Sullivan emerges from the warehouse carrying another container clearly labeled with hazard warnings. He’s wearing work clothes that blend into any industrial setting. He's favoring his knee, the same one Mira injured in the parking lot. Nothing about him screams arsonist or killer.
Except the containers he's loading are accelerants. Enough to level every Brotherhood business in Anchor Bay.
Perez steps forward with his badge visible and voice carrying authority without aggression. "Richard Sullivan, I'm Detective Perez with Anchor Bay PD. I need you to stop what you're doing and step away from the vehicle."
Sullivan freezes mid-step, container in his hands tilting dangerously before he sets it down on the loading dock. His gaze sweeps the scene—Perez, Davis, patrol officers—then lands on me and Cole in our Brotherhood kuttes.
Recognition flares in his eyes, followed immediately by rage that's white-hot and uncontrolled. Emotion twists his features into something ugly.
"You." The word comes out strangled, accusatory. "This is your fault. All of it. You destroyed everything I built."
"Sir, I need you to remain calm and step away from the vehicle." Perez moves closer with hand resting on his service weapon but not drawing. "We have questions about your recent purchases and activities."
"Questions?" Sullivan's laugh sounds brittle, breaking at the edges. "You think I'm going to answer questions? You think any of this matters now?"
He bolts.
The move is desperate and stupid, exactly what someone does when they know they're caught and panic overrides sense. Sullivan runs toward the warehouse entrance, probably thinking he can lose himself in the industrial maze of corridors and storage areas.
He doesn't make it past the loading dock.
Cole moves first and cuts off the warehouse entrance with a speed that comes from years of combat training. I'm right behind him, closing the distance before Sullivan can change direction. Patrol officers converge from both sides, and within seconds we have him contained with nowhere left to run.
Sullivan tries to break through anyway and shoves against Cole's chest with both hands.
Bad choice.
Cole absorbs the impact without moving, then grabs Sullivan's wrist and spins him toward me. Sullivan stumbles, off-balance, and I'm there.
I tackle him into the side of his truck. Hard. Metal shudders under the impact, and Sullivan gasps, wind knocked out of him, but he's still fighting. Still trying to get away. Trying to escape after threatening Mira.
My fist connects with his face before conscious thought catches up. Once. Twice. Blood sprays from his nose, hot against my knuckles. He swings wild, catches me across the jaw with enough force to snap my head sideways.
Wrong move.
The leash slips. Not completely—I don't lose control, don't black out—but I feel it fray. Feel the Marine surface, the demolitions expert who learned to be comfortable with violence in ways that should probably concern people but doesn't.
My next punch drives into his solar plexus. Sullivan doubles over, gagging, and I follow with a knee to his face. More blood.His hands come up defensive, but it's too late. I'm on him, fists driving into ribs, face, anywhere I can reach.
"Shaw!" Cole's voice cuts through the haze. "He's done, brother. Stand down."
Hands on my shoulders, pulling me back. Cole's grip is iron, physically restraining me from continuing the beating. I let him pull me away, breathing hard, knuckles split and bleeding.
Sullivan crumples to the ground, spitting blood, face already swelling. One eye is closing, nose definitely broken, blood running from a split lip. He's conscious but barely, curled on his side and making sounds that might be crying.
Perez witnessed the whole thing. So did Davis. So did the patrol officers who were supposed to make the clean, by-the-book arrest.
For a long moment, nobody moves.
Then Perez steps forward, face carefully neutral. "Sullivan resisted arrest. Required force to subdue." His eyes meet mine, holding steady. "That's what my report will say."
Understanding passes between us. Sullivan attacked an officer, fought back during arrest, had to be physically restrained. Clean narrative that covers what actually happened without requiring anyone to lie about the specifics.
"Appreciate it," I manage, voice rougher than it should be.
Patrol officers move in to secure Sullivan, hauling him to his feet and zip-tying his hands behind his back. He's not fighting anymore, just swaying on his feet and bleeding. They load him into the back of a patrol car, and Sullivan slumps against the window.
Cole releases my shoulders. "You good?"
