Chapter 15 - The Line in the SandZ
In close-quarters combat, speed and leverage always defeat wild rage.
When Sterling swung the heavy steel crowbar, his weight was forward, his footing unstable on the loose gravel. Instead of backing away, I stepped directly into his arc, planting my carbon-fiber prosthetic firmly into the stones to absorb the inward momentum.
I caught his right wrist with my left hand, driving his arm downward and deflecting the steel bar harmlessly into the dirt. With my right hand, I thrust the heavy, beveled metal strike bezel of the tactical flashlight directly into the center of his sternum.
The blow knocked every cubic inch of air from Sterling’s lungs in a violent, wheezing gasp.
He buckled at the knees. I used his downward momentum to twist his wrist, wrenching the crowbar from his fingers and kicking the tool twenty feet away into the sea oats. Then, with a single, sweeping trip of my prosthetic leg against his ankle, I sent Bradley Sterling crashing face-first into the crushed shell driveway.
I dropped my right knee onto the center of his shoulder blades, pinning his two-hundred-pound frame to the ground with the precision of a seasoned combat arrest. I pulled his arms behind his back, locking his wrists together with one hand while keeping my full weight planted on his spine.
“Move an inch,” I said in his ear, my voice devoid of anger, cold as an arctic wind, “and I will dislocate both of your shoulders before you can draw another breath.”
Sterling sobbed into the gravel, spitting out bits of dirt and crushed shells.
“Kill me then!” he wept, his voice cracking into high-pitched hysteria. “Kill me! I have nothing left! I’m ruined! Do it, you bastard!”
“Death is easy, Sterling,” I said quietly, holding him completely immobilized. “Living with what you’ve done... that’s the hard part. And you’re going to spend the next twenty years behind concrete walls thinking about the day you decided to bring gasoline to a little girl’s bedroom.”
Behind me, the front screen door creaked open.
My heart seized. “Maya! Stay inside!” I called out, keeping my head turned toward the dark driveway.
“Daddy?”
Maya stood in the doorway, wearing her oversized pajamas, her stuffed rabbit clutched against her chest. She saw the gas can in the sand. She saw the man pinned beneath my knee. But she didn't scream. She didn't cry.
She looked at me, her eyes reflecting the dim porch light, and said with heartbreaking clarity: “Is the angry man trying to hurt us again?”
“No, baby,” I answered softly. “Nobody is ever going to hurt us again. Go back inside and sit on the couch. Daddy has everything under control.”
Before she could turn, the bright, blinding headlights of two vehicles turned onto the private beach lane, their high beams sweeping across the cottage driveway.
The first vehicle was an unmarked black pickup truck—Ray Morrison had made it from the airport thirty minutes early. The second vehicle was a Lee County Sheriff’s Department cruiser, its blue and red emergency light bar suddenly illuminating the fog in a swirling kaleidoscope of law enforcement color.
Ray jumped out of his truck before it had even come to a complete stop, his service weapon unholstered and held in a low-ready position. Behind him, two sheriff’s deputies stepped out with flashlights drawn, their hands resting on their sidearms.
“Sheriff’s Office! Nobody move!” one deputy shouted.
“He’s secured, Officer!” Ray called out, flashing his private investigator credentials and pointing toward me. “Victim is an honorably discharged combat veteran! The suspect on the ground attempted an arson attack with an accelerant!”
The deputies rushed forward, taking over the physical control of Bradley Sterling, ratcheting heavy steel handcuffs around his wrists and searching his pockets.
They pulled a disposable lighter, a roll of duct tape, and a loaded nine-millimeter semi-automatic pistol from Sterling’s jacket pocket—a weapon he hadn't even had the chance to draw before the door hit him.
As the deputies hauled Sterling to his feet, the ruined executive looked at me one last time. His face was scraped raw by the shells, his eyes vacant, broken, and hollow. He was no longer a powerful corporate raider. He was simply a dangerous criminal who had reached the end of the line.
“Bradley Sterling,” the arresting deputy stated formally, pushing him toward the back of the patrol cruiser, “you are under arrest for attempted first-degree arson, attempted aggravated murder, stalking, and carrying an unregistered concealed firearm.”
As the cruiser’s door slammed shut on Sterling, the red lights painting his pale face in the backseat, Ray walked over to me.
He didn't say a word. He just reached out, gripped my hand, and pulled me into a fierce, brotherly embrace.
“Good hold, Sergeant,” Ray whispered. “Perimeter secured.”
“Thanks for riding to the sound of the guns, Ray,” I said, resting my forehead against his shoulder for three seconds as the adrenaline finally began to drain from my limbs.
I turned back to the porch. Maya was standing just behind the screen door, looking out at the deputies, the blue lights, and the ocean beyond the dunes.
May you like
I walked up the wooden steps, stepped inside the cottage, knelt down on the rug, and opened my arms.
Maya ran straight into my chest, wrapping her small arms around my neck so tightly I could barely breathe. I held her against me, kissing the top of her head as the first pale light of dawn began to break over the Atlantic horizon.
