"That's not real," Kendrick said, but his voice had lost its edge. It came out thinner than before, almost a question dressed up as a statement. "It's real," Everett said. "Call it in if you want. Run the number on the back." Kendrick snatched it out of Daniel's hand and stared at it like staring hard enough might change what it said.
His jaw worked, chewing on something he didn't want to swallow. 19 years on the job. And somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice was screaming that federal credentials didn't come with an off switch. That this wasn't going away just because he wished it would. Get him up.
Kendrick snapped at Daniel, but there was no conviction in it anymore. Daniel hesitated, then eased the knee off Everett's back. That's when Ezekiel spoke, still cuffed, still standing where Vaughn had put him. His voice was quiet. but it cut clean through the yard. Check my jacket.
Left side. Van looked at Kendrick, unsure. Kendrick gave a short, sharp nod, like he needed to see this through now, whatever it cost him. Van reached into Ezekiel's jacket and pulled out a laminated card, the kind that came from city hall, signed at the bottom in blue ink. He read it once silently, and his face went pale.
What's it say?" Daniel asked. Vaughn didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice cracked in the middle of the sentence. "It says,"Captain, Fair View Heights precinct." He looked up first at Kendrick, then at Ezekiel, standing there in handcuffs on his own front lawn. Effective in five days.
The words hung in the air like smoke that wouldn't clear. Kendrick's whole body went rigid. He was holding the identification of the man who in 5 days would sit above him in the chain of command. The man he had just thrown to the ground and cuffed for the crime of standing on his own property and asking a question calmly. That doesn't mean anything, Kendrick said, but even he didn't sound like he believed it.
Paperwork isn't sworn in yet. No, Ezekiel said it isn't yet. Nobody said anything else for a long moment. Somewhere down the street, a car door shut. A dog barked twice and went quiet.
The woman on her porch, two houses down, still had her phone raised, still recording. And now she wasn't the only one. Two more neighbors had stepped out to watch. Officer Enslow stood frozen near the patrol car, his own phone still low against his leg, still recording everything, his stomach twisting with the sick, sinking feeling of a man who has just watched his sergeant hang himself in broad daylight and doesn't know yet how bad the fall is going to be. Kendrick finally moved, snapping his fingers at Vaughn.
Get the cuffs off him now. Vaughn fumbled with the key, hands not quite steady, and the cuffs came off Ezekiel's wrists with a metallic click that seemed too loud for how quiet the street had gotten. Ezekiel rubbed at the red marks left behind, but said nothing. Everett pushed himself up off the grass, brushing dirt from his palms, and stood beside his brother. Kendrick didn't apologize.
He didn't explain. He simply straightened his jacket, looked at both men for one more second like he was trying to memorize something he wished he could forget, and turned back toward his cruiser. "We're done here," he said to no one in particular. He wasn't looking at either brother anymore. He was already moving, already retreating toward the safety of his car, his mind clearly somewhere else entirely, already calculating who he needed to call before this story left the block.
Kendrick didn't say another word to either brother. He walked straight to his cruiser, yanked the door open, and dropped into the driver's seat like his legs had stopped trusting him. Everett stood on the lawn, rubbing grass stains off his palms, watching the man go. Ezekiel stood beside him, wrists still marked red from the cuffs, his breathing slow and controlled. The way a man breathes when he's forcing himself not to shake.
Daniel and Vaughn climbed into the second car without a word between them. Enslow lingered a second longer than the others, phone still low at his side, his thumb hovering over the screen like he wasn't sure whether to stop recording or not. Then he slid into the back seat and pulled the door shut. Through the windshield of the lead cruiser, Kendrick picked up his phone. He thought the windows were up enough.
He thought the engine noise would cover it. He was wrong. Enslow's window was cracked an inch, just enough for the summer air to get through and just enough for his phone, still recording, to catch every word. Chief, it's Kendrick. A pause.
We've got a problem. Everett went very still. The two guys on the call, the twins. Another pause, longer this time. And even from a distance, Everett and Ezekiel could see Kendrick's knuckles whiten around the phone.
One of them's FBI. The other one's the new captain, the one starting Monday. Whatever Chief Vince Holston said back, none of them could hear, but they saw Kendrick's shoulders drop. Saw him nod twice like a man taking orders he didn't want. Then make it not a problem, came the reply, faint but clear enough through the open window, cold and flat in a way that left no room for questions.
Kendrick said nothing else. He hung up, dropped the phone into the cup holder, and threw the cruiser into reverse. Both patrol cars pulled away from the curb fast, tires chirping once against the pavement and were gone down the street within seconds. The neighbors who'd been watching slowly drifted back into their houses, phones lowering, front doors clicking shut one by one until the street looked exactly like it had 20 minutes earlier. Except nothing about it felt the same.
Everett turned to his brother. You hear that? I heard it. Ezekiel's voice was quiet, but there was something hard underneath it now. Something that hadn't been there an hour ago.