TWO SHOT - Ch. 1

“The suspect is running. Repeat, suspect on the move.”

TWO SHOT Chapter 1 Audio

The voice burst through Ryan Mason's earbud receiver with a static hiss. Goddammit. He hated it when the suspects ran. His producers, on the other hand, loved it. Which meant his director, Sharon Graham, also loved it.

They said it was good television. Exciting, raw, exhilarating. All those adjectives they use when what they really mean is that it draws in ratings. Mason thought it went against the tone of his show, Ryan Mason: Private Eye, and made it seem too much like COPS or Dog the Bounty Hunter. Not that Mason had much of a say in the matter. It might be his name in the show title but they were the ones writing the checks.

“Which direction?” Mason pinched the call button laying flat against his shirt collar. He stepped out from behind the dark blue Mercedes providing his cover and scanned the neighborhood street. “I'm on foot about one hundred yards from the suspect's last location. I need—”

A metallic crash made Mason drop into a defensive stance, one hand on his rubber bullet-loaded gun, as the source of the crash—a large trash can—tumbled down a driveway thirty feet in front of him. In the wake of the trash can, a man wearing track pants and no shirt, came barreling out from behind the house at the top of the driveway. He took one look in Mason's direction before bolting the other way.

“Nevermind. I have visual and am in pursuit.”

Mason took off down the street after the suspect, his feet thundering against the hot pavement. Behind him, he heard the huffing and grunting of his cameraman, Marty, trying to keep up, the thirty-pound camera on his shoulders not making that an easy task.

The suspect, Clint Perry, sprinted through the residential streets of Greenwood Heights, trying desperately to escape Mason and his cameraman. Clint was the owner and proprietor of a rather lucrative art gallery in Long Beach, which explained his residence in Greenwood Heights. The gallery claimed to specialize in Subjective Realism of the Late 20th Century but in reality, specialized in selling stolen artwork out of the back room. Which explained why Clint was now running frantically through Greenwood Heights.

The extravagant houses lining the road, with their immaculately manicured lawns and vista windows, were incongruous with the scene taking place. Clint sped down the middle of the wide street, spurred on by adrenaline and fear. Every few feet, he tossed quick glances over his shoulder at Mason. With each glance, his eyes widened as Mason steadily gained ground.

Mason suppressed a grin at the sight. For all his artistic objections to a foot chase, it was hard to not get just a little enjoyment out of it. With the majority of the show the contrived work of a team of writers working in conjunction with local police departments, Mason had a special appreciation for these moments. Spontaneous, real moments when viewers would see true reality.

The sweat forming at his temples and neck, the blood pounding in his ears, the rhythmic gasps of breath from his lungs—no team of writers could take credit for that. It was one of the few things he could point to and say that right there, that's all me and no one can say otherwise.

The wailing of nearby sirens broke into Mason's thoughts. Great. One of the neighborhood residents must have called the cops. Now it was only a matter of time before they converged on his position. Which meant his precious real moment was at an end.

Mason pushed his legs to churn faster. He had to close the gap before the cops showed up and nabbed his suspect. Mason was not particularly fond of the idea of the cops getting all the credit for his work. And while Sharon might not agree that a suspect running was bad television, she would kill Mason for letting the boys in blue capture his suspect.

Clint approached an intersection and tossed another panicked glance at Mason. With his head turned around, Clint missed the large white van pulling onto the street in front of him. Mason recognized the van immediately as belonging to his film crew, who had been cruising the neighborhood getting B-roll footage.

The van's tires squealed as it swerved to avoid a collision. Clint reacted by stumbling into a curb and nearly tripping, his arms flailing wildly to keep his balance.

By now, the sirens sounded close and Mason strained to gain more ground. At his current pace, he guessed he would overtake Clint in twenty, maybe thirty, feet.

Suddenly, two police cars screeched to a halt in the intersection half a block down the road. Mason slowed. With Mason behind and the police cars in front, Clint had nowhere to go. Not that it stopped him from trying.

Without breaking stride, Clint bolted from the road. He crossed the lawn of a rather expensive-looking house with large Roman columns and angled for the decorative privacy fence. Mason blew out a sharp huff of breath before resuming the chase. He should have known it wouldn't be that easy.

Clint leaped at the fence without slowing, his body smashing audibly against the wood. Clint somehow managed to hold tight to the fence and pull himself over the top. Mason followed across the lawn, pinching the comm button on his collar.

“Suspect jumped a fence headed south. Repeat, suspect headed south.”

Reaching the fence, Mason vaulted it in one fluid motion, bringing his legs up and over like a gymnast. As he hit the ground on the other side, he tucked his body into a tight roll to absorb the impact. Popping to his feet, Mason took three quick steps to round the corner of the house. He had just enough time to catch a hint of movement on the ground before pitching forward onto his face.

Mason hit the ground hard, wincing as his gun dug into his side. Slowly, he dragged himself to his feet and looked to see what had tripped him. It turned out to not be a what, but a who.

Clint Perry.

The man lay on the ground clutching at his ankle, which now bent at an awkward angle.

“Oh my God, my ankle! My fucking ankle!” Clint rocked back and forth, face scrunched in pain.

“I've got him,” Mason spoke into his comm, ignoring Clint completely. “We need an ambulance. He's got a broken ankle.”

“Shit, Mason, tell me you weren't responsible.” Sharon Graham's voice crackled anxiously over the comm.

“Nah, the dumbass broke his ankle trying to jump a fence.” Mason looked down at Clint, still writhing in pain. “Ironic if you ask me. The head of a fencing operation caught by a fence.”

“Oh, I like that. Use that when you're putting on the cuffs in front of the cameras. Audiences'll love a one liner like that.”

“If you say so.” Mason glanced up at the privacy fence. “Speaking of cameras, how is Marty getting back here? I don't think Marty is gonna be hopping the fence with that camera.”

“He's going through the gate on the other side of the house. Should be there any second.”

As if on command, Marty rounded the corner of the house, face bright red and gasping for breath.

“Nevermind, here he is.” Mason let go of his comm and turned to Marty. “Sup dude. Where do you want me?”

Marty quickly appraised the setting, trying to get the best composition.

“Right here.” Marty pointed to a spot between Clint and the fence. “I wanna get the fence in the background.”

Mason pulled his handcuffs from the holster at his waist and knelt beside Clint. “This good?”

“Yep.” Marty settled the camera on his shoulder and looked through the eyepiece. “Alright. Action in five, four, three...”

Marty finished out the count by holding up two fingers and then just one finger before pointing at Mason. Mason caught the signal and brought up the handcuffs with a practiced flourish. Leaning in, Mason grabbed Clint's wrist in preparation for the cuffs. Clint struggled against Mason's grip.

“Looks like you finally found a fence you couldn't handle,” Mason slapped the handcuffs in place to punctuate the line. Suddenly, Michael Jackson's voice billowed from Mason's pocket, singing “Thriller.”

“Is that...your phone?” Clint's face contorted in disbelief.

Mason snatched his phone from his pocket, shooting Clint a don't-say-another-word glare.

“Goddammit, Mason, turn that shit off.” Marty lifted the camera from his shoulder, letting it hang comfortably by his side. “We need another take before the cops get here.”

Mason started to cancel the incoming call but stopped when he saw the name on the screen: ANDREA. Mason normally ignored a phone call immediately while working. Andrea Weston calling did not fall into the “normally” category.

Even though they spoke only a few times a year, Mason considered Andrea one of his best friends. Which as a celebrity meant one of Mason's only friends. Mason slid his thumb across the screen to answer it, ready to tell Andrea he would call her back. Andrea spoke first.

“Ryan, I need your help.”

The tone, the desperation in her voice, hit Mason heavily, sinking into his gut. He had never heard Andrea ask anyone for help. Never.

“What do you need? I'm filming right now but I'll be done in an hour. Tops.”

“Can you meet me at Blue Sun at 4:30?”

“4:30?” Mason took the phone from his ear to check the time. 2:15. “Yeah, I can make it.”

“Thanks, Ryan.”

“Of course.”

The phone clicked in Mason's ear as Andrea hung up. What the hell was that about? Mason returned the phone to his pocket, ignoring the elaborate string of curses coming through his comm from Sharon. He'd hear them again in person soon enough.

“Alright, Marty, let's get this before—”

Three police officers thundered around the corner of the house, guns drawn. The officers sighed in unison, holstering their weapons. The one on the right muttered loud enough for Mason to hear, “just that T.V. asshole.”

Yep, that's me, Mason thought. That T.V. Asshole.