“I’m afraid there’s quite a bit of paperwork involved with that,” replied Sawyer. She rolled her chair across the floor to a filing cabinet and began rifling through one of the drawers.
“You’ll find that Chief Daryl Wilson of the Waverly P.D. already faxed over the necessary documents,” said Wes, surprising himself. It was uncomfortably easy to execute the steps of Flynn’s plan. Wes quelled the feelings of guilt rising in his gut. If he wanted Nicole back, he had to play the Raptors’ games.
Sawyer rolled back to the desk and lifted the papers from the fax machine. “He sure did. That makes things way simpler. I wish every office was as efficient as you guys. Davenport’s in one of our holding cells. Here’s the key. I’ll buzz you back.”
Wes accepted the key from Sawyer, and a door to the right of the front desk opened automatically as she hit a nearby button, revealing a long hallway with many doors.
“Last door on the left,” said Sawyer with a nod. “I’ll sort out the rest.”
Brooks stepped toward the door, but Wes held him back. “Who else is on duty today?”
“It’s just Officer Cameron and me desking tonight,” replied Sawyer. She gestured vaguely down the hallway. “He’s probably making coffee in the break room. Everyone else headed out on patrol shortly after Davenport was apprehended.”
Wes nodded before leading Brooks away from the front desk. As they continued down the hallway, Wes glanced into each room with an open door, storing away the information for later. As they passed the break room, Wes caught sight of Sawyer’s partner, Officer Cameron. He dipped his head in acknowledgement before following Brooks to the end of the hallway.
The last door on the left led to a long row of holding cells. Only one was occupied. Davenport lay on the floor, his back to Wes and Brooks and the toes of his slippered feet tucked beneath the sturdy edge of the metal cot as he worked through a series of abdominal crunches.
Wes rapped on the bars with his baton. “Davenport.”
Davenport tipped his head back, staring at the two men upside down. When he saw Brooks, he flipped over and stood. “Brooks! Man, thank the Morrigan. Get me the fuck out of here.”
Brooks held his hand out to Wes. “Give me the key, McAllen.”
Wes handed it over, his stomach turning as he went over the remaining parts of Flynn’s plan in his mind. This wouldn’t be pretty. Brooks turned the key in the lock, slid the cell door open, and slipped inside, gesturing for Wes to follow. With a glance at the security camera trained on Davenport, Wes stepped inside.
Without warning, Brooks landed a punch to Davenport’s gut. He doubled over, groaning. “What the hell, man?”
Brooks seized Davenport by the collar of the gray T-shirt the station had provided him, hauling him to his feet. “Did you swallow the locket?”
“What—?”
Wes grimaced as Brooks violently shook Davenport. Davenport was by no means a small man, but Brooks clearly had some kind of offense training under his belt. “Did you swallow the locket?”
“Get off me, Brooks!”
“McAllen, block the camera,” snarled Brooks as he backed Davenport against the cell wall.
Wes obeyed, moving into the camera’s line of sight so that Brooks’s tussle with Davenport was hidden from view. Then Brooks took hold of Davenport’s chin, forced his mouth open, and stuck two fingers down his throat. Davenport retched, his hands scrabbling at Brooks’s wrists without finding purchase.
“Come on, Davenport,” urged Brooks. As Davenport gagged again, Wes backed away. He didn’t want to be in the line of fire. Besides, the sound at the back of Davenport’s throat had already brought the taste of bile to Wes’s tongue.
With one last probing from Brooks, Davenport leaned forward and vomited. At first, all that came up was stomach acid. Then the clink of metal hitting the concrete floor of the cell caught Brooks’s attention. He motioned to Wes, who stifled a groan and knelt down to sift through the mess with his baton. Davenport slumped against the wall, panting, but Brooks kept a firm hold on his collar. Wes unearthed the locket from its vile location, collected it with a plastic baggie, and tucked it into the pocket of his police jacket.
As Wes stood, Brooks shoved Davenport to the cot and moved behind Wes so that he was blocking the camera. “Finish him, McAllen.”
Wes stared down at Davenport. For weeks now, Wes had viewed Donovan as a major pain in the ass, but seeing Davenport drooped over the metal cot with his hair askew and his face shining with sweat, Wes marveled at the fact that just hours before, he had been scared shitless of the younger man. The time had come to enact justice, to give Donovan what he had been threatening to give Wes ever since he had been kidnapped that morning. Except it wasn’t justice. It was revenge. And the two words never seemed so different to Wes than they did in that moment.
“What are you waiting for, McAllen?” Brooks shoved Wes in the back so that he stumbled toward Davenport. “You want to stay alive? Follow the Morrigan’s orders. Get rid of him.”
“I can’t believe you, Brooks,” rasped Donovan. His voice was hoarse. “Best friends since your freshman year. I brought you into the Raptors. I made you what you are now. And now you’re going to let some no-name, blue-collar cop take me out?”
Brooks looked down at Donovan, his face emotionless. “I am loyal to the Black Raptor Society and to no one else. McAllen, do it now or else the Morrigan gets you as her new plaything.”
Wes knelt down on level with the cot, taking Donovan’s already wrinkled shirt in his fist. He stared into Donovan’s eyes, looking for something—remorse, guilt, penitence—but Donovan looked straight back at him with nothing but confidence and pride.
“Do it, McAllen,” hissed Donovan, but his fingers pried at Wes’s hands in a desperate attempt at freedom.
Wes drew a switchblade
