Professionals, his ass. They reminded him of his stepson, who had ADD or whatever they called it these days. Put the kid on a task and he’d go full blazes on it for an hour and then…oh, look, a pretty butterfly. Didn’t matter what so-called specialists said, what the kid needed was discipline. That’s what differentiated real cops from these “detective wannabes.”

He looked at the girl’s hands on the pillow, beside her gun and radio. She was still wearing her gloves. Damn. He’d hoped to get a print. Maybe if he could slip off the wig and snag a hair…but just his luck, it wouldn’t contain a DNA tag. And what the hell would he do with it? Ma Barker from the coffee shop had made it clear that “her boys” weren’t going to give him the chance to turn the tables on them. If he tried, she had their conversation on tape.

At the time, he hadn’t cared. Hadn’t cared about anything. Rushed in headfirst. But that wasn’t his fault—they hadn’t given him enough time to think, only to react. Now,it looked as if he’d be heading home with no Helter Skelter killer to explain why he’d lied on camera and fucked off midinvestigation…

He ground his teeth. Something had to be done. His gaze traveled to the radio—her connection to the guys running this show. As long as she was in charge of that connection, she was in charge of things within these walls. He should have taken it from her, by force if necessary, hours ago. Yet, as the situation had unraveled, even as he’d raged against the loss of control, some panicked part deep inside him had been happy to cede that control, to continue hoping they could pull this off.

If everything went tits up, he could claim he’d been duped and kidnapped. That wouldn’t work if he’d had the radio all along. But now, as failure seemed imminent, he was seeing a new way out. Yes, he’d been duped and taken hostage, but he would redeem himself by handing over, not the Helter Skelter killer, but a handful of hitmen.

Time to take back what rightfully belonged to him: control.

He took a few careful steps. No floorboards creaked, and she seemed to be sleeping soundly. Another step…

Her eyes flew open.

In that split-second, Dubois measured the distance between them, assessed his chances of lunging across it and disarming her before she fully awoke—

Her hand was already on the gun as she rose, her eyes clear and alert.

“Agent Dubois…?”

“Any news?” he said, gesturing at the radio.

“No.”

“Let me know if there is.”

“Of course.”

He backed out of the room, shutting the door, but not pulling it tight enough to engage the latch.

Wilkes

Wilkes