Endgame.
Ryan was holding a Winchester twelve-gauge while pointing his Glock at Bastarache. Bastarache had a Sig Sauer 9mm pointed at a man I assumed to be Malo.
Malo’s back was to the window. Like Bastarache, he was big and heavily muscled.
The sirens were growing louder. I guessed backup units were now crossing the bridge.
“You miserable sonovabitch,” Bastarache was yelling at Malo. “I knew your demented perversions would screw us all sooner or later.”
“You’re what, Dudley Fucking Do-Right? You went in with eyes wide, Davey-boy.”
“Not kids. I never agreed to kids.”
“They want to be stars. I give them their dream.”
“You promised me you cut that shit out. I believed you. Now I learn you been lying all along.” Sweat dampened Bastarache’s hair. His shirt was plastered to his chest.
“Easy.” Ryan tried to defuse Bastarache’s anger.
Bastarache jerked the Sig Sauer toward Ryan. “From the questions this guy’s asking, I’m guessing you killed some kids.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Malo gave a nervous laugh.
“Look at me, ass wipe.” Bastarache leveled the Sig Sauer on Malo’s face. “You’ve brought a murder investigation down on me. I’ve had cops up my ass for days.”
Raising both palms, Malo reoriented toward Bastarache.
My mouth went dry with shock.
Though older, artificially tanned, and more fit, Malo bore a striking resemblance to Bastarache. A resemblance that could only be explained by genes.
Bastarache continued his harangue.
“You killed those girls. Admit you did it.”
“That’s—”
“No! More! Lies!” Bastarache’s face was raspberry.
“They were sluts. I caught one stealing from me. The other was a junkie.” Malo swallowed. “You’re my brother, Davey. Take this guy out.” Malo made a nervous gesture toward Ryan. “Take him out and we’re home free. We find another place—”
“You draw attention to me. To my business. To people I care about. You’ve lost every bit of your brain. Cops been tailing me since Quebec. Something happens to this one and they’ll know who to look for.”
“She’s fine.”
“Your deviant shit threatens everything. You polluted my father’s house. That’s why I drop-kicked you the first chance I had.”
Bastarache was moving the gun with sharp, jerky motions. “You’re just like your whore mother.”
“Lay your gun on the floor, Dave.” Ryan, the negotiator. “You don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Bastarache ignored him.
“You care about nothing but money and your own sick pecker. But now you threaten
“You’re a head case,” Malo scoffed. “You live in the dark ages.”
“Head case?” The gun was trembling in his hand. “I’ll show you a head case. Your head all over that wall.”
A woman spoke from just below the window. Her voice sounded wheezy and winded.
“If you hurt him, it harms us.”
I strained to see the woman, but the chair back blocked her from view.
The sirens were now screaming down Rustique. Tires screeched, doors opened, feet pounded, radios sputtered. A man’s voice called out, another answered.
Bastarache’s eyes darted to the woman. In that instant, Ryan tossed the Winchester behind him and sprang.
The shotgun skidded across the floor and ricocheted off a baseboard. Malo spun and bolted from the room.
I turned and yelled, “Coming out the front!”
Three cops raced up the driveway. One shouted, “
Malo cut toward the garage. The cops overtook him, slammed his body to the brick, and cuffed his wrists.
Bounding into the house, I hooked a right through a set of double doors into the parlor. A cop followed close on my heels. I heard Ryan tell him to radio for an ambulance.
Bastarache was down on splayed knees, hands cuffed behind him. The woman crouched by his side. Her arm
