I senda separate text to Andrews, asking him to grab my vest from the storage compartment on my bike. I’ll meet them outside the bar as soon as they arrive. Before slipping my phone back in my pocket, I discreetly snap a couple of pictures of Riddick and Lawrence for the file.
Riddick exits the booth and strides toward the back of the bar. His duplicitous companion remains seated.
Fuck me running.
Of course,they aren’t leaving together. That would be too easy.
Of the two, Riddick is my primary target. I inch forward, trailing him languidly while maintaining some cover. Seemingly unaware he’s being followed, he struts into the restroom.
Huh. Maybe my luck is turning around. Assuming there isn’t a way out through the men’s room, he’ll be back with Ginny by the time SWAT arrives.
I scan the room, taking in the throngs of innocent patrons out enjoying the football game. I hate the idea of this turning into a hostage situation. I should take Riddick now. I can catch him off guard in the bathroom.
It goes against orders, but it seems the safest approach for everyone concerned. Except me and my lack of Kevlar.
Fuck it.Here I go.
Moving with confidence, I close in. Before entering the restroom, I pause to briefly listen through the door. With nothing setting off alarm bells, I grab my revolver and silently enter.
Riddick’s ponied up to a urinal, with his back to me.
Perfect scenario.
The only thing that would make this situation better is if he were alone. Fortunately, the other guy is a few spots down. Glad they followed the unwritten rule of not pissing right next to another man unless there are no other options.
Wasting no time, I rush Riddick, clamp one hand on his shoulder, and stick my gun against the side of his neck. “FBI. Hands up.”
Saying thatneverfucking gets old.
My pulse thrums loudly with the familiar adrenaline spike that comes with an arrest. One less murderer off the streets.
Aside from Riddick’s bulky frame stiffening, he doesn’t outwardly react. In the corner of my eye, I see the other guy reacting enough for them both. He leaps away from the urinal and stumbles toward the wall. A trash can goes careening to the floor as he flails around.
On the bright side, I don’t feel dampness anywhere, so it’s possible I avoided piss splatter.
“Put your fucking hands up right now. SWAT is surrounding the building as we speak. You’re leaving this bar in one of two ways. In cuffs or a body bag. You choose.”
When he doesn’t comply right away, I double the pressure of my gun’s muzzle against his neck. “Do it. Show me your hands.”
With a frustrated growl, he reluctantly surrenders.
Addressing the other man from the side of my mouth, I order, “You, the graceful one in the red shirt, get out of here.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, likely my team wondering where the fuck I am. They’ll find out soon enough.
The clumsy footsteps of the bystander clatter toward the door. The din of the bar gets louder, then it fades as he exits.
With him clear, I give Riddick another order. “Slowly move your hands to the top of your head.”
Once he does, I frisk him with one hand, while keeping my gun on his with the other. In short order, I divest him of a handgun and a military-style knife in a leather protective sheath.
I can’t help but wonder if this is the murder weapon.
“Felons are allowed to have guns now? Must have missed that law change,” I taunt, uttering a mere ounce of the disdain I have for him.
I roughly grab Riddick’s right hand, wrenching it behind his back. He doesn’t resist, which should be a relief but never is. With a firm hold of that arm, I slip my gun into its holster and retrieve my handcuffs in one smooth motion. His left hand follows the other, and I get him cuffed without incident.
My heart rate slows as I turn him around until I’m face-to-face with a heartless, vile murderer. “Elliott Riddick, you’re under arrest for the murder of Troy Hartley.”
