Hank Nightingale, Eddie Chavez, and Jimmy Marker, the first two men he’d known awhile, since they worked vice. Their relationship had been strained due to Brock’s second-to-last job going bad and both of them having a strong negative opinion about the plays Brock had made during that job. Now, considering Hank was Lee Nightingale’s brother, Lee was Chavez’s best friend, and Brock was working with Hector and Vance, two of Lee’s boys, not to mention he’d moved from the DEA to the DPD and paths were crossing, they’d come to an uneasy détente. As the days turned to weeks and then months, this détente improved as they got to know each other’s histories, personalities, and work ethics. He couldn’t say they were best buds but he respected them.

Jimmy Marker was a veteran cop, highly decorated, intensely dedicated to the job, and close to retirement. There wasn’t a cop in the department who didn’t respect him, including Brock.

It was Jimmy who had spoken.

“What’s up?” Brock asked.

“In Cap’s office,” Jimmy returned.

That was when he knew it. He felt it. He saw it in their guarded eyes, their alert stances.

Something was wrong. Something big was wrong. And that something big was very big and it was also very wrong.

Fuck.

He said not another word, folded out of his chair, and moved to the captain’s office, Jimmy, Eddie, and Hank following him.

The minute it came into view, Brock saw the captain had eyes to the window of his office.

Waiting.

Fuck.

He walked in, the men walked in with him, and the door closed instantly.

“Have a seat, Lucas,” the Captain ordered, his eyes not having left him.

Brock didn’t move nor take his eyes off Cap.

“Tell me,” he ordered.

Cap held his eyes.

Then he stated, “You know Josiah Burkett was released on parole four months ago.”

Bile crawled up Brock’s throat.

Josiah Burkett was Bree’s cousin who raped her. Brock had paid attention to Josiah Burkett and he knew exactly when that motherfucking monster was released. Brock also knew Burkett had kept steady with his meetings with his parole officer, the halfway house that asshole was in and hadn’t moved out of yet, and that he managed to land himself a job working the line of an automotive parts factory off 6th Avenue.

What he did not know was why Cap was leading with Burkett.

This was not starting good.

“Yeah,” he replied.

The captain held his eyes.

“Jesus, Cap, just—” Brock growled and Cap interrupted him.

Speaking quickly, he said, “A call came into nine-one-one twenty minutes ago. The caller didn’t get the chance to explain what was happening. Shots were heard over the phone. Not a minute later, multiple calls came from Park Meadows Mall…”