Chapter 12 - The Trigger
Mark didn't reach for his gun. He just looked at her through the harsh light.
"He’s already dead, Sam."
Sam’s hand twitched. "What?"
"Your brother. Tommy. I saw his name on the coroner’s wire before we took the Vance call. They pulled him out of the lake at midnight."
Sam’s breath caught in her throat. The beam of the flashlight dropped two inches, quivering against Mark's chest.
"You're lying," she choked out. "You're trying to mess with my head."
"Call it in," Mark said softly, taking a single step forward. "Call the desk. Ask for Miller's report."
Sam swallowed hard. Her thumb hovered over her radio button, her eyes darting between Mark's face and the dark corners of the room. It was a classic mistake—looking away from the target when the emotions hit.
Mark didn't hesitate.
He closed the distance in half a heartbeat, slapping her gun arm to the side. The weapon went off with a deafening BANG, the bullet ricocheting off the steel lockers and striking the ceiling tiles.
They tumbled to the floor together, wrestling for control of the slide. Sam jammed her elbow into Mark’s jaw, sending a flash of white heat through his head, but Mark held onto her wrist, twisting it outward until the pistol dropped with a heavy thud.
Mark kicked the gun away, pinned her shoulder with his knee, and held her down.
She didn't fight back anymore. She just lay on the cold concrete, sobbing violently into her arm.
"They told me..." she sobbed, "they told me he was safe..."
Mark leaned over her, panting, blood dripping from his chin onto her collar.
"Who told you, Sam? Give me a name."
Sam raised her face, her eyes wide with absolute terror.
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"The Mayor didn't die in that car, Mark," she whispered. "That wasn't Vance in the ditch."
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