“Well, you certainly are good at being offensive.”

“Thank you,” Burke said, oblivious to the insult.

“But for all you knew that guy was a professional killer, or the son of someone very dangerous,” Nic added. “You should realize better than anyone that you can’t judge a book by its cover. Plus, even if he’s a nobody, he could have pressed charges, which would have come back on both the HPD and the FBI.”

Burke sighed. “He wasn’t a hitman or anyone connected to true organized crime. He and his companions displayed ink for JPK. The Jefferson Park Kings, a very low-level and disorganized local gang. I also noticed one of his tattoos matched the description from a liquor store that was robbed yesterday afternoon, so him pressing charges did not have a high probability. Not to mention that I detected decreased breathing, constricted pupillary response, sluggish movements, and slurred speech. All consistent with the overuse of alcohol or another depressant. And his breath smelled like a distillery. All that adds up to a person with significantly impaired reaction times, vision, and coordination. I don’t start fights unless I can predict the outcome to be in my favor. So, next time you want to insult and underestimate me, at least try to get your facts straight.”

Nic said nothing, starting to doubt himself and wonder if he had overreacted to Burke’s handling of a tricky situation. Within a few moments, they pulled up to their destination. He jumped out, and Burke revved up the big engine as soon as he was clear and yelled out the window, “Tell Carter I’m retiring from the FBI.”

Then Burke peeled away, leaving a trail of smoke and rubber behind. Nic shook his head in confusion, certain this would come across as his fault. But at that moment, he had a lot more pressing concerns than hurting August Burke’s feelings—he had brothers in danger and lives to save.

Chapter 57

Carter held up his hands as he entered the manager’s office. The desk burned brightly, and the fire wouldn’t take long to spread. The heat was unbearable, even from his position in the doorway.

The young gunman had positioned himself in the corner of the room farthest from the fire. He was on his knees with his hostage sitting in one of the visitor chairs directly in front of him. He held a black pistol in one hand, while his other pressed firmly against the side of his neck. Even from a distance, Carter saw blood flowing out between the man’s fingers. His hostage, the young Indian woman, had streaks of mascara running in trails down her cheeks. Sweat soaked her forehead and face, forming into small rivulets which dripped from her chin.

Carter shielded himself from the heat with his left hand and yelled, “Please let us put the fire out, kid. Burning to death is not a pleasant way to go.”

In a hoarse mumble, the young man said, “Only you. No one else comes in this room.”