The Echo Killing: A gripping debut crime thriller you won’t be able to put down!. Christi Daugherty
couldn’t blame him. She knew as well as anyone reporters at crime scenes were supposed to be nothing but eyes and ears – always observing, never getting involved.
But surely this was different. Someone could die. And there was no one else here to save him.
Before she could make up her mind what to do, the three gunmen stepped out of the shadows.
Harper’s eyes had adjusted to the dark now and she could see them clearly as the one with the bandanna raised his gun, leveling it at the bobbing light in the distance.
The would-be shooter was small – no more than five foot four – and so young. He could easily be a teenager.
But his stance was confident. His hand was steady. There was a kind of eagerness to his posture – he leaned forward onto the balls of his feet, the gun thrust out. As if he couldn’t wait to kill.
The scene took on a haze of unreality. It was too late to call for help. They were too close, anyway.
Next to her, Miles took his first careful shots. There was no loud click – just a muffled shushing sound, instantly lost in the breeze.
He modified his cameras for silence.
Across the road, the gunman spread his legs, bracing himself to fire. The gun glittered silver in his hand.
Every muscle in Harper’s body tightened, preparing for the roar of gunfire. Her hands gripped the trunk of the Toyota in front of her, knuckles gleaming pale.
This couldn’t happen. She couldn’t sit there and watch a man die. She had to do something.
Closing her eyes she drew a sharp breath. Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she shouted into the quiet night.
‘Police. Drop your weapons.’ She paused, trying to think up something else intimidating to say. ‘You’re surrounded.’
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Miles glare at her.
Across the courtyard, the cop’s flashlight swung hurriedly in her direction. It blinked once, then disappeared.
The wanted trio whirled toward her voice. The taller two whipped handguns out of their waistbands and pointed them at the Toyota.
Harper and Miles ducked down below the windows.
Squeezing her eyes shut, Harper listened for any sound. Her heart slammed against her ribs. Her breath came in short, tight gasps. She had definitely not thought this through.
‘Great.’ Crouching next to her, every muscle tense, Miles hissed, ‘What’s next in your plan? Hit them with your pen?’
Harper didn’t have an answer. What was the step after yelling? Yell again?
Where were the real police, for God’s sake?
Cautiously, she raised her head to look at the men through the dirty car windows. All their guns were pointed directly at her.
With a gasp, she dropped back down. Her ribs felt too tight around her lungs – she couldn’t seem to breathe.
If the police didn’t get here soon, she and Miles were both going to die.
Swallowing hard, she tried shouting again.
‘I said drop your weapons, now.’
‘Fuck you, five-o,’ the tallest of the three shouted defiantly.
She heard a series of metallic clicks.
Her heart stopped.
She heard Miles whisper, ‘Oh, hell.’
They threw themselves down flat, hitting the rough concrete as the men fired.
The noise of three powerful guns letting loose was deafening – an almighty cannon roar.
Overhead, the windows of the car shattered.
Her hands covering her head, Harper squeezed her eyes shut as glass showered her.
They were trapped.
The shooting seemed to go on forever. When it finally stopped, the silence left a hollow feeling in Harper’s chest – a curious emptiness.
Her ears ringing, she reached out blindly for Miles.
He wasn’t there.
‘Miles,’ she whispered urgently, hands flailing in the air.
‘I’m alive,’ he hissed from a few feet away. ‘No thanks to you.’
Blinking dust and glass from her eyes, she saw him, crouched by the trunk of the car.
‘You dead, five-o?’ one of the shooters shouted mockingly.
Before Harper could think of an appropriate reply, a cool voice spoke from behind her right shoulder.
‘I am alive and very pissed off,’ it said. ‘Now drop your weapons or I will unload on you.’
Startled, Harper twisted around. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood directly behind her. He had a 9 mm semi-automatic pistol trained on the three suspects.
Luke Walker.
He wore a black T-shirt and jeans. The badge hooked to his belt gleamed. His gun hand was absolutely steady.
‘You really are surrounded,’ he added, motioning with his free hand.
As if on cue, a line of dark-clad undercover cops poured onto the street. Overhead, a police helicopter thundered across the sky, its blinding spotlight turning the night into cold, white day. Amid the sudden deafening confusion, voices shouted rough commands.
The cavalry had arrived at last.
Caught off guard, the three wanted men were pointing their guns wildly in all directions. But it was too late, and even they knew that.
With slow reluctance, the tallest one dropped his gun. The short one gave him a look of disgust.
But seconds later, as the police shouted commands and threats at him, he did the same.
One by one, they knelt on the ground, putting their hands behind their heads.
As the police swarmed them, Miles left the battered Toyota and ran over to get more shots.
Harper stood cautiously. Her legs were a little shaky.
That had been too close for comfort.
As she turned to face him, Luke holstered his weapon.
‘Harper McClain.’ He didn’t sound happy. ‘Why am I not surprised to see you here?’
‘Because I’m always this intrepid?’ Harper forced a nonchalance she didn’t feel into her voice.
She’d known Luke since she was an intern at the paper and he was a rookie patrol officer. At twenty, he’d been earnest and thoughtful. They’d both grown up in the same neighborhoods and they were the same age. So, when her editor assigned her to do a ride-along with him, it was almost inevitable they’d hit it off.
They’d spent three hours racing from one fairly minor crime to another with the enthusiasm of ingénues. She’d written an excited article about his life as a new cop. They’d been friends ever since.
So she knew him well enough to know he was genuinely pissed off as he strode toward her, boots crunching on broken glass.
‘Intrepid is not the word I’m thinking of,’ he said, a sharp edge to his voice. ‘Dammit, Harper, since when do you perform citizen’s arrests? You could have gotten yourself killed. You know that, right?’
‘What else was I supposed to do?’ she asked. ‘Backup