Chapter 28
The gray fog pressed against him like wet cotton, muffling everything except the drone of a television. The anchor’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and clinical.
“. . . murder at Union Correctional Institution. Damien Sullivan, serving life for a workplace mass shooting that claimed the lives of four officers . . .”
Damien Sullivan.
The name yanked Stryker backward through time like a fishhook through his skull.
Rain drummed against the patrol car’s roof in a steady rhythm that matched his thumb tapping his thigh.
Stryker sat alone behind the wheel, watching the convenience store through streaks of water that blurred the neon signs.
The duty belt dug into his hip where the seat belt crossed it.
The department needed to redesign these seats.
Cut deeper wells, extend the buckles. Stop jamming duty belts into officers’ ribs every shift.
A year without Damien as his partner. A year since Barclay had pulled his former partner into day shift, promising promotions and better assignments. Stryker knew what that meant. Bigger fish to fry. More important cases to bury.
The radio crackled to life, the dispatcher’s voice tinny through the static.
“Unit 47, respond to domestic disturbance.” She rattled off the address. “Multiple prior calls to this location.”
“Speak of the devil,” he muttered to himself.
Yeah, he knew that address. Sullivan. Six calls in eight months, and each one had carved something deeper out of Michelle Sullivan’s face. The bruises had spread like storm clouds, and her stories had worn thinner than paper.
“Unit 47, copy. En route.”
He reached for the volume knob and turned it down until the radio became background noise. The wipers scraped against the windshield as he pulled out of the lot, slapping water away before the next sheet hammered down.
The modest Florida house sat in darkness when he arrived. Porch light out. Damien should know better. The front door stood wide open behind the metal screen door. The neighborhood slept around him, windows dark, driveways empty except for the occasional sedan.
The silence bothered him more than shouting would have. Domestic calls usually came with noise. Screaming, breaking glass, neighbors complaining. This quiet felt wrong, like the pause before a scream.
Rain soaked through his uniform shirt as he approached the front door. Cold water ran down his neck. He positioned himself to the side of the doorframe, hand resting on his holstered weapon.
“Millie Beach Police. Damien Sullivan? Mrs. Sullivan?”
Nothing.
His fist slammed against the aluminum door frame. The metal clanged through empty rooms, but no one stirred. No shuffle of feet across linoleum. No muffled responses from the back bedroom. Just rain drumming the roof and the refrigerator’s electric wheeze.
Protocol demanded he wait for backup. Secure the perimeter.
But he’d heard Michelle Sullivan’s voice crack over the phone too many times. He’d seen the fear in her eyes when she insisted everything was fine, just a misunderstanding.
Stryker opened the screen door and stepped inside.
The stench hit him first. Whiskey and cigarettes mixed with something sour that might have been vomit.
Michelle Sullivan lay sprawled across the couch, one arm dangling toward the floor, knuckles brushing an overflowing ashtray.
Her face was turned toward the cushions, but he could see the fresh bruise blooming purple-black across her left cheek. The color of rotting fruit.
A soft shuffle made him turn.
A boy peeked around the hallway doorframe. Sandy blond hair stuck up at odd angles, and when the boy’s mouth opened slightly, Stryker caught the gap where front teeth should be. Six, maybe seven years old. The kid’s eyes were too wide, too alert for this time of night.
The same terror he’d seen in that closet. The same way that little girl had pressed herself into the corner, trying to disappear into the darkness.
Stryker’s mouth went dry. He stepped over Michelle’s outstretched arm and eased toward the hallway.
“Hey there.” Stryker crouched down to the boy’s eye level. “Where’s your daddy?”
The boy didn’t let go of the doorframe, but his finger pointed toward the master bedroom.
“Okay. I’ll be right back.”
Stryker found Damien on the floor beside the bed, not on it. A lit cigarette dangled from his mouth, ash scattered across his uniform shirt. The ember glowed orange in the dim light, close enough to his skin to leave burns. Passed out cold, reeking of whiskey.
He pinched the cigarette out before Damien set himself on fire.
When he returned to the hallway, the boy hadn’t moved. Still clinging to that doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him upright.
Calvin? Caleb? No, those weren’t right.
Corbin.
Stryker dropped to one knee. The boy’s skin had gone chalk-white, and a streak of grime marked his left cheek. His T-shirt sagged off his shoulders, the neckline pulled and darkened with stains.
“Corbin, right? I work with your daddy. I want to make sure everyone’s okay. Can you tell me what happened tonight?”
The boy’s grip tightened on the doorframe. His mouth opened, then closed.
“It’s all right,” Stryker said. “You’re not in trouble.”
“They got into a fight,” Corbin whispered.
“What was the fight about?”
A shrug. But as the boy shifted, Stryker caught sight of the bruises. Finger-shaped marks wrapped around Corbin’s arm. Another bruise peeked out from the neckline of his T-shirt. About the size and shape of adult thumbs pressed into small shoulders.
“How’d you get those bruises on your arm?”
Corbin’s eyes went wide, and his pupils dilated with sudden panic. He turned and bolted across the room, his bare feet slapping against the tile. The closet door slammed.
“Well, well. Look what we got here.”
Stryker rose and turned. Damien Sullivan leaned against the hallway wall, bloodshot eyes, cigarette ash dusting his badge hanging crooked on his chest.
Cold rage settled in his stomach. Not the hot flash of anger he might feel during an MMA fight, but something visceral. Deep-seated. This wasn’t just a domestic disturbance. This was a cop. His former partner. Beating his family.
“Damien Sullivan.” His hand drifted to his cuffs. “You’re under arrest.”
Damien barked out a laugh. “For what? Having a drink in my own house?”
“Domestic battery. Child abuse.” He pulled the cuffs free. “Turn around.”
“You got some nerve, King. Coming into my house, making accusations.” Damien shoved away from the wall, stumbled a half step. “That boy falls down all the time. Kids are clumsy.”
“Those are grip marks, Damien. Fresh ones.”
“Prove it.”
“I said turn around.” He caught Damien’s wrist, twisted, drove him chest-first into the wall.
A photo dropped, shattering on tile. Damien swung back with his elbow. Stryker ducked, pinned the arm up behind him. The first cuff snapped shut as defiance turned to heavy breathing. The steel clicked home with a finality that he hoped Corbin would hear.
Damien’s forearm was thick as a fence post, forcing him to wrestle the second restraint wider, though it wouldn’t quite latch.
“You have the right to remain silent—”
The screen door squeaked open behind him.
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. He didn’t need to turn around to know who had entered. The air itself seemed to thicken, pressing down on his shoulders like a lead blanket. Sergeant Dean Barclay’s presence filled the space, sucking oxygen from the room.
Barclay stepped closer. His boots scraped against the tile. The sergeant’s eyes locked onto the dangling cuff in Stryker’s hand, then shifted to Damien’s face.
“Domestic battery and child abuse charges.” Stryker kept his stance square, shoulders back. “I’m placing Sullivan under arrest.”
Barclay’s jaw worked side to side. His gaze flicked to Damien, held there for three seconds too long. Damien’s chin dipped once. Stryker caught the signal that passed between them. They were men who’d done business before. Dark business.
Damien’s lip curled into a smile. Like he’d been expecting this interruption all along.
Stryker’s fingers locked around the loose cuff. Damien could expect whatever he wanted. This ended now. No more wife beaten bloody. No more kid cowering in corners. Stryker snapped the second cuff around Damien’s wrist and cranked the ratchet until metal bit flesh.
“King, I need a word.” Barclay’s hand landed on Stryker’s shoulder, fingers pressing down like a vise. “Outside.”
The pressure guided him toward the door, but Stryker planted his feet. “Sullivan’s under arrest. I’m reading him his rights.”
“Outside. Now.”
The grip on his shoulder increased until Stryker’s collarbone creaked. He had no choice but to move, leaving Damien cuffed in the hallway.
Rain pounded the porch roof and drove needles into Stryker’s cheeks. Barclay shifted, blocking the door. Water dripped from the sergeant’s cap, pooling shadows where his eyes should be. Just two black sockets staring back.
“You know what the blue line means, King?”
Stryker’s jaw muscles bunched. “It means we protect and serve the community.”
“No.” Barclay stepped closer. “It means we protect each other. Brotherhood. Family. You don’t turn on family.”
“Damien’s beating his wife and kid. That’s not brotherhood. That’s—”
“Maybe you’ve taken one too many hits to the head in that ring.” Barclay leaned forward until his breath fogged the space between them. “Maybe you’re not thinking clearly anymore. Maybe you need to decide which career you want to keep.”
Stryker’s lungs forgot how to work. The walls of the cramped porch alcove pressed inward, the sergeant’s bulk filling every inch of escape route.
Through the screen door, he caught movement. Corbin peered out from his bedroom door, face pale as milk in the dim light. The boy’s eyes held a flicker of hope, like maybe this time would be different. Maybe this time someone would help.
He clenched his molars until his temples throbbed. A headache bloomed behind his eyes, sharp and insistent.
“Uncuff him, King.”
The words felt like swallowing broken glass. Stryker looked at his hands, at the key ring hanging from his belt. At Barclay’s face, carved from granite and just as unforgiving.
He walked back inside.
Damien grinned and stretched his fingers as the metal snapped apart. Barclay stepped closer and dropped a hand on Damien’s shoulder. He steered him toward the hallway, their heads bent together. Words spoken in hushed fragments. Dates, names, what needed disappearing.
The closet door gaped open like a wound. Corbin’s face collapsed, hope draining from his features until only recognition remained. The boy understood now. No one was helping. No one ever would.
Stryker locked eyes with the boy. A contract sealed without words. This isn’t finished.
Outside, he dropped behind the wheel and yanked the door shut, hands on the steering wheel for a long second before turning the key.
The window shuddered in its frame. His fists hammered the steering wheel until his knuckles cracked open.
Blood smeared the crevices of his fingers.
Beating the car wasn’t going to help. He dropped his head and pressed his forehead against the wheel as rain machine-gunned the roof.
“God, what do I do?”
Barclay commanded this place. But God commanded everything else. The storm settled into a steady drum. Then came the whisper, threading through his chest.
Choose a different way. When the time is right, rescue the ones they abandon.
Good and evil sprouted from the same soil. You couldn’t separate them until the end.
Stryker lifted his head. Rain hammered the windshield, blurring the house into watercolor streaks. The voice had come before. Cutting through doubt, demanding action when the department demanded silence. When the brass ordered him to look away while people suffered.
He reached for his badge. His fingers worked the pin loose from his shirt, and he held it in his palm. The shield caught what little light filtered through the storm clouds.
He opened his hand and let the badge tumble onto the passenger seat.