Jack smiled at Hannah, reached out, and tucked the stray hair off her lip. The motion was small, private—exactly the kind of thing that made him feel steady amid the chaos.
"I'm honestly curious how Tim plans to handle this," Jack murmured, and clicked his chest cam on.
Two squad cars sat idling around a bend, engines off, parked more than two football fields away so the cabin wouldn't hear them. Four officers slipped into the trees and low brush, rifles ready. This time Hannah carried the shotgun; she'd be the one to kick the door.
Just as Tim crouched to give the go, the cabin door creaked open. A big man came out—shirtless, inked arms, an axe in one hand, the other busy with his belt. From inside came a thin, terrified voice crying and begging.
Tim leveled a small spotting scope from his position. "Confirmed: Angus Lucius. He's got a sawed-off Remington at his back and a pistol on his hip."
Lucius paced to the back of the cabin. For a moment the sound of an axe on wood filled the air.
Tim lowered his radio and spoke flat into it. "Bronson team to command: we've located Angus Lucius at Kenneth Hahn. Mark our position. He's armed and dangerous. Hostages inside. Request immediate backup and an ambulance."
He glanced back. "Hostages and suspect are separated. Jack, come with me around the back—John and Hannah, you clear the inside and secure the hostages."
The others nodded, sliding forward on hands and knees through the brush. When they reached the cabin Tim waved John and Hannah in and pressed his M16 to the splintered siding, preparing to flank.
Jack followed, breath held. Ever since his mental stat had cracked twenty, his senses felt sharper—like someone had turned up the contrast on the world. The chopping sound behind the house cut out suddenly. His skin tightened.
Before he could shout, an axe buried itself in the barrel of Tim's M16 as it rounded the corner.
Tim reacted on instinct. The rifle skittered, and in the same motion Tim lunged, engaging whoever'd struck him.
Jack moved, raising his weapon to cover. But Lucius—seeing they weren't alone—gave up the axe, kicked Tim toward Jack, and bolted. He whipped a Remington from his waistband and fired wild, running shots as he fled. When the gun clicked empty he dropped it and vanished into the trees.
Jack didn't hesitate. When Tim's kick momentarily cut his line of fire, Jack spun, planted his feet, and yanked Tim's arm to flip him out of the path. He dove around the corner at the same time—an awkward tangle that ended with Jack pinning Tim against the cabin wall just as a scatter of pellets punched the wood where they'd been standing.
"You can let go now," Tim gasped, hogtied against Jack's weight. Jack's ribs pressed into him; the position was ridiculous and entirely too intimate. For a beat they both froze, then in embarrassed unison: "Don't tell anyone."
Hannah, peering through the window, burst out laughing at the tableau.
"No need," Jack said. "We'll take him from here. You two lock down the hostages and wait for backup."
Tim reached for his pistol, and in the scuffle his elbow clipped Jack's chest—enough to knock Jack's body cam loose. Jack watched the little black box tumble and knew Tim's had hit the ground too. The cameras were down. Tactical, not accidental. Tim was methodical.
Jack swallowed his annoyance and followed Tim into the trees. The M16 was too heavy for the underbrush; he slung it, flipped the Glock out, and moved on instinct. Footprints and snapped branches marked their path.
They didn't track long. Tim raised his pistol and barked, "Hands up, Lucius. You've got nowhere to go."
Jack slipped behind a broad oak and sighted on a figure ten meters away. A shallow cliff with a trickle of water gurgled at their feet. Lucius stood with his back to them for a moment—then, as if surrendering to the inevitable, he tossed an M1911 to the dirt, dropped to his knees, and buried his face in his hands.
Tim froze, then gave Jack a look: watch the rear. Jack melted back into the brush, gun tight, eyes sweeping for movement. Lucius's breath came in ragged sobs.
"What do you want?" Lucius whimpered.
Tim's voice cut like a blade—cold, personal. "Pick up your gun, Corporal Angus Lucius."
Lucius yelped, "No—no, don't do this. I already put down my gun. Arrest me. I'm retired. I have—PTSD. You can't—"
Tim didn't flinch. If anything, Lucius's panic fed the old veteran's anger. "We were Marines once," Tim snarled. "You disgraced that uniform. Now you get to own what you did."
Tim's eyes were flat as a grave. "You got two choices. Pick up your gun and end it yourself… or I'll do it."
He spat at the dirt.
Lucius started to shake so hard his teeth clicked. Tears streaked the mud on his face. His hand trembled toward the pistol on the ground.
Jack watched that hand, felt the gravity of the moment—how thin the line was between law and something else. He also felt the weight of Tim's years: a man who'd seen too much and had no patience left for monsters. The trees seemed to hold their breath.
(End of this chapter)