French realized something ten seconds after he left the lot: his tires did not have enough rubber for the way he wanted to drive. If he could break the laws of physics, he would. Burn the sky. Shake the ground. None of it was about choice.

But that was not exactly true.

Jason wanted Gibby safe and clear, but needed Burklow and his father to get it done. Just them, though, the three of them. But French believed in bigger help, and that meant manpower, control, the overwhelming force of the state. It was simple math. Roll heavy, and lock shit down. Resolution might take longer, but it was usually the better resolution. The hostage lived. No cops died.

That’s where Jason became a problem.

If he was out, he’d escaped, and that meant people would be looking. French’s people. There’d been nothing on the radio, but he couldn’t exactly call in a request, either.

Dispatch, could you please confirm that my son has escaped from prison?

No. Couldn’t do it.

And if Jason was right? If the man who’d butchered that poor young woman was the same who had Gibby?

The thought was unbearable.

So was the next.

Roll heavy or go light, whatever decision he made in the next few minutes would put one son in greater danger. If he called in reinforcements, Gibby would have a better chance of getting out alive. Tactical teams. Snipers. Trained negotiators. French believed that to the bottom of his shoes. It was instinct, faith, thirty years of cop. But Jason was a wanted man, a suspected killer; and there were cops in the city that would take him down without thinking twice, oil and fucking water. And Jason was very likely to give them a reason. He’d go hot; resist arrest. If French could do it, he’d tell Jason to leave, go now, let us handle it. But Jason had no trust for cops. They’ll get my brother killed … He’d told Burklow as much.

French rolled down the window, but it didn’t help.

There was this house, and in it, a killer …

Was this really the question he faced?

One son or the other?

It wasn’t fair, but what was? French had gone to war, and killed, and lost one son already; he’d seen victims and unspeakable crime, spent years in the pursuit of evil men. In a good life, there’d been bad moments, but this was the worst, wind screaming in the car as he did the same in the silence of a breaking heart. One or the other, he had to choose.

French reached for the mic.

He made the call.