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ONE
Ten years ago
Officer Roger O’Connellpulled the radio car to the curb outside the Quick Sip. His partner, the rookie he’d been tasked with training, Officer Davey Turnbull, shifted in his seat. Nervous.
“Let’s go.” Roger shoved his door open. “Stay behind me.”
Try not to shoot me in the back.Roger flipped off the siren but left the lights flashing. He slammed the car door and immediately heard a scream.
He pulled his duty weapon from its holster and pushed the door to the gas station open. “Benson Police Department!”
“Go away!”
Roger followed the voice to the far side of the Quick Sip. The call had come in for a man with a gun. No shots fired, possibly mentally unstable. Those were the calls Roger always had prioritized to him—since he’d started to see a pattern in street patrols. He’d been doing this long enough that he could call in favors, do some digging on his own.
If he found evidence of something, he would kick it upstairs. Until then, he kept his eyes open.
Something was going on in Benson.
No one at the Veterans Affairs medical center or the local hospital could answer his questions. They didn’t seem to be aware of a rash of older men who should be on medication, or even in treatment programs, that were out on the streets instead and not in those programs. He’d dug quietly so far, putting together suspicion until he was ready with the evidence to present an actual case.
Would this be the missing piece he needed?
Discovering the connection in these cases wouldn’t help him figure out how to get his son Liam to call him from deployment, or how to get his younger boys, Conrad and Rory, to clean their room. But it would be a step in the right direction for Benson. A way to make the world his boys lived in a better place.
Officer Turnbull said, “I’ll go right.”
Roger glanced over once at the guy’s retreating form. He might not make it as a cop if he didn’t get a handle on those nerves.
A couple of people crouched at the end of the aisle. Roger said, “Get them out.” Then he headed for whoever had answered his callout. “I’m Officer O’Connell. I’m here to help.”
He stepped past the Pringles all lined up on the shelf and peered at the front register. An employee hunkered behind the desk, wide-eyed. Young, maybe early twenties, the guy had greasy hair and a salmon-colored T-shirt. The way he stared, he probably wanted a show of force. Roger’s tactic wasnotto come in with guns blazing and save the day. This young man might want Roger to shoot first and then start with the follow-up questions, but so much of policing was about going slow, looking for ways to defuse a situation until there was no other choice but to use force.
“Sir?”
The man in front of the counter swung around. He had a Glock in one hand and wore only plain white boxers with tube socks and black slides. Long hair to his shoulders flew everywhere and matched his wild eyes.
Roger held his gun angled down. “How’s it going?”
He always went for defusing first. Never escalation.
Hopefully, Officer Turnbull was currently getting people out of the Quick Sip to safety. The kid wanted to be a hero, so that should suit him just fine.
Kind of reminded Roger of his son Liam, all wild and determined to save the world. So much determination and strength. It made him proud even if his oldest didn’t want to be a cop. No, he’d rather traipse around the world with his Marine buddies.
“I’m Roger.” He lifted his chin. “What’s your name?”
The guy thought for a second. His mouth worked. Finally he said, “Will.”
“All right. It’s nice to meet you, Will.” Roger scanned the tattoos that covered most of the man’s exposed skin. “Marines?”
Will nodded.
“My son is a marine.” Roger gave his battalion and company numbers.
Will seemed confused about how to respond.
“I have a problem here, Will.” Roger took a step toward him. “I need you to hand over that gun you have. There’s a lot of scared people in here. I think you and I make them nervous.”
