Stilettos & Combat Boots

Prologue

My name is Gemma Stone and I’ve been a Maricopa County Sheriff’s Deputy for four years. Why did I become a cop? Genetics, tradition, and the armed robbery I walked in on when I was sixteen.

After my father and five brothers were discharged from the Marines, they all went into law enforcement. My mother had been an Army sniper until pregnancy forced a career change. She now flies a rescue chopper for the Arizona Department of Public Safety.

Chasing down bad guys is in my blood. Unfortunately, most of the citizens I encounter are friggin’ nuts. I mean, seriously, did they put something in the water? And don’t get me started on what some people consider pets. Scorpions are not pets.

I work out of District Three, which includes Sun City, eight unincorporated towns with small populations, Lake Pleasant, and lots of desert. Fifteen deputies cover 1600 square miles. District Three is always understaffed and our calls for service are incredibly high. If you get in trouble, you are pretty much on your own.

My personal life is complicated. Off duty I’m a ballroom dancer. Everyone thinks I’m nuts, but I love competitive dancing. I get to meet a lot of people who aren’t trying to kill me. Okay, there was the one incident, but hey, my homicidal former dance partner is now locked up for eighteen counts of assault with a deadly weapon, burglary, and several counts of attempted murder.

During all this chaos, Detective Sergeant Dante Delgado waltzed into my life. The minute I saw him my girly parts yelled yee-haw, and I knew he was the one. We dance divinely together, but our work life is another matter.

Law enforcement isn’t for the fainthearted. Are you brave enough to enter my world?

Chapter One

The high-pitched alert tone blared from our portable radios and the dispatcher announced, The Bank One at 99th Avenue and Bell Road has just been robbed. The suspect is wearing a paper bag over her head with eyeholes cut out, a pink bathrobe and fluffy pink slippers. The suspect is armed with a handgun. Charlie-28 and Charlie-27 I need you to respond to the bank.

Charlie-28 copy.

A sex kitten voice replied, Charlie-27 en route.

I grinned at Julie, my very best friend and partner. Let’s roll. That’s only a mile away. If we can catch ourselves a bank robber, maybe Sergeant Bergman will rescind our animal pick up duty.

It’s worth a try and what kind of idiot wears a paper bag as a disguise? Julie quickly keyed her radio mic, Charlie-24 and Charlie-23 are close to the bank. Do you have a description of the suspect’s vehicle?

The dispatcher replied, Charlie-24 the suspect is driving an old blue and white motorhome. It was last seen northbound on 99th Avenue. The witness advised the RV is belching black smoke.

We’ll check the area for the suspect vehicle, Julie advised.

Copy, Charlie-24.

I’m driving, Julie yelled as we ran for our patrol car.

Still wearing his itty-bitty Speedo and flip-flops, Sam Foster, the Sun City playboy, waved at us. Izzy slipped her leash and got away. I need you to catch her again.

I rolled my eyes, like we had time to catch the six-foot iguana for a second time today. Sorry, we’re responding to a bank robbery. I dove into the passenger seat.

Julie hit the lights and sirens and put the pedal to the metal.

As we zoomed by Sam, I waved all friendly-like.

He gave me a one-fingered salute.

Was that nice?

If we cut across Del Webb Boulevard, and throw out some stop sticks at Palmares, we’ll catch ourselves a bank robber. Julie made a hard left. Shit! She slammed on the brakes.

I clutched the armrest as we skidded to a stop. Izzy was sitting in the middle of the road. I flung open the door and stepped out. Izzy. Come.

Izzy hissed.

Doors opened and people came out to stare at us.

I grimaced as the sirens kept screaming and the lights kept flashing. I slashed my hand across my throat.

Julie killed the sirens.

We didn’t have time for this. In my best mean-mother voice, I opened the back door of the patrol car and commanded, Izzy, in. Now!

Izzy jumped in the back. I quickly shut the door and slid into the front seat. Go!

God, you don’t think she’ll crap all over us like the monkey did, do ya?

Does it matter? We’ve got to catch ourselves a bank robber, I said.

I dunno. It took me a week to get rid of all the monkey shit in my hair.

Which is worse iguana crap, a skunk carcass, fighting off vultures, or my personal favorite, dodging speeding vehicles.

Julie hit the gas, spinning the steering wheel to the right to miss a bunch of lookie-loos, and shot down the street.

I keyed my mic. Dispatch, do we have an update on the suspect’s location?

David-21 advised the suspect vehicle just passed Amber Trail, the dispatcher answered.

Julie scowled. We can’t let Mister Testosterone catch our bank robber.

I’ll ask. I keyed my mic. Dispatch is David-21 in pursuit?

No. He blew a tire, the dispatcher replied.

I heaved a sigh of relief. Copy.

Yay! We can still catch the bank robber at Palmares Drive. Julie hit the sirens, swerved around a golf cart doing fifteen miles per hour. Bam! The patrol car hit a speed bump and went airborne for a moment.

Thump! My teeth snapped together. Are you trying to get us killed?

Izzy poked her head up from the floorboard and hissed a protest.

Don’t be such a wuss. Julie shot through a red light, ignoring all the honking horns, and squealing brakes.

I clung to the armrest as Julie made a hard left. You got a death wish?

Come hell or high water, we are catching that perp, Julie shot back and slammed on the brakes. The patrol car fishtailed wildly before coming to a stop behind some desert landscaping.

I threw open the door and bailed out. For the rest of the day, I’m driving, and pop the damn trunk.

Charlie-24 and Charlie-23 are out at Del Webb Boulevard and Palmares. We will be deploying the stop sticks. Julie hit the trunk release.

The dispatcher repeated, All units be advised Charlie-24 and Charlie-23 are deploying stop sticks at Del Webb and Palmares.

I shook my head in disbelief. A few blocks south of us a white and blue motorhome limped along, spewing a large cloud of black smoke. The bank robber had to be doing about thirty miles per hour if that. Grabbing the stop sticks, I threw them across the roadway and ducked behind a palm tree.

The motorhome hit the stop sticks. The tires blew. Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! The RV swerved wildly and careened into a dry drainage canal, landing on its right side with the hood jammed against the cement.

Julie did her happy dance.

Charlie-23 suspect vehicle has been disabled.

Copy, Charlie-23, the dispatcher replied.

Thick black smoke continued to pour from the motorhome.

I frowned. Is it on fire or is the engine burning that much oil?

Maybe both.

Bam. Bam. Bam. With the paper bag still over her head, the suspect kicked out the windshield.

Those are awfully hairy legs for a lady, Julie commented.

I drew my gun. Yep, and kinda brawny for a lady too.

Sheriff’s deputies! Show us your hands, Julie shouted, leveling her pistol at the suspect crawling through the shattered glass.

The suspect huddled against the hood with a pink tote bag clutched to his chest. In an obviously fake old lady’s voice, the guy called, Help me! Help me! It’s on fire! It’s on fire!

I automatically took a step forward, then stopped. Where is his pistol?

Good question.

Please! Help me. Please!

Her Glock held ready; Julie walked closer. Get your hands up.

The suspect suddenly started firing his gun through the tote bag. Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Agony flared in my right arm. I staggered off-balance, and the Glock suddenly fell from my hand. I took cover behind a cable box. Fuck! I was never going to hear the end of getting shot again.

Julie let out her banshee yell and returned fire.

The suspect ducked down as slugs riddled the motorhome and unleashed another barrage of gunfire.

A startled cry broke from Julie as she was hurled backward from the bullets’ impact. She hit the ground hard.

Julie! Ignoring the searing pain shooting down my right arm, I scooped up my Glock and shot the gun out of the suspect’s hand.

With a shriek, the suspect fell off the hood and disappeared into the drainage canal.

Good thing I could shoot with my left hand too. Keying my lapel mic, I said hoarsely, Charlie-23 shots fired. Charlie-24 is down, and I’m injured. The suspect was last seen in the drainage canal. I need backup and the paramedics.

Copy, Charlie-23. I need units to respond to Del Webb Boulevard and Palmares. Officers down, the dispatcher said.

Sirens filled the air, and a jumble of voices shouted their call signs on the radio.

Julie groaned and tried to get up. Suspect. Where?

In the drainage canal. I half-dragged, half-carried Julie over to our patrol car and checked her for bullet holes. Her vest had stopped two of them, but she had a nasty wound on her upper left arm. Grabbing the first aid kit out of the trunk, I placed two