Bullock leaned by the window, hands sunk in his coat. Rusty prowled the office like a mutt itching for a fight. The chief sat at his desk, Chen in a chair. The others kept to the walls—Dent's eyes flat and unreadable, Gillis rigid, Johnson watching.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Rusty snapped.
"I did what I had to help Gordon," said Bullock.
Rusty stopped pacing, hands on his belt. His jaw tightened. "Help him? Christ, Harv. So redheads do it for ya?"
Bullock straightened, fists out of his coat.
"Harv," said Johnson, grabbing Bullock's elbow.
"Say shit like that again," Bullock warned.
Chen rose from his chair. "Let's not turn this shit into a pissing contest." His eyes moved between Bullock and Dent. "What exactly do you guys think he's gonna do?"
"I don't know," Bullock muttered.
"You know the heat you'll catch, Harv? You set a lunatic loose on cops in this city and don't even know what he'll do?"
"They're letting him loose on Flass's crew," Chen said. "I can live with that."
"You too?" Rusty turned to Chen.
"Aren't you tired of eating their shit?" Chen said, his voice rising. "Who's next, huh? We gonna wait until they fuck up Pollack? Mendez? Johnson?"
"So we drop to their level?" said Gillis, still standing between Bullock and Rusty. "Just because he's not robbing trucks or selling drugs doesn't make him less of a criminal. We start picking favorites, we stop being cops. And we become exactly like Loeb and his men."
"We're already turning into them," Johnson said. "We look the other way when they take a bribe, rough up a guy, or pull the trigger. Every day we choose survival over duty. And we don't fault each other for it—we've accepted it because, let's be honest here it's their laws we live under."
The chief, working a cough drop in his cheek, finally spoke. "Syd's right, and once us old timers are gone, Loeb will have full reins. And there will be no more precincts to hide in." Bronson stood up, pushing a hand to steady himself. "And that moment is sooner than you think."
Gillis didn't argue. Just stood there, jaw tight, eyes on the floor.
"We start crossing lines, where does it end?" he said before walking out.
"I get you, Rusty, but Chief has a point," Dent said. "IA's sniffing around, and we don't know what they've got. We play it straight, we're on Loeb's leash."
"He's unpredictable," Rusty muttered.
"And that's what we need." Dent looked at each of them. "If this is a war, we need someone who can cross the lines we can't. Sometimes the rules protect the wrong people."
"And if the others don't see it that way?" Rusty said. "What are they going to do to us for cozying up to a vigilante who roughs up cops and gets cheered for it?"
"We convince them this is the right way," Dent said, just as the chief's phone rang.
"Bronson," the chief answered. A beat. "Okay, Rod." Then he hung up the phone. He sat on his desk and looked to Bullock. "Gillis wants a word, Harv. Try to cool him off. If he falls in line, more men might follow."
"Syd would have better luck," said Bullock as he headed out.
The sixth floor buzzed with forensics. He cut down to the fifth, passed Pinkerton, who shot him a glare.
"You got a problem?" Bullock snapped.
Pinkerton did a slow swivel back to his desk.
He knocked once. Gillis's voice came from inside: "Come in."
The room was dark. Bullock stepped through.
"What the fuck, Cap? Why are you in the—"
Gillis sat rigid at his desk, palms braced wide, shoulders locked. Behind him, a tall figure loomed in shadow. Its white eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
"Shit."
"Shut the door, Harv," Gillis said.
Bullock obeyed, slowly closing the door until it clicked shut. The dark seemed to grow thicker.
"Well?" The voice rattled, low and rough.
"Jim's at Kane Hospital," said Bullock. "They're keeping him overnight. He's got a busted face, fractured rib, and lost a tooth."
"Who did it?"
His voice was cold and inhuman, lacking any tone. For a second, Bullock thought he might not be human.
"Fulman, Lorenzo, and Mazzocchi. Retaliation because of what he did to Flass."
"Why would Jim go after him?"
"Thought you two talked?" said Bullock
A loud silence followed.
"Flass threatened his wife. Not directly, but enough. Look. Nothing's changing till Loeb's guys get it through their skulls—leave Gordon the hell alone, otherwise he's a sitting duck."
Bullock stepped forward then froze. Something small and sharp bit into the floor, an inch from his boot.
"Fuck," he hissed, jerking his head up.
The figure vanished.
"Where the hell?"
"What? He's gone?" Gillis asked, twisting in his chair, only relaxing once he'd checked the corners.
"Creepy fucking psycho," Bullock muttered as Gillis stepped away from his desk.
They both stared at the open window, the night filling with rain.