Ethan Justice: Incendiary

By Simon Jenner

In the morning, he’s on holiday. By the evening, he’s dodging bullets. It’s time to dispense some Justice!

Returning from a well-deserved break, Ethan Justice and Savannah Jones find their flight home mysteriously diverted to Malaga, Spain. Meeting up with Ethan’s sister and her boyfriend, Carl, they make the best of the situation, but after surviving a deadly restaurant explosion and a sniper’s bullets, it’s clear the holiday is over.

The shock discovery that Carl’s stepfather is Nick Nelson, an ambitious crime boss, throws the detective pairing into a world of deceit and danger where nothing is quite what it seems and trust can be fatal.

With Agent Johnson’s help, and hindrance, they must overcome their greatest challenge yet. Can Savannah face her worst fear and survive? Can Ethan discover the truth before Madrid’s skyline is a blaze of flames and hundreds are dead?

When you take on Justice and Jones, the result is INCENDIARY.

Ethan Justice: Incendiary is a fast-paced, action-packed, character-driven crime thriller, guaranteed to make you laugh out loud, cringe, cry and cheer.

This is the third book in the 'Ethan Justice' private investigator series but it also reads as a stand-alone story.

This book contains a few violent scenes, a dash of sex and the odd bit of bad language, so please don't buy it if you are easily offended.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Jenner
• Release date: Mar 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310234798

Simon Jenner

Simon Jenner is best known for the bestselling ETHAN JUSTICE series, dark-humoured action thrillers with unforgettable main characters. He also wrote the critically acclaimed THE EVOLVED, the first in a young adult sci-fi trilogy, with the second book still in development. His latest book, DON’T CALL ME BETH, is an epic psychological thriller which is receiving much early praise.Simon lives in Beverley, East Riding of Yorkshire, with his wife, Julia.https://www.facebook.com/SimonJennerAuthorhttp://SimonJenner.com/

Book preview

Prologue

FIVE MONTHS OF careful planning find me face to face with the Islamic fundamentalist Faruq Saeed. He is number four on the FBI’s ‘Most Wanted Terrorists’ list, but in a dark suit, similar to my own, he looks more like a banker. My larger frame, unkempt long blonde-grey hair and facial scars don’t carry off the smart image as well as the younger man. But banker or terrorist, Joe Public, no doubt asleep at this unearthly hour, would thank me if I sent a bullet his way. For a banker, they might even slap me on the back. At least the terrorist owns up after the event. Takes pride in his wrongdoing. That fact alone puts him one rung above the banker in most people’s books. To me, there’s little to choose between them.

The single garage sits beneath a vacant office on the outskirts of Madrid, in an old part of the city where streets, barely a car’s width, provide the perfect cover from a satellite’s prying lenses. Outside, darkness envelops the unlit streets, a service I provided at Saeed’s request with a cheap pair of wire cutters. Inside, two ancient fluorescent tubes overfill the small space with a harsh bluish light which, thankfully, is partially absorbed by badly laid grey blocks.

In an area too poor and run down to warrant a police interest, it is the perfect place for one killer to meet another.

An old desk without drawers and two chairs sitting in the centre are the sum of the garage’s contents. Like wild cats, we circle the furniture, sweeping hands beneath its surfaces, feeling for hidden weapons. Our movements are slow, deliberate and cautious. There is no trust here. Our eyes lock in mutual suspicion as we near either side of the battered wooden desk. I turn off my iPhone and place it on the uneven surface to my right. He follows suit with his phone. I raise my hands in the air, fully aware that I am showing more respect than he is returning, or deserves for that matter. He frisks me roughly, a procedure I have received and dished out on all too many occasions. It is the nature of my business and most certainly the nature of his. He crouches and runs his hands up the insides of my legs. Moving up, he pats my buttocks before pressing either side of my penis. I grind my teeth. My fingers curl out of his sight, and I resist the urge to club the back of his head with a clenched fist. I’m too close to fail now.

There are more than a few male Muslims who don’t have a problem fondling around another man’s prick, just like they love to suck on a beer like it was their mother’s tit or snort cocaine until they forget why they hate the West in the first place. Put enough miles between a travelling jihadist and his home soil and before long he’s revelling in anything and everything his religion denies him. Like the priest holding the sponge and soap in the choirboys’ communal shower, they are the proverbial hypocrites. I have no doubt the wide-ranging plethora of Western vices will find their way into the latest Koran supplement once the bloodthirsty savages have finally destroyed us. Killing those that piss them off is always Allah’s will, no matter how obviously fucked-up the reason. The power of denial can never be underestimated.

I decline his raised-hands offer of a return molestation with a shake of my head. I expect he’s armed, and I know that all of his men, at least ten, are nearby. We take our places across the age-worn desk. I am unsure of terrorist protocol and allow Saeed the privilege of speaking first.

Your persistence has granted you an audience, Mr Nelson. I suggest you use it wisely, he says, in a voice swathed in the finest of English educations. What is it you want?

I have discovered an opportunity of mutual benefit, I say.

He jerks back, surprised by the gravel in my voice. It is deep and husky beyond compare, partly why I haven’t spoken until now. It spooks people, which sometimes helps but can just as easily hinder communications. Saeed looks to his left and composes himself. I pretend I don’t notice, but I relish the tingles at the base of my skull that his discomfort rewards me.

He leans forward, close-shaved chin on balled fists. There is a hint of a sneer on thin lips. You are a gangster, Mr Nelson. No more, no less. What possible symbiotic relationship do you envisage?

Talks like a banker too. Normally I don’t get spoken to like this, and were this meeting not so important to my plans, I would snap his neck and piss on his corpse before heading off for a beer. Besides, Saeed clearly feels compelled to make up for his display of weakness at the sound of my voice. I meet his gaze and mirror his position, leaving our faces breath-sharingly close.

You’re a long way from home, I tell him. Far removed from plentiful resources, with a recognisable mug the world would pay millions to see detached from your body.

Mug?

Face.

He leans in a little further. His aftershave is sweet, almost effeminate. Is that a threat? he growls, doubling up on the sneer.

I remove my hands from beneath my chin and show him my palms, like a magician proving he is hiding nothing before pulling a pigeon from thin air. Take it easy, Faruq. I have no interest in your capture. Far from it. I wish to carry out an act of terrorism on your behalf. Simple as that. I’ll do all the work. You take all the credit.

Why?

Fair question. Because it’s in my interest and I have the connections to make it happen. For you, it’s another publicised kick to the infidels’ balls, a welcome boost to your jihad marketing campaign without the cost.

Are you mocking me? I have men outside who specialise in the administration of pain.

I shake my head. They certainly are a sensitive lot. Pain and killing seem to be the answer to all their woes. I’m not a religious man, and I don’t care about your cause. Are you interested or not?

What scale are we talking about?

The death toll will exceed the 2004 Madrid train bombings. I’m estimating over two hundred.

Dark eyes widen, and Saeed can no longer hide his interest. He sits back and adjusts the knot of his yellow tie. Who do you want to kill, and where is the venue you speak of?

Not important. Just know the event is big enough to warrant celebrity interest. The publicity will be massive.

Saeed ponders, assisted by further tie adjustments, while I slouch in my chair like his decision doesn’t matter to me. I crack my knuckles, partly to intensify my stereotypical gangster persona but more as a distraction from my accelerating heartbeat.

He lays both hands palms down on the desk. Have you approached anybody else with this proposal?

I look directly at Saeed. No.

What do you need, and what is the time frame?

I need you on video taking credit for the bombing.

That is all?

That’s it.

Saeed’s lips part in an even-white-toothed smile. I wonder whether it is the thought of mass murder or the adulation from his peers that lights up his face. Perhaps it’s the perfect risk versus reward ratio on offer. I pick up my iPhone and select the video camera via the touch screen.

Saeed regards me with a furrowed brow. What are you doing? We agreed no calls from here.

It’s in neither of our interests to meet again. I need the file here and now. This phone gives excellent quality video playback.

He picks up his own phone and tucks it inside his suit jacket. There is anger in his voice. This is not how we operate. I will provide the file after the successful detonation. The recording is a holy moment, not for the eyes of a kafir.

Then it’s off, I say, looking down at the table, my heart disobeying my mental command to slow down. My palm is damp where the phone rests against skin. I can’t take the chance that you don’t come through with your side of the deal.

Why wouldn’t I?

Cold feet, orders from Allah, how would I know? Your admission is my guarantee of anonymity, and that’s the way it has to be. Perhaps I should look elsewhere for assistance.

Saeed slams his fist on the desk, cracking brittle timber and filling the air with tiny dust motes. No!

A film of emotion in Saeed’s eyes is quickly blinked away. This man is a glory hunter, I’m sure of it. So we’re good? I ask, raising the phone and waving it.

He pauses like a man with a head full of thoughts, but his eyes have already spoken. We are good, he agrees.

I frame him in the phone’s screen while he preens himself. I almost snigger at his vanity, but I can’t take risks with an ego so delicate. I nod to signal my readiness, and he begins a rapidly concocted speech. I barely listen. My mind lingers on the future and the extra influence and riches this joint venture will deliver to my door. I hear ‘infidels’, ‘death for the sake of Allah’, ‘degrading of his enemies’, ‘holy warriors’, ‘dripping with blood’, and all the usual pro-Muslim publicity buzz words, but these rants of hatred mean nothing to me as my mind bathes in the pleasure of my own ambitions.

The deed is done. Let me see it, he says, snapping me out of my indulgence.

Sure, I say, standing, operating the phone with one hand and pushing myself up from the desk with the other. I walk around the desk, arm outstretched, pointing the phone at Saeed. I thumb up the volume. Behind him, I bring the small screen to within a foot of his face. He is mesmerised by his own image, too narcissistic to realise the imminent danger.

My left arm circles Saeed’s neck, lifting him off his chair, the crook of my elbow crushing his Adam’s apple like a pair of nutcrackers. I pocket the phone in my trousers, the device still spouting his pompous bile as I grab my left hand with my right and pull the deadly grip tighter. He tugs at the offending arm, desperate for air and a chance at continued life, long manicured fingernails ripping through fine cloth and into the meat of my forearm. I hang on like he’s a mechanical bull, knowing from experience that for the first thirty seconds, before the brain is starved of oxygen, he is at his most dangerous. His relative size belies his strength, and his thrashes continue longer than anticipated. Blood from gaping gouges in my arm soak through my jacket sleeve and drip onto his tie and shirt. I could speed up his demise, snap his neck in an instant, but where’s the pleasure in that? Approaching a minute, his flailing limbs slow. Maintaining my grip, I snap his head back and stare down into dark and glistening eyes. Fear and understanding radiate from the bulging orbs. The eyes, windows to the world, are a reliable indicator of life, and like a candle’s final flickers, Saeed’s fade rapidly before me. As the final spark of life extinguishes, dilated pupils dim and unfocused, I make my own godless prayer that no afterlife awaits him.

His chair tips over as I pull the body backward and drag him face up along the concrete floor. A shoe’s heel catches and slips from one foot. I stretch out my aching back and look down at Saeed. His swollen tongue pokes out at me between blue lips, a last defiant taunt from beyond life’s realm.

I retrieve my phone and call Atkins, my right hand man.

Boss, he answers.

Did you get them all? I ask.

We downed ten. I saw another some distance from you, but he escaped through the backstreets on a motorbike.

Are you sure he was one of Saeed’s lot?

Who else would be out at this time? Besides, he looked Middle-Eastern and ran for it the moment he saw me. Chances are he was hanging back and waiting for orders.

I take a deep breath but say nothing. Saeed had been hiding in Spain for the last six months with no added assistance from his network of associates. Hiding in his game means not operational and completely cut-off. According to my inside man, Ahmed Rafiq, the corpse at my feet had not disclosed the nature of this meeting with any of his small band of men. Saeed would have taken credit for the holy carnage only after the success of my operation, never risking the reporting of his liaison with me until then. The lone escapee knows nothing and is the last of Saeed’s men. I have no need to hunt him down. I release the breath I’d not known I’d been holding.

Did you take down Rafiq? I ask.

Personally, Boss.

Any of ours see you?

No.

Did we lose any others?

No.

Now I have peace of mind. Who knows what ideas those sick bastards might have filled Rafiq’s head with? His career was over the second he accomplished his infiltration. He served his only purpose, and I could never trust a man who would betray his own kind. One day he might have resented me for turning him against his brethren. What then? I’m pleased Atkins did for him in secret. I can’t have the men wondering about their dispensability. It’s not good for morale.

Good. Get in here with a couple of the others and clean up. I’m sure he has a gun on him. Remove it, get his prints all over it and bag it up. Make sure the body disappears forever. Not one skin cell can remain. Once the body’s taken out, torch this place, understood?

Understood. What about the other bodies? Saeed’s men?

Get them back to Malaga, and dump them out at sea. We don’t want the Madrid police thinking there’s an al-Qaeda cell around here.

Does it matter? It’s a risk to haul them all that distance, Boss.

I have my reasons.

I end the call, keen to be away from the scene of my crime. I double check the video footage on the iPhone, not that I can get a repeat performance from Saeed if it’s subpar. It’s perfect. I unzip my fly and empty my bladder on his face, standing to one side and back a little so that the backsplash misses my shoes.

That’s for touching my dick, you homo, I inform him as I zip myself back up and make my way out of the garage. My men won’t thank me for making their clean-up job that much more unpleasant. Not that a little piss ever hurt anyone.

Stage one is complete. I have the confession I came for. But there’s no time for celebration or complacency. I walk the mile and a bit back to my battered van through deserted streets, playing the next step over and over in my head. It involves another planned explosion at a popular restaurant in Malaga, but one detail continues to bother me.

How can I be sure my stepson will be in the restaurant when the gas ignites?

1: Saturday 27th October, 03:00

ETHAN JUSTICE AND Savannah Jones received fresh drinks in the comfort of their Virgin Atlantic Upper Class ‘suites’. A bright-red lipsticked smile accompanied the exuberant service from the young stewardess. The cabin, a dimly lit blend of pinks, purples and reds, offered the ultimate in relaxed air travel and suited the early morning hour. However, Virgin’s top-tier service had proven an impossible environment in which to enjoy each other’s company. After a brief stint sitting on the ottoman at Ethan’s ‘suite’, Savannah had slunk back to her own area behind him, where she now sipped at her rum and Coke.

What’s the use of travelling first class if you can’t sit together? asked Savannah, leaning forward and tapping on the plastic divide separating her from Ethan.

Ethan tugged free the headphones and peered back at his tanned girlfriend and business partner rolled into one incredible package. He couldn’t help but imbibe her beauty: lustrous chocolate-brown hair resting on sleek shoulders, matching bright shiny eyes impossible to ignore. An effortless smile, accentuating high cheekbones, reminded Ethan how easily he relaxed in her company. Slender legs appeared from beneath a thin white cotton sundress and seemed endless until disappearing into black Adidas trainers, proving this twenty-one year old was anything but a conformist. The fact that she was almost twelve years his junior seemed less important every day.

Eyes off the legs, Justice, she taunted, shifting and wriggling to hide as much thigh as the short dress would allow. Don’t these seats drive you crazy?

I don’t think they want passengers smooching and embarrassing the other travellers.

I only fancied a snooze with my head on your chest, not to join the mile-high club, she grumbled.

Ethan had to admit, while comfortable, the individually separated seating arrangements hardly encouraged romantically entwined couples. A liftable armrest, like in Economy, would have suited the task perfectly. Only another two hours until London Gatwick. Better cut back on the scotch.

The intercom system rose above the roar of the plane. This is your captain speaking. I’m sorry to inform you that we’ve been asked to divert to Malaga airport in Spain. I’m assured that the detour is nothing to worry about and that we will be permitted to continue on our way to London Gatwick after a short stay on the runway. Please accept my apologies and enjoy the rest of the flight.

Strange, commented Ethan. What’s that about? You’d think they’d say.

As if the captain was listening, his formal English tone filled the cabin once again. Could a Mr Ethan Justice please make himself known to the cabin crew.

Their blonde-haired, red-suited stewardess swished toward Ethan, ignoring a passenger’s attempt to divert her from her destination. Stopping in front of Ethan, standing tall, arms behind her back, she beamed a rehearsed smile. I believe that’s you, sir. If you and your lady friend would follow me, please. She promptly turned and marched toward the front of the plane before Ethan could answer.

Ethan pushed himself up from his seat and frowned down at Savannah, who looked way too comfortable and in no hurry to move. Come on, Sav. I smell Earthguard at work.

Savannah sipped her drink and pouted. Do we have to? I’ve got a wonderful rum buzz going on right down to my toes, and something tells me it’ll be gone the moment we check this out.

"You want me to go alone? He didn’t mention your name."

No, I’m coming, she said, taking another sip of rum and cola before closing her eyes as if preparing herself for bad news.

The stewardess peered from behind a light purple curtain further down the cabin, clearly expecting them to have been close on her heels. She skipped back to where Ethan stood, a touch of pink in her cheeks. Is there a problem?

Ethan raised his eyebrows at Savannah. Well, Sav?

The captain needs to speak to you in person, said the stewardess. He’s left the cockpit and is waiting behind the curtain.

Shouldn’t he be flying the plane? asked Savannah, with the merest hint of a slur.

I’m sure everything is in hand, Miss.

I don’t think we should put him off. How can he see where he’s headed if he leaves his seat?

On the inbound flight to Barbados, Ethan had plied Savannah with three stiff measures of rum to get her on-board. Imagining the captain outside of the cockpit when he ought to be flying the colossal Airbus brought a glistening film of fear to her eyes. Ethan waved his hand in front of Savannah’s face. Sav, we talked about this. There’s more than one pilot, and most of the controls are automated during the flight.

Savannah’s gaze darted back and forth between Ethan and the stewardess. Her jaw dropped a fraction. Even so ...

A hand squeezed Ethan’s shoulder from behind before the captain addressed the stewardess. Is there a problem, Susan? The tall captain smiled as he took in the scene before him. We can speak here if you would prefer, Mr Justice?

If you don’t mind, Captain. Savannah is new to flying and a little nervous to see you away from the controls.

The half-full cabin watched with curious eyes as the captain, easing between Susan and Ethan, bent over and spoke softly to his anxious passenger. This crate can practically fly itself, Miss. My co-pilot, Terrence, could land on a sixpence in a storm. You’re as safe up here as in your own home.

Savannah exhaled, her worries seemingly carried away with the stream of air. Just being silly, she announced, relaxing back in her seat. Don’t know what came over me.

Ethan sat down, impressed by the captain’s handling of the situation. Savannah hadn’t considered one word of the several talks Ethan had offered on the subject of flight safety, and yet fifteen seconds from the horse’s mouth and she was a pussycat.

Straightening up, the captain motioned for Susan to leave them. He positioned himself between the two ‘suites’ and crouched down to an equal level to speak. We were unaware that we had VIPs on-board this flight, and I wanted to apologise in person and on behalf of Virgin Atlantic for the oversight.

Not able to see Savannah, Ethan imagined the smirk on her face as he struggled to hide his own. I’m sorry?

We’ve been asked to drop you off at Malaga to help with a matter of national security. Orders from the highest of sources. We’ll be landing in an hour and three quarters.

Did they mention why?

Not a word, but this is most irregular. An airport security car will meet you on the runway, and your bags will be unloaded immediately. Is there anything else we can do for you?

The cumulative haze of three scotches did nothing to make sense of the questions piling up. Coffees. Please ask Susan to keep them coming until we land.

Of course. And thank you for flying with Virgin Atlantic. The captain shot Savannah a reassuring smile before heading back behind the curtain.

While Ethan pondered on what lay ahead after landing, Savannah popped up from behind the partition like a jack-in-the-box. What the hell does all that mean?

Ethan looked up and shook his head. It means the holiday’s over.

*

Lashing rain greeted Ethan and Savannah as they exited the Airbus in jeans, sweatshirts and trainers. The emergency metal stairs were flimsy and bounced as they descended. Dawn was yet to arrive, and the early morning air added an unexpected chill to their complaints. But weather conditions paled into insignificance when the armed security guard at the foot of the stairs drew his handgun and accompanied them to a van, remaining two steps behind them all the way.

During a twenty minute wait in the back of the vehicle while their suitcases were recovered, the driver and the armed escort argued in breakneck Spanish. As far as Ethan could make out, the driver, a short and puny-looking man, should have clocked off an hour ago and resented the armed man, only slightly taller but with the build of a bull, for keeping him from his new mail-order bride. Silence ensued when the hefty guard offered to remove the driver’s testicles with a shot from his recently acquired gun, which he had yet to have the pleasure of firing. Argument settled.

Each time Ethan attempted to talk to Savannah, the stubbly-chinned armed guard would jerk his head around and glare disapproval with dark beady eyes, akin to a rat’s.

"Silencio," he commanded, a waft of garlic thrown in for good measure.

Ethan grabbed Savannah’s hand, and she squeezed back welcomingly. For the first time since disembarking the Airbus, Ethan’s gut told him to worry.

Inside the airport building the pair were kept well away from legitimate travellers, and many a venomous stare from afar labelled them as terrorist scum. After a walk down a third empty corridor, the rat-faced guard bundled Ethan and Savannah into a harshly lit poky interview room and left without another word. The damp and stale aroma inside was barely an improvement on Rat-Face’s breath.

Ethan rattled the door to confirm their incarceration before guiding Savannah to a wooden chair at the small rectangular table, dead centre of the room. Don’t mention the package for Johnson, he whispered in her ear as she sat down. He took the seat next to her, facing a larger single chair upon which an interrogator would presumably sit before long.

Is that what this is about? whispered Savannah, gazing at the lap of her blue jeans.

Ethan shrugged in response. Looking at the flaking blue paint on dilapidated walls, he wondered if any of the considerable number of stains resulted from the torture of the room’s previous guests. He buried the thought deep and took hold of Savannah’s hand again. She turned to meet his eyes, and as ever, her emotions were fully on display. On the outside she seemed on top of her game: shoulders back, head straight and convenient tan hiding any colour loss to her face. But the eyes told of uncertainty and a pinch of their good old friend, fear.

We’ll be fine, he said, wondering how many times he’d told her that in the thirty-four days he had known her.

Picturing the small matchbox-sized package in his suitcase, wrapped in unlaundered t-shirts, Ethan cursed Herb Johnson, Earthguard agent and likely cause of their predicament. What the hell is in the box, Johnson? And who else knows about it?

The rattling of keys preceded the entrance of a portly and moustached Guardia Civil police officer. The officer’s belly hung over his gun belt, stretching the lighter shade of the several chunks of green that made up the uniform. A gold emblem embroidered at the top right of the shirt displayed a crown with a sword and an odd-handled axe crossed beneath it. Savannah made a move to stand, causing the officer’s hand to twitch toward the firearm at his side. A mixture of fear and anger flashed brightly in Savannah’s eyes, and she slumped back on the chair. Fear had won the contest.

Why are we here? demanded Ethan. We want a phone call.

The officer’s English was excellent, but the accent was pure Spanish. Thees ees not England. There are no phone calls ’ere, he said, taking his seat across the table from his prisoners. Leaning back on his chair, the officer swung his heavy black boots on top of the table and patted his gun holster. I theenk you know why you are ’ere.

No, we don’t, answered Ethan. But we’d bloody well like to.

The officer shook his head. We ’ave the device from your suitcase. Now we want to know about the man who gave you thees.

Ethan didn’t dare look at Savannah for fear of revealing a shared knowledge. He hoped she understood his purpose and would not interject. I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Dry and cracked Spanish lips rose in a smirk. If you do not tell me, I weel separate you. Another officer will beat your girlfriend until she tells us what we want to know.

Savannah’s attention darted around the room, for what, Ethan had no idea, but the eyes, searching and intense, those bloody eyes, spoke of trouble.

As the policeman rocked on the creaking rear legs of his chair, Savannah struck, shoving the table forward and sending the open-mouthed guard backward and toppling to the floor, arms reaching for non-existent purchase with the air. In a second, Savannah climbed onto the table, leaped and landed feet first on the chest of their captor, forcing the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath.

Get his gun! she screamed, dropping to her knees, pinning scrabbling arms before they could reach for the weapon.

She’d left him no choice. If they didn’t take charge now and the policeman drew his gun, he had every right to shoot them in self-defence. Ethan followed Savannah’s path across the table, landing next to the writhing officer, whose hand inched toward his holster despite Savannah’s knee pressing on his bicep. Treading on the offending hand, grinding knuckles into the bare concrete flooring to cease its progress, Ethan bent down with both hands to retrieve the weapon. He looked at the handgun, noticing a star emblem at the top right of the grip. Having only fired his first weapons in the heat of battle two and a half weeks ago, Ethan was not familiar with this semi-automatic pistol. He recounted the memory of firing the Smith & Wesson Model 500 revolver which had catapulted him floor bound and temporarily deprived him of his hearing. He wasn’t about to take the offensive with another gun he didn’t know, in a situation he didn’t understand.

Point it at him then, urged Savannah, gripping one fistful of shirt collar and holding her position of power like a cowboy on a bucking bronco while the policeman struggled beneath her.

Ethan placed the gun on the floor and kicked it into the furthest corner, four feet away. Raising his foot, he pressed his trainer into the neck of the police officer.

I can ... not ... breathe, the officer rasped at Ethan, cheeks flushed with exertion, sweat dripping from his brow.

What are you doing? We need the gun to get away, said Savannah, lowering her body mass as the officer’s thrashing increased intensity. Look around you, Ethan. No cameras, no windows, one officer, and the stink. This room hasn’t been used in years. Whatever’s going on, it’s not official.

"We’re in an