Detective John Bridle is a paranoid bastard.
Steel bars over his windows. A heavy gate over his doors. Multiple cameras around the property.
He lives in a single-family rancher in a nice little neighborhood on the edge of Dallas. Lots of trucks, nicely mowed lawns, neatly trimmed bushes. The sort of place where kids run around during the day.
Except there are no other cars in his driveway. No minivan, no bikes, no toys.
He lives alone. No wife, no family. Strange, for a detective his age, but I know a lot of guys like him.
Guys with deep scars, shallow pockets, and miles of trauma streaming out behind them. The job takes, and it keeps taking, and it rarely gives back. Some men turn to drinking, some turn to worse. Some shrivel up and turn in on themselves, cocooning their minds against the outside world. I think Detective John’s one of those, wrapped up in layers and layers of obfuscation and justification to explain the small and large traumas he deals with on a daily basis. I wonder if that’s how he got involved in all this.
I wait until it’s late, until it’s past one in the morning, and jump his back fence. I land quietly and press myself up against the wall, waiting. There’s a camera, but all that’ll show is a guy in a black ski mask sneaking around. Nothing identifiable, nothing he’ll be able to use. Not that I expect him to use it. I head around to the back gate and use my lock pick set to get the bolt open. The thing with most locks is they can be picked. They’re really there to keep out the lazy and the uninformed. Getting it open takes longer than I wanted and all the while I’m thinking about Sara, about the look on her face at the prison, about the fear in her eyes and the sadness and the want.
Like she needed me to come to her. Like she was begging me to cross that line.
But I can’t do it, not yet.
She’s lucky I was there. I almost didn’t follow Detective John and his little shitstain friend Mustache, also known as Detective Danny Allen. I almost thought it would be too much of a risk rolling up to a prison after a couple of crooked cops, but I figured I’d give them a quick drive-by just to see what’s going on.
I’m glad I did.
God, those pieces of garbage. I don’t know what they would’ve done, but it wasn’t going to be good, and she’s pregnant with my baby. I can’t risk letting them hurt her, letting them hurt the baby. There’s no way in hell I’d allow these sick bastards anywhere near her even if she doesn’t want me around.
I’ll keep her safe no matter what. I’ve been through enough in my life to know the only important things in this world are friends and family. I pay my debts and honor my promises. And I promised myself I’d watch over Sara until this was all over.
The gate creaks open and I work on the back door. That’s easier, a basic commercial lock, and eventually I’m inside. The kitchen is dark and smells like bacon grease and fried chicken. Plates teeter in the sink and the remains of his dinner sits on the table. I tiptoe into the living room, heading to the hall that leads toward the bedrooms. There are pictures on the walls, photographs of smiling people: a pretty girl, a couple of kids. Maybe Detective John had a family once. Not anymore. Beer cans litter the coffee table. A fifth of vodka sits on the floor next to the toilet.
He’s snoring when I crack open his bedroom door.
I creep toward him like a ghost, like the specter of death, like the grim reaper himself. His room is a mess: clothes on the floor, cigarettes in an ashtray on the nightstand, more empty beer cans. Detective John’s got some bad habits. This is the room of a man deep in a very dark place.
I press my gun against his face. I’d be easy to kill him. Pull the trigger and bang, Detective John isn’t a problem anymore. But killing a cop is complicated, and I can’t be sure I didn’t leave some evidence. Besides, it would only make Sara’s life harder.
“Wake up,” I say softly.
He shifts, grunts, snores again.
“Wake up,” I say louder and press the gun harder to his forehead.
He sucks in a breath and tries to swat it away. The sheets move down—the fucker’s in a stained white t-shirt and boxer shorts.
“John,” I croon. “Oh, John, wake up, my lovely John.”
He starts and shuffles back. “What the fu—” But before he can finish, I smack him across the face with the butt of my weapon.
He grunts and rolls sideways. His hand flashes out, reaching for something under the pillow beside him, but I press my gun to his skull. He stops, fingers inches away.
“Don’t,” I say. “I’d happily kill you if you made me.”
He freezes. “Angelo?” He asks, sounding disoriented. “Am I dreaming? What the fuck is this?”
I reach out and grab the gun he was reaching for. I toss it aside with a sigh. “You’re definitely not dreaming, John. I’m here to talk.”
He slowly turns to face me. His expression is hard, and a bruise is already forming on his cheek where I hit him. Blood trickles from a small cut. He’s trying to hold it together, but I can see the fear. “You’re a dead man now,” he says and shows his teeth. “Maybe you weren’t before, but now—”
I hit him again. I don’t need to, but it feels good, and I want to wipe that smug grin off his stupid, stinking face. “You shouldn’t threaten me right now, John,” I say and nudge him with the gun.
“Fuck,” he groans, hands pressed against the wound. More blood pours from a new cut above his eye. “You piece of shit. You lowlife scum.”
“That’s funny coming from you, considering you’re covering up a crime.”
“Fuck you.” He snarls at me and I caress him gently with the gun barrel.
“Listen to me, John. Listen to me good. I am going to kill you.”
He freezes. Goes very still. I’ve seen this before—it’s the reaction of a man faced with the impending truth of his mortality. “You’re fucking insane. You can’t kill a cop.”
“You think a gun and a badge will protect you after what you did? Oh, John. You never should’ve bothered Sara.”
“The lawyer? You really give a fuck about that?”
“Here’s the deal, Detective. I’m going to murder you and then I’m going to run to Mexico. I’ll live there for a while, lose myself in the smaller towns, maybe do some work for the cartels. Just like I told you earlier today. Then in a few years, once the heat dies down, Carmine will bring me back. I’ll keep on living, and you’ll still be dead. How’s that sound?”
He blinks at me, sweating, blood dripping onto the sheets. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Here’s your other option. I’m going to beat you the way you beat me. I’m going to hurt you, very badly, and you’re going to take it. When I’m done, you’ll tell your buddy Detective Danny with the mustache that you two aren’t going to bother Sara ever again. Because if you do, I will be back, and I really will pull the trigger. Don’t think that I won’t be able to get inside a second time. Add all the cameras you want. All the locks you want. Nothing will keep me away from you, Detective.”
“Fuck, you don’t know—”
I hit him with my gun. I hit him again, and again, and I drag him from the bed by his ankle. He falls to the floor with a thud and I kick him, over and over. I wore my nice boots for this. I make sure I hit him in the chest just the way he hit me, toe angling at his ribs, trying to break them. I want him to suffer like I suffered. I want him to feel the pain I still feel now. And most of all, I want him to think twice the next time he considers touching my Sara.
When I’m done, he’s a bloody mess. He’s groaning and barely conscious. I take out my phone and snap a picture.
“Beautiful,” I say quietly and bend over to pat his cheek. “Remember what I said, Detective. If you go near Sara, I’ll come into your house and end you. There’s no such thing as safety anymore.”
I turn and leave. I send Sara two messages on the way out.
The first is the photograph of Detective John. I crop out his face, but she’ll know.
The second is a message. He won’t bother you again.
I hit send, hop the fence and stroll back to my car, whistling.
