The Unwilling(118)

French realized something ten seconds after he left the lot: his tires did not have enough rubber for the way he wanted to drive. If he could break the laws of physics, he would. Burn the sky. Shake the ground. None of it was about choice.

But that was not exactly true.

Jason wanted Gibby safe and clear, but needed Burklow and his father to get it done. Just them, though, the three of them. But French believed in bigger help, and that meant manpower, control, the overwhelming force of the state. It was simple math. Roll heavy, and lock shit down. Resolution might take longer, but it was usually the better resolution. The hostage lived. No cops died.

That’s where Jason became a problem.

If he was out, he’d escaped, and that meant people would be looking. French’s people. There’d been nothing on the radio, but he couldn’t exactly call in a request, either.

Dispatch, could you please confirm that my son has escaped from prison?

No. Couldn’t do it.

And if Jason was right? If the man who’d butchered that poor young woman was the same who had Gibby?

The thought was unbearable.

So was the next.

Roll heavy or go light, whatever decision he made in the next few minutes would put one son in greater danger. If he called in reinforcements, Gibby would have a better chance of getting out alive. Tactical teams. Snipers. Trained negotiators. French believed that to the bottom of his shoes. It was instinct, faith, thirty years of cop. But Jason was a wanted man, a suspected killer; and there were cops in the city that would take him down without thinking twice, oil and fucking water. And Jason was very likely to give them a reason. He’d go hot; resist arrest. If French could do it, he’d tell Jason to leave, go now, let us handle it. But Jason had no trust for cops. They’ll get my brother killed … He’d told Burklow as much.

French rolled down the window, but it didn’t help.

There was this house, and in it, a killer …

Was this really the question he faced?

One son or the other?

It wasn’t fair, but what was? French had gone to war, and killed, and lost one son already; he’d seen victims and unspeakable crime, spent years in the pursuit of evil men. In a good life, there’d been bad moments, but this was the worst, wind screaming in the car as he did the same in the silence of a breaking heart. One or the other, he had to choose.

French reached for the mic.

He made the call.



* * *



Finding the house was not a problem. The neighborhood was new money, but big money. Lots of gates and walls. Garages the size of a workingman’s house. French got there first, did a slow drive-by, and then parked where he could see the gate, the roofline, the glow of lights beyond the wall. Burklow rolled in five minutes later, and it was a long five minutes.

“You okay?”

They met on the sidewalk, low-voiced as Burklow did a hard-target search of French’s face. Whatever he saw there made him happy enough. He didn’t repeat the question.

“Where’s Jason?”

“I don’t know. He said he’d be here.”

The street was empty. They settled more deeply into the shadows cast by a streetlight two houses down. “Tell me everything he said.”

Burklow glanced at the house. To save time, they’d decided to do the full rundown in person. “Jason knows a lot about the property. The structure is fortified with polycarbonate, armored glass and steel-core doors in hardened frames. The security system is state of the art. Eighteen cameras on the grounds. Another dozen inside. Motion sensors and infrared. Pressure plates at the main and rear gates.”

“How does he know that?”

“How does he know any of it?”

“Do you believe him?”

“Do you?”

French thought, Yeah, I do. “Did he give you a name?”

“Reece, but he thinks it’s fictitious. There’s no Reece listed at this address. We can check property records after.” An unhappy moment passed between them. “I think he might be injured.”

“Jason? Why?”

“Something in his voice, his breathing, the fact he called us at all. I’ve never known him to ask for help.”

That was true. Not even as a kid.

Burklow shifted uneasily, looking down from all his great height. They’d been together a long time, thick and thin. French didn’t have to see his face to know his thoughts or the unanswered question that still hung between them. He nodded once, glad for the shadows, and how they hid his face. “Yeah,” he said. “I made the call.”

“I’m sorry, Bill.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“How soon?”

“Not long.” French did not trust his voice to say more. The first wave was already rolling: everyone on duty, and close enough to get there fast. Behind them, other cops were being called up, body armor issued, the armory broached. They had no warrant; they barely had probable cause. But no cop in the city had ever seen anything like what had been done to Tyra Norris, and every one of those cops wanted the guy who’d done it, proper procedure or not. French had slipped the chain, and it was coming, no stopping it.

Where was Jason?

Why wasn’t he here?

Misunderstanding the expression on his partner’s face, Burklow said, “Brother, you made the right choice.”