The emergency operations center at police headquarters had transformed into a war room within 30 minutes of Derek's escape. Chief Raymond Wilson stood before a wall of monitors displaying courthouse security footage, news coverage, and a digital map of the city with search zones highlighted. "I want every available unit on this," Wilson ordered, his usually polished demeanor fraying at the edges. Highway checkpoints, transit stations, everything. Simmons knows our protocols, which means we need to be unpredictable.
Captain Laura Reeves watched from the periphery, her stomach churning with guilt and fear. She should have seen this coming. The signs were there. Derek's increasing paranoia, his sense of persecution, his whispered comments about having contingencies. Captain Reeves, Chief Wilson called, pulling her back to the present.
You know Simmons better than anyone. Where would he go? All eyes turned to her. He's not stupid enough to go home or to family, she said carefully. But he has connections from the old task force days.
Names, Wilson demanded. Before she could answer, her phone vibrated. A text from an unknown number. We're taking care of our own. Stay out of it.
Laura slipped the phone into her pocket without responding, her decision already made. I'll compile a list, she told the chief, knowing she would provide some names while omitting others. Self-preservation had become instinct after years in the department. Across town, Marcus sat with Jamal in a secure conference room at the district attorney's office. Two officers stood guard outside.
Sophia entered with coffee and updates. They found the bailiff handcuffed to a pipe in the courthouse basement, she reported. Shaken, but otherwise unharmed. Simmons took his weapon and radio. So now he has two guns, Marcus observed grimly.
And police communications capability. Sophia lowered her voice. The DA wants to put you both in protective custody. Simmons made it pretty clear you were targets. Jamal, who had been silent since the courtroom, finally spoke.
For how long? Until they catch him, Sophia replied. And if they don't? Jamal's laugh was hollow. I'm supposed to live in hiding because the system put a racist with a badge and now can't control him?
Marcus placed a hand on Jamal's shoulder. We'll figure this out. For now, let's make sure you're safe. My mom, Jamal said suddenly. He knows where we live.
My family. Already being secured, Marcus assured him. Protection details are being assigned to everyone connected to the case. Jamal nodded, but his eyes held no relief. This is exactly what I was afraid of, you know.
That somehow, no matter what, he'd still have power over my life. The door opened as District Attorney Eleanor Grant entered, her expression severe. Marcus, I need a word. In the hallway, she didn't waste time. The mayor's office is in panic mode.
They're already positioning this as a lone wolf incident, not a systemic failure. That's exactly what it is. Systemic, Marcus countered. Simmons should never have had a weapon in that courtroom. Security failed, supervision failed, the psych evaluations failed.
I agree, Eleanor said. But, politically? I don't care about politically, Marcus interrupted. I care about the fact that a violent armed officer is on the loose after publicly threatening a victim and a prosecutor. Eleanor lowered her voice.
There's something else. The chief judge called. She's authorizing emergency access to sealed records relating to the Central Tactical Task Force. Marcus's interest sharpened. Simmons' old unit?
Yes. Those records were sealed as part of a settlement agreement with the city 3 years ago. Nobody's seen them since. Not even our office. What's in them?
That's what you're going to find out. She handed him a court order. Judge Watkins believes there may be information relevant to Simmons' current state of mind and potentially where he might go. Marcus studied the document. This is unprecedented.
So is an officer pulling a gun in open court. Eleanor's voice hardened. Find what we need to bring him in or this city's about to become a powder keg. 10 miles away, Derek Simmons crouched in the back seat of a sedan as it passed through a police checkpoint. The driver, Officer Jack Mercer, maintained a casual expression as he displayed his badge.
Any sign of him? Mercer asked the checkpoint officer. Nothing yet, came the reply. Keep your eyes open. Will do.
Once clear, Mercer drove for another 20 minutes taking a circuitous route to an aging ranch house on the city's outskirts. He parked behind the structure out of sight from the road. We're here, he announced. Coast is clear. Derek emerged, his uniform replaced with civilian clothes, a baseball cap pulled low over his face.
Mercer led him into the house where two other men waited. Both former members of the disbanded Central Tactical Task Force. Jesus, Simmons, said Mike Kowalski, a burly ex-officer who'd retired after the task force dissolution. You really stepped in it this time. They gave me no choice, Derek replied, his voice hard.
That prosecutor was out for blood. The third man, Ray Donovan, handed Derek a beer. Media's having a field day. You're headline news everywhere. Derek collapsed into a worn armchair, suddenly exhausted.
What are they saying? What do you think? Kowalski gestured to the television. Crazed cop goes berserk. Race angle front and center.
On screen, footage showed the courthouse evacuation followed by an interview with a witness describing Derek's courtroom outburst. They're calling it a racially motivated attack, the newscaster explained. Sources say Officer Simmons specifically targeted the victim of his alleged assault after making racial slurs during cross-examination. Derek hurled his beer bottle at the television. That's a lie.
I wasn't targeting anyone. I just needed to get out of there. Donovan muted the TV. Doesn't matter what happened anymore. Matters what they say happened.
They've already got roadblocks up, Mercer reported. Citywide search. Chief Wilson's authorized maximum resources. Wilson! Derek spat the name.
Another politician with a badge who'll throw any real cop under the bus to save his career. Kowalski exchanged glances with the others. Derek, what's your plan here? You can't stay on the run forever. I just need time to think, Derek muttered, rubbing his temples.
To figure out who I can trust. On the muted television, the image changed to Marcus Brooks at a press conference. His expression resolute as he spoke alongside the district attorney. Derek's eyes narrowed. That man destroyed 15 years of service in one afternoon.