Chapter 5 - Room 114
The Motel 9 on the edge of town smelled like old bleach and stale tobacco.
Mark stood outside Room 114, the key card he’s lifted off Vance’s body cold against his palm. His head was pounding. Every instinct told him to drive back, hand the evidence to the State Troopers, and take his suspension.
Instead, he swiped the card. The light flickered green.
The door creaked open into total darkness. The air inside was heavy, smelling faintly of cheap cologne and burnt copper.
Mark drew his Glock 19, keeping it low against his thigh. He kicked the door closed behind him with his heel.
"Turn on the lamp," a voice said from the corner.
It wasn't a threat. It sounded tired.
Mark’s thumb clicked the switch on the bedside table. The yellow light flooded the small room, illuminating a wooden chair. Sitting in it, wrapped in a blood-soaked trench coat, was Chief Miller—Mark’s older brother, and the head of the Oakridge Police Department.
"You took your time," the Chief muttered, holding a hand over a ragged hole in his gut.
Mark’s gun hand didn't move, but his breath hitched. "What did you do, John?"
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"What I had to," Chief Miller rasped, coughing up a dark splash of blood onto his collar. "Vance wasn't the target, Mark. You were."
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