"He'd crouch back there," Hugh said, talking over him now, his tone calm, deliberate. "Give you the signs. One finger. Two. Calling the pitch."
Noah's confusion lingered but something in his father's stare held him there.
"And sometimes," Hugh went on, "you didn't like the call."
Noah swallowed. A flicker of recognition.
"You'd shake him off," Hugh said quietly. "Wait for the one you wanted."
A beat.
Hugh's gaze didn't waver.
"Because the catcher isn't just calling the game," he said.
Luther shifted behind him, impatient. "Enough."
"He's setting up the play."
Noah's eyes dropped, just for a second.
The rifle.
That was all it took. Hugh moved first. He spun hard, driving into Luther as Noah dove.
His hand hit the rifle. His fingers closed around the grip. He rolled through the motion and came up with it just as the gun went off. The crack split the room, loud and sharp. Noah fired. The round tore into Luther's left shoulder, spinning him sideways. The pistol flew from his hand, clattering across the desk before dropping out of sight. Luther collapsed behind it, clutching at the wound, a strangled groan breaking from his throat.
Hugh staggered, but Noah didn't see it. He was already moving, closing the distance with the rifle trained, his breath sharp and fast as Luther writhed on the floor, one arm useless, the other scrambling for leverage. Noah kicked the pistol farther away, then grabbed the nearest thing he could find, a lamp, ripping the cord free in one motion. He yanked Luther's arms behind his back and cinched it tight, driving a knee into his spine to keep him down.
"What are you doing?" Luther gasped. "You can't arrest me. You're not a cop anymore."
"I'm placing you under citizen's arrest. Asshole.”
A sound came from behind him. A low, broken groan. Noah froze.
"Dad?"
He turned to see Hugh swaying on his feet, unsteady, and then he was moving again, rushing forward just in time to catch him as he stumbled back. Together they went down hard. His father's eyes were open, but the blood was already spreading across his shirt, dark and fast.
"No." Noah's voice broke. "No, no."
Hugh's hand found his arm and gripped it, his breathing shallow, growing weaker with each passing second. Noah kneltthere, holding him, the blood soaking into his hands, his shirt, the stone beneath them.
And somewhere in the back of his mind he was aware that the phone in his pocket was still recording everything.
Across the room, Liam lay motionless. Luther was behind the desk, bound, wounded.
Red and blue light began to pulse against the study windows. Faint at first, then brighter. The officer at the perimeter must have heard the shots, because the sirens were already coming.
Noah held his father and listened to them come.
33
Hugh was still breathing.
His hand was on Noah's arm. The grip was weak but deliberate. The blood had spread across the stone floor in a dark pool that caught the pulsing light from the windows. Red. Blue. Red. Blue.
Noah pressed his hand against his father's chest. The wound was below the collarbone, left side. The blood pulsed between his fingers with each heartbeat, slower than it should have been.
