"Griggs!" I yelled, my split lip tearing open again, spraying a red mist onto the frosted glass of the breezeway.
Griggs looked up from his clipboard, his brow furrowing beneath his navy knit watch cap. He didn't recognize me at first. Without my duty jacket, without my eight-point hat, and with half my face swollen purple and black, I looked like an agitated transient who had climbed out of a culvert.
Then his eyes dropped to the dark navy trousers, the light blue stripe along the seam, and the gold county patch on my left shoulder.
"Luke?" Griggs took half a step backward, his boots sliding slightly on the salted concrete. "What the hell is going on? Donald called in a violent behavioral hold. He said you were unhinged in the armory."
"Don't touch that stretcher," I wheezed, lunging across the curb and catching myself on the rear bumper of the ambulance. The metal was freezing, but the heat rolling off the tailpipe washed over my ankles. "Look at my hands, Griggs. Look at my waist."
I held both hands out, palms open, fingers spread wide against the cold. My knuckles were skinned from the wall, but they were empty. My duty belt was gone, my holster was gone, and my hands were shaking from the sheer cold burning through my socks.
Before Griggs could answer, the glass breezeway door was kicked open from inside.
Vance Miller came through the opening at a dead sprint, his heavy wool overcoat flying wide behind him, his dark leather gloves balled into fists. Behind him, walking with the measured, terrifying calm of a commanding officer who believed every square foot of the county belonged to him, was Captain Donald. Donald held a thick manila folder under his left arm and a pair of hinged peerless handcuffs in his bare right hand.
"Step away from the vehicle, Luke," Donald said. His voice was completely steady, pitched to carry over the throb of the ambulance engine without sounding strained. "Griggs, secure him. He’s suffering an acute dissociative episode. He broke out of secure hold and triggered the exterior perimeter alarm."
Danvers reached for the nylon restraint straps hanging from the side of the gurney, his face pale and uncertain. "Captain, he’s bleeding from the mouth. His cheek is fractured."
"He sustained minor facial trauma during a physical containment in muster after he reached for a service weapon," Donald lied without blinking. He didn't even look at Danvers; his eyes remained pinned to mine like iron nails. "Detective Miller utilized defensive hand strikes to prevent him from drawing. He’s completely unstable. Get the straps on him and administer the sedative protocol. I’ve already executed the administrative transport warrant."
Donald held up the manila folder. Through the translucent plastic window of the document pouch, I could see the yellow county clerk seal—the emergency mental health transport order Donald had pre-signed using his magistrate liaison authority.
Vance stepped between me and the open door of the ambulance, cutting off my only path of retreat. His breath came in short, white bursts, smelling of stale tobacco and peppermints. His right knuckles were swollen to the size of walnuts, the skin split where he had driven them into my cheekbone.
"You're done running, Tanner," Vance muttered, his voice dropping low enough that the paramedics couldn't hear over the engine rumble. "You get on that cot right now, or I swear to God I'll put you down on this curb so hard they'll need a plastic surgeon to find your teeth."
"Touch me again, Vance," I said, stepping backward until my shoulder blades hit the metal side panel of Medic Two. "Touch me in front of these two county workers. Go ahead."
"He's combative," Donald announced loudly, stepping up onto the curb and motioning to Danvers. "Paramedics, initiate involuntary restraint. That is a direct lawful order from the precinct commander."
"No, it isn't," I shouted.
With my right hand, I reached inside the waistband of my trousers, gripped the two folded sheets of paper, and pulled them out into the daylight.
"He's reaching!" Vance shouted, his hand dropping instantly to the pocket of his overcoat.
"Paper, Vance! It's paper, you coward!" I snapped, thrusting the sheets straight out into the space between us.
The cold wind caught the edges, snapping the pink manifold sheet against the crisp white bond of the state printout. I didn't hand them to Donald. I shoved them directly into the chest of Paramedic Griggs.
"Look at the top sheet, Griggs," I ordered, my voice cutting through the alley like a whip. "Read the header out loud. Right now."