CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Ella pointed the car back towards Liberty Grove and floored the gas. This was the part of rural Virginia she missed the most. Rolling hills, zero traffic, empty roads that didn"t care if you broke the speed limit. Living in D.C. for the past, God knows how long, she"d forgotten the simple joy of covering five miles in five minutes.

But her Formula 1 roleplay was just a distraction from her swirling thoughts. The case, the killer, the goddamn drought.

And lurking beneath it all, like a shark circling in dark waters, was the thought of Mia.

She cursed under her breath as she remembered Rafe Portillo, Mia"s dog walker, hadn"t called her back. Another loose end in a case that was rapidly unraveling like a cheap sweater. She made a mental note to ring him when she got a spare moment, which at this rate would be sometime next century.

Luca cleared his throat, breaking into her brooding like a wrecking ball through drywall.

‘You know, the more I think about it, the more this guy seems like a vigilante than your garden-variety psycho. He"s not killing for kicks; he"s serving up some ice-cold revenge to the folks who screwed over Liberty Grove.'

The rookie had a point, much as she hated to admit it. If she"d watched her hometown shrivel up and blow away while some suit-and-tie brigade in Bristol got fat off the misery, she might"ve been tempted to dispense a little frontier justice herself. Hell, part of her – the part that still longed for a less responsible life in Abingdon – almost understood the rage that could drive a man to murder.

But she"d sworn an oath, planted her flag on the side of law and order, and last she checked, it didn"t come with a sliding scale of acceptable homicide.

‘Murder"s murder, Hawkins. Doesn't matter if you"re wearing a green hood or Armani. You kill someone, you pay the price.

Luca shifted in his seat. Uncomfortable. Like he was sitting on tacks. ‘But doesn"t motive count for something? This guy, he"s not killing for kicks. He"s trying to right a wrong.'

‘Right a wrong? By creating more wrongs?'

‘I"m just saying, maybe it"s not as black and white as we think. These guys he killed, they weren"t innocents. They destroyed lives. Whole communities.'

‘Where do we draw the line, huh? Who gets to decide which crimes deserve death? You? Me? Some eco-warrior with a grudge?'

Luca fell silent. Finally, he spoke. Soft. Thoughtful. ‘But still, doesn"t it make you angry? What they did to Liberty Grove?'

‘Of course it does. This is my home. These are my people. But anger doesn"t justify murder. Never has and never will. It's what separates us from the animals.'

‘What a minefield,' Luca said.

‘Someone once told me that bullets solve problems but create new ones. If you let every injustice in this job eat at you, you'll have ulcers the size of Texas.'

Luca turned the air con up to the max then said, ‘Sorry for dipping into morality and ethics. I was just curious.'

‘Those topics are best avoided.'

Just as Luca opened his mouth to speak again, Ella"s phone erupted in a violent buzz in the cup holder.

‘Let me,' Luca said. He manhandled Ella's phone, answered the call and turned it to loudspeaker. ‘Hawkins and Dark.'

‘We got him.' Tucker"s voice crackled through the speaker, triumph evident even through the static that made him sound like he was calling from the bottom of a well.

‘Got who?' Ella shouted back.

‘Lawrence Holbrook, apprehended in Millsville. Uniforms got a hit on his plates at a grocery store. He was filling up his tank and loading up on granola bars.'

The adrenaline rush was more potent than mainlining espresso. With any luck, they might have just found their eco-warrior-turned-murderer.

‘Hold him tight and text me the address, Sheriff,' Ella ordered.

‘You got it. Holbrook ain't going nowhere.'

‘Great work. We're on our way.'

Luca hung up and slapped his palm on the dashboard. ‘Yes! We got the son of a bitch. Teamwork makes the dream work.'

Ella"s mind raced ahead, synapses firing faster than an Uzi on full auto as she formulated questions, planned her attack, envisioned the dozens of ways she could make Lawrence Holbrook squirm under the hot lights of an interrogation room. She"d crack him open like a ripe watermelon, spill his guts across the table and pick through the mess until she found the truth.

Her new pal was about to learn there are no heroes and villains in this world. Just the law and those who broke it.