Raven walked past the first deceased gunman, muttering, “You have the right to remain silent…if you manage to say anything it can and probably will be held against you in a court of law once you take a turn on the Late Late Show…”
As she moved past the second dead assailant, she continued, “You have the right to an attorney; you will probably need one that can conduct a séance…if you cannot afford an attorney the city will provide you with one who will try too hard to save your sorry ass.”
When she reached the surviving gunman, she knelt, grabbed his shirt, and growled, “Who sent you?”
The gunman opened his mouth to speak, but only managed a weak cough, his hands grasping weakly at Raven’s clothes.
She shook the man. “Give me a name, damn it. Come on! It won’t do you any good where you’re going!”
Again the gunman tried to speak, his final breath coming as a long, gurgling laugh, his smile frozen in place.
Angry and frustrated, Raven dropped the gunman and began CPR, her instincts telling her it was a futile gesture, her heart telling her to try anyway. After several minutes, she gave up and stood, her hands trembling.
It was after midnight by the time she had filed her report on the incident and spoken with both an internal affairs officer and Lieutenant Frost. When she was through, she left the district, driving blindly. She wasn’t sure where she was going until she arrived, knocking on the door to a penthouse mere blocks from where Nathan King had been killed. Francois Du Guerre answered the door almost immediately, his face registering first surprise and then concern.
Raven’s eyes glistened with uncharacteristic tears. “I think I’d like to share that drink now.”