but not cold to the touch.

The man who shot Milton Myer is the most likely suspect for ending the security officer’s life. Which means he came here with the premeditated intent to end Milton’s also.

But why plan a murder in an office building?

It feels sloppy. Too many possible witnesses.

I have a picture of him.

Getting my bearings and thoughts corralled, I push past the gate and head toward the elevator. My footfalls sound too loud as they bounce off the concrete enclosure and echo back at me. I wait half a minute, braced against the cement wall near the elevator door.

It could be him.

This thought consumes me, and it’s all I want.

I hit the button to go up.

I’m trained. I’ve been in similar situations. Yet fear pushes at my reasoning, the shrill voice of doubt grates my nerves.

I’m not a detective for a reason.

I fucked up.

As the doors slide apart, I propel myself inside and ascend upward before rational thought can stop me again. I check my piece to confirm a round is chambered, then I brace myself and let the adrenaline steer my course. I flatten my back against the steel wall and wait for the doors to open to the fourth floor.

It’s muscle memory. My body knows what procedure to follow, even as panic roars in my head like a twister.

One brief moment to breathe; I shut my eyes. Inhale. Exhale. The storm surrounds me. I hear the whir of the elevator coming to a stop. Then my eyes are open and laser-focused. My senses come alive.