The name’s Angola LaGrange, private investigator. A pandemic grips the nation, keeping everyone isolated from each other. But sometimes people still need a little help. I’ve been hired by Gregori Malcovich, an Eastern European stuck
The name’s Angola LaGrange, private investigator. A pandemic grips the nation, keeping everyone isolated from each other. But sometimes people still need a little help. I’ve been hired by Gregori Malcovich, an Eastern European stuck in the country on an expired visa, to find his niece. Or so I thought. When I found the girl, she spoke with a southern accent and didn’t know who Gregori was. But before I could get any answers, someone opened fire on us.
Read the full details Here and the unfolding case below.
Dust and fragments of cheap tile rained down on me as bullets tore through the apartment bathroom. I wasn’t sure how many gunmen there were or how much firepower they had, but at least one had something fully automatic.
I couldn’t risk sticking my head out and giving the shooter a better look at my position. But firing blind was no good, especially with Anya somewhere in the room between us.
I coughed as another spray of bullets dislodged a cloud of dust. The mirror across from me shattered, dropping tiny slices of agony all over the floor.
Carefully, I picked up one of the larger chunks. With a little effort I angled it so I could see around the corner.
Near the far wall, Anya was lying on the floor with her arms over her head. Beyond her, one gunman stood outlined in the shattered window. The door swung open and another man entered. He said something to the gunman and another hail of bullets flew in my direction.
I ducked farther back into cover as the debris rained down around me.
The dust settled. I took a deep breath. Now or never.
Using the shard of mirror to guide me, I reached around the corner and fired a quick three-shot-burst at the man in the window. Nothing landed, but I forced him to back out of sight before he returned fire.
These shots landed close, and I had to abandon my position near the bathroom door. Anya screamed from the other room.
I crawled cautiously across the broken glass to get another glimpse of the scene.
The second man injected Anya with something, and her thrashing subsided. Probably a sedative.
The gunman shouted something, and the inside man scooped up the now limp Anya and carried her out.
I moved to follow, but another spray of bullets drove me back. I stayed under cover until I heard the distant sound of a car engine.
Cautiously, I peered out around the corner of the ruined bathroom. The men were gone, along with Anya.
I rushed over to the open maw of the window and checked the parking lot. As I suspected, the gray sedan had disappeared.
What would make them take off without killing me first? I certainly hadn’t frightened them with my little handgun and ineffective shooting. I’m losing my touch.
The sound of sirens reached me just before the flashing lights came into view.
Of course. I cursed my own sluggishness as I dug my purse out of the wreckage. With the adrenaline wearing off, I was suddenly aware of countless little cuts and scrapes, their pain demanding my attention.
But I didn’t have time for that.
I pulled my private investigator license and concealed carry permit out of my purse and laid them on the bed next to my gun. Then I moved to the other side of the room, got down on my knees, and put my hands behind my head.
The first cop must have called for backup, because it took at least ten minutes before anyone approached the apartment. Or maybe it was just my impatience.
My whole body ached.
Eventually, two silhouettes dashed in front of the broken window. Here we go. Two officers ducked into the open doorway, guns drawn and ready for action. A third covered them through the hole in the wall. It was a good tactical entry, and I would have been impressed if my soreness hadn’t dried up the river of my charity.
“Look, I know you have to check for yourselves, but I’m the only one here. My credentials are on the bed, and if you don’t mind, I’ve been kneeling here for a really long time waiting for you guys.”
They didn’t answer me. But one did go over to the bed and glance at my license. The guy in the window covered me with his weapon while the other two swept the rest of the apartment.
Once they had satisfied themselves that I was in fact alone, one of the officers came over while the other called in their findings.
“It’s going to be all right, Miss.” His voice was a bit muffled by the facemask, but he seemed genuine enough. He looked me over. “We’ll get you some help.” He turned to the man in the window.
“Fred, wake the paramedic up, we’ve got a live one.”
I groaned a little as he helped me to my feet. He tried to help me walk out of the apartment, but I insisted I could make it on my own. I did notice that for all his kindness, he made sure to stay between me and the bed, where I’d left my gun.
Outside, the parking lot bustled with activity. Officers had cordoned off the exits and were rounding up potential witnesses. News crews had gathered as close as they could to report on the activities. An older policeman barked orders at everyone who crossed his eye-line.
Despite the officer’s words, the paramedic I was ushered to seemed perfectly alert as he cleaned my cuts, though he might have been a sadist given how much it stung. While he bandaged some my deeper wounds, the officer in charge came over.
He was still examining my credentials when he spoke to me. “So Miss…LaGrange, what happened in there?”
That was a great question.
To Be Continued…