Deadly Pursuit: Arrington Mystery

By Elle Gray

Tick. Tock… The clock is ticking.
Time is running out for Paxton Arrington.
The choice he must make could be the difference between life and death.

 

Paxton Arrington had an upbringing of wealth and privilege.
Rather than live the life of a corporate CEO, Paxton chose to become one of Seattle's finest.
He's a man with a rigid and unyielding personality and a belief of always doing the right thing.

 

When he stumbles onto corruption in his own precinct, Paxton finds himself in a precarious position with no simple way out of it.
Going head to head with Detective Sergeant Radley and his
highly decorated Strike Team is career suicide. More than that, he fears that taking them on could have a ripple effect of unintended consequences.

 

Drawn into a web of deceit and danger.
Paxton enlists his good friend, FBI Special Agent Blake Wilder to help him get the evidence he needs to bring the Strike Team down once and for all.
With forces aligning against him, Paxton must make a decision that could cost him everything.
One that will forever change his life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Elle Gray
• Release date: Sep 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393365341

Book preview

One

Acevedo Residence; South Beacon Hill, Seattle

S eattle PD!

From my position in the alley, I hear the Strike Team announce their presence. This house is owned by Hector Acevedo, but I guarantee he doesn’t live here. It’s more like his office. This is where he sells a lot of dope to the junkies who show up and spend a few hours in here getting high. It’s a trap house and nothing more. Frankly, I’d be surprised if Acevedo is within ten miles of this place right now. But the intel says he is, and so I wait.

The sound of the Strike Team announcing the warrant we’re serving is quickly followed by the sound of a door crashing inward, an intense flurry of shouting, and the muffled explosions of a couple flash-bangs going off. What I don’t hear is any screams or shouts of fear, telling me the place is either empty or filled with people too stoned to know what’s happening.

I sigh and fold my arms over my chest, leaning back against the car, and look up at the sky. It’s rapidly lightening, cast in vivid shades of purple and pink as the sun begins to crest the horizon. A large bank of dark, ominous clouds looms out on the horizon, and a cool wind blows down the alley, sending the dirt and trash skittering along the cracked and pitted pavement.

This sucks, my partner, Andre Loomis, complains. I want to be in there crackin’ skulls. Not out here babysitting an empty friggin’ alley.

It does suck. But as uniforms, this is our lot in life; we’re always invited to the party, but never get to dance. Still, it beats driving around in a car all day, rousting the homeless and dudes peddling dime bags on the corner. At least this gets us somewhat closer to some actual action. Action-adjacent, as my wife Veronica calls it whenever I complain about having to sit on perimeter duty.

Frankly, I’m surprised to be on this task force at all. Captain Torres must have been desperate for warm bodies since he and I don’t usually see eye-to-eye on, well… anything. He thinks I’m an obnoxious malcontent who likes to flout the rules, and I think he’s a spineless, bootlicking turd who cares more about climbing the ladder than the men under his command.

That perception of our fearless leader has led to more than one write-up over the course of my career. Well, that and the fact that we’ve butted heads. A few times. Maybe more than a few. It’s also probably why I’m still in a uniform, riding a patrol car, after almost seven years on the job.

Just think of it as something to pad your resume with when you take the detective’s exam at some point, I offer to Loomis.

You’re an old-timer here, he notes. Why are you still in patrol?

Loomis has been my partner for a couple of months now. My old partner was promoted and is working Vice while I remain stuck in a car. I like Loomis well enough. We get along, but we don’t share much in the way of our personal stories. Or rather, I don’t. There are very few people I open up to in this world, and my partner’s not one of them.

Besides, I’ve learned to not get too attached to my partners. Sooner or later, like clockwork, they’ll get promoted, and I’ll be left behind in the car.

Torres has a hard-on for me, is all I say. And I’m pretty sure seven years doesn’t qualify me for a pension just yet, thank you very much.

Loomis nods and flashes me a grin. I hear you, dude.

He doesn’t though. I mean, he hears the words coming out of my mouth, but he doesn’t actually hear me. Not really. How could he? He’s been a cop for less than a year. He doesn’t know how the game is played. Interoffice politics, especially in the Seattle PD, are ruthless. Bloodier than the coups back in ancient Rome. You get on the wrong side of the right person, and you might as well get used to being stuck as a beat cop for your entire career.

Movement in the corner of my eye draws my attention. I turn to see a man in a black t-shirt, black joggers, and white sneakers hopping the fence of the run-down cottage next door to the trap house we’re raiding. As I turn, the man lands on the ground with a hard thud and locks eyes with me. For a long moment, neither of us speak, nor move. We just stand there silently staring at one another as the air around us crackles with tension.

He’s actually here, I mutter and then drop my hand to the butt of my weapon. Hector Acevedo! SPD! Stay right where you are!

I hear Loomis gasp, and in my peripheral vision, I see him turning toward us. Acevedo is the target we’re after. He’s one of Seattle’s biggest drug pushers and is the reason we’re raiding the trap house in the first place. The Strike Team got intel he’d be here. And sure enough… here he is, alive and in the flesh.

Acevedo tenses. I can tell he’s about to bolt. A rush of adrenaline starts to surge through me. A smirk pulls the corner of my mouth up as I realize I’m no longer action-adjacent, but right in the thick of it instead. My day just got a whole lot more interesting.

Don’t you move, I tell him.

Down on the ground! Loomis shouts. Get down now!

I cut a glance back and see Loomis fumbling with his weapon. It’s probably caught on his holster. I groan inwardly, knowing this is the window of opportunity Acevedo needs. And sure enough, he flashes me a grin and bolts. I turn to Loomis.

Take the car, I shout. Stay on him from the street.

Without waiting for a reply, I take off at a sprint. I can’t afford to lose a second because Acevedo is faster than a jackrabbit. He turns right at the end of the alley and dashes up the street. At this hour of the morning, there isn’t much foot traffic, but there’s some as people have started to make their way to work.

They turn and stare at Acevedo as he jets by them, some shouting angry curses as he bumps into them. I don’t want to see anybody get hurt, but I’m grateful for the crowd. Every time he bumps into somebody, it cuts into the lead he has on me, even if just by a fraction of a second. I’m fast— I was an All-State cornerback in high school— but Acevedo has speed to burn.