Stryker’s Loving Family
Stryker’s brain absorbed the words, despite everything happening in slow motion. When he slid his gaze to Emerson, she was staring at him.
“Carlo Spinetti,” Stryker uttered. “He’s The Father?”
“That’s what I said. Now, call me a fuckin’ ambulance.”
“Gimme your phone, Barca,” Stryker bit out.
With trembling fingers, Barca handed it to him.
“Repeat what you told us about Easton and Spinetti.”
“C’mon, man, I’m bleeding pretty bad, here.”
“Repeat it.”
Using Barca’s phone, Stryker videoed Barca’s confession. When he finished, Stryker turned off the phone and pocketed it.
“One more thing,” Emerson said. “Easton was a good cop, a good son, and a good brother. He spent his career trying to put thugs like you in prison. What’s your big contribution to society? You’re pumping everyone full of drugs. You’re the fucking problem.”
POP!
She pierced Barca between the eyes.
A lifeless Barca stared up at them, but Stryker wasn’t taking any chances. He fired his weapon twice into Barca’s chest. Emerson picked up the shell casings without stepping in the blood pooling around them.
“Ready to get outta here?” he asked.
“Spinetti,” Emerson uttered. “He’s in prison for Internet fraud. So, who’s running his empire?”
“Babe, we gotta go.”
They eyed the three dead men one more time before stepping into the night. Once outside, they climbed in the SUV, removed their goggles, and took off. The miles ticked by in silence. He glanced over at her. No surprise, she was deep in thought.
“Talk to me,” he said.
“I can’t. Not yet. Are you calling it in?”
“No,” Stryker replied. “I don’t want Spinetti to get word of Barca’s death.”
They returned to the club via the fire escape, and slipped unnoticed into Travesty. There, Emerson fished the shell casings from her pocket. “I’ve never committed a crime,” she murmured. “I don’t know how to dispose of evidence.”
He took them from her. After opening his wall safe, hidden behind the back wall of his cubby, he dropped Barca’s cell phone next to Farraday’s, along with the shell casings.
She gave him back his handguns and put the night goggles on the shelf. “Is this my cubby?”
“No. You took out Doug’s killer, that’s it. You’re a cop, Emerson, and a damn good one.”
“I’m damaged goods, now.”
He stroked her cheek, kissed her. “Not to me.”
“Once I solve my case and help you with Spinetti, I’m out.”
They drove home with the windows down. The evening breeze felt good against his skin, but Stryker didn’t deserve to feel good. He deserved no reward for what he’d done. For what he’d allowed Emerson to do. “Another nail in my coffin,” he mumbled.
“What?”
