hand over a half-completed incendiary device. In the end, it didn't matter if the corrupt stepped down or not. His mercy would end in the fulfillment of his sacred responsibility.
The city's rebirth in a wash of blood.
Without corruption, without temptation.
" . . . many people willing and ready to help our local blues," an anchor's voice leaked into the night. "Stay tuned to News 9 this week for continuing coverage on this near-tragic accident."
Useless investigators hadn't even found the body.
His hand clenched around the TV remote and he stared at his broken kingdom, seeing an overlay of flame and ash.
Red. Black. Orange.
He grabbed a gun from the table and slipped two bullets into the clip. Just two. One to counter the wounds against the city, one to counter the ills against its people.
Under cover of night, in the time of truth, they would all understand.
CHAPTER FIVE
Work was an active crime scene and home was a stifling box. Even the good company and maple syrup-scented air of Mrs. Byron's townhouse couldn't lift her spirits. Amanda jabbed a fork at her last bite of eggs. Yesterday had been hell, but the day off was somehow worse. Nothing said "valued asset" like being lumped in with non-essential personnel.
The downstairs of Mrs. Byron's had been converted for the sole purpose of serving meals to a hungry neighborhood. A generous, pink- and gold-checkered table backed against her expansive, polished kitchen. Those in the know stopped by for breakfast, lunch, dinner — the older woman was always behind the stove.
"You don't pay family for meals, Detective," Mrs. Byron said, but as usual didn't return the bills Amanda snuck into her apron pocket. She whisked a young boy's plate away. "More?"
Fresh batter hit a pan and sizzled.
"You know I'd starve without you." Amanda dumped a cap of cinnamon over her toast.
"Oh honey, yes. I've seen you behind a stove."
The cowbells tied to the front door hinges jangled. Neighbors joining for breakfast, smiling or waving at her on the way in from the cold, comfortable with her presence despite her badge. Amanda had grown up local. In the North End she didn't face slammed doors or wait around for officious documents. Here, people shared their gossip without invitation. Home court advantage. Amanda returned their greetings with a nod and scooped up her bread as she stood.
One of the men claimed her vacated seat. He tossed a twenty on the table, helped himself to the waffle platter, and wiggled a butter knife in her direction. "Quite a stir yesterday. Any runners? Anyone bite it?"
Amanda ground her teeth. Her reflexive answer snapped inside her chest, but despite the flippant words, his second question was more curious than callous.
"You saw the news." She lifted one shoulder. "Our staff got out okay and all prisoners are accounted for."
His forehead crinkled. "All of them?"
"Now, if your cousin had jumped, you think he'd miss breakfast, Greg?" Mrs. Byron's gray-green eyes twinkled. "Day's just gettin' started though; you could always bail him out for lunch."
Greg smeared his breakfast with cream cheese. "Boy deserves it. Two months, community service after that. We'll straighten him out." He turned to Amanda as if he had another question but Mrs. Byron stepped between them with her spatula aimed at the bay window.
"Don't see four wheels every day." The older woman squinted through the gauzy curtains and clucked her tongue against her teeth. "Wasteful."
Amanda edged in next to her to see a blue convertible, top up, metallic paint gleaming, crawling past their row of townhouses. Bare pavement followed in its wake as the tires ate up remnants of gray snow.
"Only folk who cruise around here are sneaks and showoffs," came a tenor remark. Amanda turned and the boy who'd been sitting near her flushed with guilt. "No offense, ma'am."
"None taken." Amanda sent him a smile as she plucked her coat and its coordinating scarf from the wall peg. A
The city's rebirth in a wash of blood.
Without corruption, without temptation.
" . . . many people willing and ready to help our local blues," an anchor's voice leaked into the night. "Stay tuned to News 9 this week for continuing coverage on this near-tragic accident."
Useless investigators hadn't even found the body.
His hand clenched around the TV remote and he stared at his broken kingdom, seeing an overlay of flame and ash.
Red. Black. Orange.
He grabbed a gun from the table and slipped two bullets into the clip. Just two. One to counter the wounds against the city, one to counter the ills against its people.
Under cover of night, in the time of truth, they would all understand.
CHAPTER FIVE
Work was an active crime scene and home was a stifling box. Even the good company and maple syrup-scented air of Mrs. Byron's townhouse couldn't lift her spirits. Amanda jabbed a fork at her last bite of eggs. Yesterday had been hell, but the day off was somehow worse. Nothing said "valued asset" like being lumped in with non-essential personnel.
The downstairs of Mrs. Byron's had been converted for the sole purpose of serving meals to a hungry neighborhood. A generous, pink- and gold-checkered table backed against her expansive, polished kitchen. Those in the know stopped by for breakfast, lunch, dinner — the older woman was always behind the stove.
"You don't pay family for meals, Detective," Mrs. Byron said, but as usual didn't return the bills Amanda snuck into her apron pocket. She whisked a young boy's plate away. "More?"
Fresh batter hit a pan and sizzled.
"You know I'd starve without you." Amanda dumped a cap of cinnamon over her toast.
"Oh honey, yes. I've seen you behind a stove."
The cowbells tied to the front door hinges jangled. Neighbors joining for breakfast, smiling or waving at her on the way in from the cold, comfortable with her presence despite her badge. Amanda had grown up local. In the North End she didn't face slammed doors or wait around for officious documents. Here, people shared their gossip without invitation. Home court advantage. Amanda returned their greetings with a nod and scooped up her bread as she stood.
One of the men claimed her vacated seat. He tossed a twenty on the table, helped himself to the waffle platter, and wiggled a butter knife in her direction. "Quite a stir yesterday. Any runners? Anyone bite it?"
Amanda ground her teeth. Her reflexive answer snapped inside her chest, but despite the flippant words, his second question was more curious than callous.
"You saw the news." She lifted one shoulder. "Our staff got out okay and all prisoners are accounted for."
His forehead crinkled. "All of them?"
"Now, if your cousin had jumped, you think he'd miss breakfast, Greg?" Mrs. Byron's gray-green eyes twinkled. "Day's just gettin' started though; you could always bail him out for lunch."
Greg smeared his breakfast with cream cheese. "Boy deserves it. Two months, community service after that. We'll straighten him out." He turned to Amanda as if he had another question but Mrs. Byron stepped between them with her spatula aimed at the bay window.
"Don't see four wheels every day." The older woman squinted through the gauzy curtains and clucked her tongue against her teeth. "Wasteful."
Amanda edged in next to her to see a blue convertible, top up, metallic paint gleaming, crawling past their row of townhouses. Bare pavement followed in its wake as the tires ate up remnants of gray snow.
"Only folk who cruise around here are sneaks and showoffs," came a tenor remark. Amanda turned and the boy who'd been sitting near her flushed with guilt. "No offense, ma'am."
"None taken." Amanda sent him a smile as she plucked her coat and its coordinating scarf from the wall peg. A
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