Riptide (Sam McRae Mystery 3)

“Fuck it. We got the nigger boy. Let’s split.”

Jamila’s mind raced. Bobby! Oh, no!

And where are the police?

Jamila crawled out from under the bushes. She couldn’t wait for the cavalry.

Making her way to the tool shed in the backyard, Jamila found a screwdriver with a sharp pointed end. She dug around more, came up with her father’s Stanley knife and grabbed that, too.

By this time, the hooded gang was filing out to the car. One of them had Bobby slung over one shoulder. Jamila held back in the shadows, until the last minute. As they started up the car, she ran over and took the Stanley to one of the tires. The blowout was like a small explosion.

These guys aren’t going anywhere, Jamila thought. Ha!

The gang got out of the car. Jamila turned, dropped the tools and ran for her life.

“Get her,” a man yelled.

Jamila’s feet pounded the pavement. Thudding behind her grew louder. She spied a fence to her left. Veering sharply, she ran toward it, crouched quickly and sprang up, grabbing the top. She used the force of her momentum to sling herself over the fence. Once over, she let go and landed on her backside.

Jamila made no sound, though her heart felt like it was trying to burst from her chest. Her butt was sore. As if she’d been paddled. Still, she didn’t budge.

She could hear the men on the other side trying to find ways to scale the fence. But they were heavier and not as nimble.

“Excuse me.” She heard a man’s voice. “What are you people doing on my property at this ungodly hour?”

Clearly, the homeowner had discovered the hooded strangers. She heard mumbled exchanges that might have been apologies. Slowly, Jamila got on her hands and knees and crawled to the fence. She peeked out between the wooden slats.

The hooded men were leaving. Jamila breathed a sigh and slumped in relief against the fence.

Jamila tuned out her surroundings. She’d come so close to being caught, it frightened her half to death. Her thoughts wandered briefly toward Bobby, but she shut them out.

After a while, Jamila’s head cleared. She managed to stand up and brush herself off. After collecting herself, Jamila circled the house to the front. She started to approach the door, when she saw the flashing blue and red lights. The police! They must have come without sirens. At last! Thank God!

Jamila ran home. Officers were milling about her yard. Her parents were there. They looked frantic.

“Mom! Dad!”

They looked her way. Her mother’s face collapsed in grief. “Oh, my baby!”

Her father, his head bandaged and his arm in a sling, looked stricken. “Thank God.”

When Jamila reached her parents, she threw her arms around both. Her mother took her and squeezed the air out of her. She started shaking and choking.

“Mommy?”

“Oh, my baby. Oh, my God.”

Tears streamed down her mother’s face. Her words were a mournful cry.

Jamila looked around. Where’s Bobby?

She glanced at the car with the flat tire. There was yellow crime scene tape strung around their yard and people in uniform crawling all over the car.

Jamila felt a ball of ice form in her belly.

“Where’s Bobby?”

Her mother let out a guttural wail. Tears gushed.