Chapter 82

Carter pulled the Firebird into the gravel parking lot of The Shoot House. Burke hadn’t wanted to drive. In fact, the young doctor had barely spoken a word or made eye contact since they had learned the fates of Officer Stine and the two former hostages. All three were dead, but not merely executed, they were all killed by someone who took great pleasure in death. The overkill on one of the bodies was as bad as Carter had ever seen. As Burke had suggested, security footage revealed the blonde mute woman leaving the manager’s office and exiting the store.

They had been beaten at every turn in every way possible. Carter felt like he’d been dragged for fifty miles beneath a semi-truck and then the truck driver had stopped and pissed in his wounds. But Burke and Nic were taking the defeat even worse than he was.

The roadblocks had turned up nothing—the nets widened, airports shut down, news alerts broadcasted descriptions of the perpetrators … no results. Their terrorists had simply vanished, and they had very few leads to go on. Carter felt like they had gone twelve rounds with smoke and shadows and knew little more now than when this all started. Every revelation had only brought a host of more questions, and the only person Carter believed could possibly untangle the web of death and destruction was now one step above catatonic.

Carter shut down the engine and said, “Are you coming inside?”

Burke didn’t answer.

“August?”

“I just want to be alone right now.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I don’t want to talk. I’ll wait for you here.”

“Okay, kid. I won’t be long.”

Assistant Special Agent in Charge Samuel Carter stepped from the vehicle and brushed the tears from his eyes. He had done this to Burke. He had pushed him into the field, maybe before he was ready. He had never seen such a hollow, empty look in the kid’s eyes before. Even when August was upset or frustrated or anxious, there was always that spark of genius, that gleaming light of someone who wanted to help people despite what it may cost him personally. Now, when Carter looked into Burke’s eyes, that fire had been snuffed out and replaced with a cold hurt, the kind of hurt that made people do crazy things, the kind of deep depression and despair that opened the door for thoughts of suicide.

He hated to leave Burke alone, but he also knew that Burke couldn’t recharge his batteries when in the presence of other people. Solitude was the kid’s only refuge, and Carter couldn’t take that from him despite his fears of what dark thoughts were racing through the boy’s mind.

As he ascended the steps of the front porch, he saw the sign over the door: The Shoot House — Police personnel only — Do not enter when red light is on.

After they had spent the remains of the day rehashing the facts and waiting for some good news that never came, Nic and his SWAT brothers had invited Carter and Burke to have a drink with them. Nic had provided the address and explained that there had been a formerly condemned two-story pueblo-style house on the edge of Henderson in a rough area behind Joker’s Wild Casino that had once been a shooting gallery, a place where drug addicts went to get high. SWAT had raided the place, the city took ownership, and the boys in blue had decided that it was perfect place for training. And, as Nic had explained, it had also become their unofficial clubhouse where they could all get together, have some beers, and blow off steam from a tough day’s work.