“Bring me the shooter,” Clint said. “And there won’t be problems.”
Lazarus nodded. He looked at the cowboy. “Are we good?”
“We will never begood,” the cowboy drawled. “But you deliver the shooter, and you’ll have no problems with us.” His eyes pinched, one tighter than the other, as if for emphasis. “But youdon’tdeliver? There will beissues.”
“Understood.” Lazarus nodded again. His gaze shifted to the Egyptian, who had yet to speak. The large man stared back with a neutral expression that was impossible to read. Had the Egyptian not been present at their last meeting, the situation would have gotten very…messy. Lazarus didn’t sense the same hostility from the big man as from the cowboy, which felt like agoodthing. His gut told him he didn’t want the Egyptian as an adversary.
As the men departed, Lazarus relaxed into his chair, his eyes fixed on the silver-framed photo with a heavy look. “Find those two bastards,” he instructed Lord softly, his voice mostly casual but tinged with a brittle undertone. “Bring them to me.”
CHAPTER 11
Rita Healy's fingers trembled against her son's shoulder as they faced the morgue entrance. Detective Wil Jordan watched them both draw deep breaths, their faces pale in the fluorescent light. When he finally pushed the door open, Frank Hayes was already waiting for them in the sterile reception area, his eyes heavy with the knowledge of what lay beyond the swinging doors at the far end of the corridor.
“Frank,” Wil murmured, the words barely audible. “The Healys are here to identify their boy.” The two men exchanged a glance that carried the weight of their late-night conversation—Frank's quiet breakdown as he'd prepared the children's bodies, and Wil's promise to stand beside him through today's grim task.
Frank cast a sympathetic look at the mother and son, his weathered face softening beneath the harsh fluorescent lights that cast everyone in a sickly pallor. “He's back here,” he said, his tone soft as a prayer. He led Wil and the small family through double doors into the back of the morgue, where stainless steel tables lined the polished concrete floor like silent sentinels, and along one wall, the refrigerated compartments where the bodies were stored hummed with mechanical indifference. The air hung heavy with the clinical scent of disinfectant, barely masking the underlying sweetness of death.
Two of the tables were occupied, white sheets draped over forms too small, too still—bodies not fully grown yet, limbs that would never stretch into adulthood. Wil remembered how Frank's broad shoulders had trembled against his chest last night, how the coroner's hands had shaken as he'd wiped away tears that fell onto his wrinkled dress shirt. Twenty years inthe morgue hadn't hardened the man's heart; each child still carved another notch of sorrow into his soul, visible only in the deepening lines around his eyes and the slight tremor in his steady hands when he thought no one was watching. Frank had developed the ability to compartmentalize, to lock away the part of himself that died a little more whenever a child found their way to his tables—the tender core he concealed during “working hours” behind a fortress of professionalism, revealing it only in rare, unguarded moments to those closest to him.
Frank's professional veneer cracked at the edges as he guided the broken family toward the draped table. His hand hesitated on the sheet when Rita Healy wrapped her arms around her firstborn, her body trembling with the effort to support him while she herself teetered on collapse. The young man's gaze locked onto the shrouded form, his eyes widening just enough to betray recognition while remaining hollow as abandoned wells. The first tear escaped without sound, then another followed, until his face glistened with silent grief under the morgue's unforgiving lights.
Rita's arms tightened around her son as tears spilled down her cheeks. Her eyes met Wil's, then Frank's, before she gave a single, resolute nod. The moment would never feel right—waiting another hour, another day wouldn't soften what lay beneath that sheet. The nightmare had already claimed them, whether they looked or not.
Frank drew a steadying breath and peeled back the white cotton shroud. Rita crumpled forward, her body folding over her child's still form. Her fingers trembled against his cold cheek as she gathered him into one final embrace, her shoulders heaving with silent grief.
Connor Healy stood frozen, his eyes widening as they fixed on his little brother's corpse. Tears carved silent paths down hisface while his jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped beneath his skin. His shoulders rose with each shallow breath, his body rigid as though the slightest movement might shatter him completely.
“Gage…” Rita Healy sobbed as she stroked the boy’s pale face. “My baby…” She pressed her face to his cheek, her warm tears dripping onto his cold skin. “Why, God…Why did you take my baby? I want him back… please give him back…”She shook as her sobs strengthened, each plea emerging heavier than the last. “Please… give my baby back.”
Frank's professional facade crumbled visibly—his Adam's apple bobbing, his eyelids fluttering with moisture—as Wil felt his own throat constrict, the familiar pressure of unshed tears building behind his eyes.
The young man hadn’t moved, except for his hands slowly flexing at his sides. His watery eyes suddenly shifted from his brother’s body and crying mother to the other table. His movements almost robotic, he walked around his little brother and approached the second table. Frank joined him.
“Is that… him?” His voice was barely audible, the words whispering from his trembling lips. “The boy I…” A violent shiver rippled through him.
“Yes,” Frank murmured.
His hand shaking, the young man reached out and touched the sheet.
“Maybe you shouldn’t,” Frank said quietly. “He… He isn’t ready to be viewed.”
“His… parents saw him like this?” the kid whispered, his tone broken.
“Yes,” Frank said sadly. “At the hospital.”
Connor looked at Frank, his expression questioning:‘Then why should I be spared?’A fresh well of tears spilled over. His fingers trembled, then he very slowly gripped the cloth and dragged it away from the boy’s face. The sheet hung limp in his rigid fingers as he stared at the boy's shattered features, his own face transforming from dread to something beyond horror—a devastating recognition of what his actions had wrought.
“I… I did this…” He began to shake violently, his breath coming in hard, rapid surges. “I did this… I… I… Ikilledhim… I…” His legs gave out, and he dropped to his knees, shoving his face into his hands.
His mother was immediately at his side, kneeling beside him, hugging him, and crying. “No, baby, it was an accident… it was an accident… You didn’t mean to hurt him… It’s not your fault… It’s not… it’s not…” She held his head as he pushed his face hard into her shoulder, his cries welling loudly in the spacious room.
Wil turned abruptly at the noise of feet shuffling on the floor. Behind him, Dan and Nora Brown both looked at their son’s body and at the young man, a heap on the floor, crying in his mother’s embrace.
Wil had released Dan Brown from custody earlier that morning after the Healys declined to press charges. The hospital might still pursue legal action over the incident, but given what had happened, Wil doubted they'd seek anything beyond minimal penalties.
Wil tried to interpret the look on Dan Brown’s face now. He’d expressed remorse for attacking the boy, but standing here, looking at his son’s dead body—would the rage toward the young man return?
Nora Brown raised a trembling hand to her mouth, tears flooding her face. “Is that… him?” she whispered.
