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“I can’t just go home!” I rip the blueprints from Tim’s grasp and burn.Burn. “Give me a job to do!”
“I have nothing for you.” Carefully, gently, he reaches out in expectation to take the papers. Like I haven’t already memorized every line, every room, every fucking detail and seared them to the back of my brain. “I can’t use you, Detective. Your temper is proof you cannot remain in control of this case.”
“I have a temper because you keep telling me to go away,” I grit out. “If it was Marcy inside, ifyourwife was in danger, would you go home and sit on your fucking hands? Or would you do something about it?”
“Well…” Tugging the papers free of my fingertips, he folds and wedges them between his arm and his hat. “She’s not in there. But if she was, I would trust you to get her out.”
“Captain!”
“I’m asking you to trust me now. Go, Detective Malone. Make yourself useful somewhere else. And you…” Brows furrowed, he studies Tim in confusion. “I don’t even know who you are.”
I don’t introduce them. I don’t say shit. Because I catch sight of Fletch over by command, being wrapped in a vest and handed a helmet.
I shove around the captain and take off like a shot. “Where are you going?”
Fletch is surrounded by cops—a dozen of them at least—and Fifi is being held back by another six. But I push through the crowd and grab the front of Fletch’s vest before he turns.
Yanking him back until our eyes meet, I stop only when our chests clash. “Where are you going?”
“Command made contact.” His words are hard. Measured. But I don’t miss the way his eyes flicker with emotion. Worry. Fear. “Slade wants medication and food delivered.”
“What medication?” I shake him when he moves to turn away. “Charlie! What medication?”
“I don’t know.” He looks down and wraps his hands around my wrists. After tugging himself free of my hold, he releases me and takes a step back. “I’m heading up to find out.”
“Let me go instead.” I spin in search of another vest, and snatch one from a cop’s hands. Then I work my arms in and secure the Velcro so the shield sits tight against my body. “I’ll go to the doors and speak to Slade.”
“I’mgoing.” He slides his helmet on so the clear shield at the front covers his face and neck. His vitals. While inside the bank, Minka is completely at risk. No weapon. No vest. And no fucking chance of surviving a gunshot wound.
“I’ll see what’s happening inside,” he mutters. “I’ll speak to whoever comes to the door. We’re gonna work this out.”
“I want to go,” I growl. “Let me go, Fletch.”
“It’s already done.” He nods, an unspoken signal for someone over my shoulder. Then he grimaces when hands grab on and hold me in place. “It’s for your own good, Arch.”
“Fletcher!”
“You gotta stay here,” he murmurs. “It’s best this way.”
Then he turns to Fifi and nods again. But this time, it’s for her release.
He catches her when she stumbles forward, then wipes the tears from her cheek when she can’t stop them. “Stay out of view of the front door. Get behind the truck.”
“Charlie—”
“If he comes to the door and gets pissed, you can’t outrun a bullet.”
“But neither can you! You’ll be shot, Charlie, and Mia will have lost both of her parents.”
“Mia’s gonna be fine. Because I’m gonna be fine.” He presses his hand to her shoulder, a friendly pat, then nudges her to the side, only moving further away when a cop grabs her wrist and holds her captive. Safe.
“Stay behind the truck, Sera.” Then he glances around and meets my eyes. “Don’t be a dick, Malone.”
“Fletch!” I try to take off after him. To chase him down and demand I walkwithhim, if not in place of him. But a dozen men hold me back.
The news vans document the scene we make. They can’t hear our words, considering they’re stationed a hundred yards back. But they film. They see me. Him. Sera. Captain Bower.
“Detective Fletcher!”
