Byrne squared himself in front of the suspect and the hostage. He did not lower his weapon. "Talk to me, Anton. What do you want to do?"
"What, like, when I grow up?" Krotz laughed, high and loud. His gray teeth were shiny, black at the roots. The woman began to sob.
"I mean, what would you like to happen right now?" Byrne asked.
"I want to walk out of here."
"But you know that can't happen."
Krotz tightened his grip on the woman. Byrne saw the keen edge of the knife writing a thin red line on the woman's skin.
"I'm not seeing your bargaining chip, Detective," Krotz said. "I'm thinking I have control of this situation."
"There's no question about that, Anton."
"Say it."
"What? Say what?"
"Say 'You are in control, sir.' "
The words were bilious in Byrne's throat, but he had no choice. "You are in control, sir."
"Sucks to grovel, doesn't it?" Krotz said. Another few inches toward the door. "Been doing it my whole fucking life."
"Well, we can talk about that later," Byrne said. "Right now we have a state of affairs, don't we?"
"Oh, we most definitely have a state of affairs."
"So let's see if we can't find a way to end it so no one gets hurt. Work with me, Anton."
Krotz was six feet or so from the door. Though he was not a big man, he was a head taller than the woman. Byrne had a clear shot. His finger caressed the trigger. He could take Krotz out. One round, dead center to the forehead, brains on the wall. It would break every rule of engagement, every departmental regulation, but the woman with the knife at her throat probably wouldn't mind. And that's all that really mattered.
Where the hell is my backup?
Krotz said, "You know as well as I do that if I give it up I'm gonna ride the needle for those other things."
"That's not necessarily true."
"Yes it is!" Krotz yelled. He pulled the woman closer. "Don't fucking lie to me."
"It's not a lie, Anton. Anything can happen."
"Yeah? Like what? Like maybe the judge is gonna see my inner child?"
"Come on, man. You know the system. Witnesses have memory lapses. Shit gets thrown out of court. Happens all the time. The hot shot is never a sure thing."
At that moment a shadow caught Byrne's peripheral vision. Left side. A SWAT officer was edging up the back hallway, his AR-15 rifle raised. He was out of Krotz's line of sight. The officer made eye contact with Byrne.
If a SWAT officer was on scene, a perimeter was being established. If Krotz made it out of the restaurant, he wouldn't get far. Byrne had to get that woman out of Krotz's grasp, and that knife out of his hand.
"Tell you what, Anton," Byrne said. "I'm going to put my weapon down, okay?"
"That's what I'm talkin' about. Put it on the floor and kick it over to me."
"I can't do that," Byrne said. "But I'm going to put it down, then I'm going to raise my hands over my head."
Byrne saw the SWAT officer get into position. Cap reversed. Eye to the scope. Dialed in.
Krotz slid another few inches toward the door. "I'm listening."
"Once I do that, you let the woman go."
"Then what?"
"Then you and I will walk out of here." Byrne lowered his weapon. He placed it on the floor, put his foot on top of it "We'll talk. Okay?"
For a moment, it appeared as if Krotz was considering it. Then it all went to hell just as quickly as it had begun.
"Nah," Krotz said. "Where's the fun in that?"
Krotz grabbed the woman by the hair, yanked back her head, and ran the blade across her throat. Her blood jetted halfway across the room.
"No!" Byrne screamed.
The woman folded to the floor, her neck a grotesque red smile. For a moment, Byrne felt weightless, immobilized, as if everything he had ever learned and done was pointless, as if his whole career on the street was a lie.
Krotz winked. "Don't you love this fucking city?"
Anton Krotz lunged at Byrne, but before he could take a single step the SWAT officer at the back of the diner fired. Two rounds slammed into Krotz's chest, propelling him back into the window, exploding his torso in a dense crimson burst. The blasts were deafening in the confined space of the small diner. Krotz tumbled backward through the shattered glass onto the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. Onlookers scattered. A pair of SWAT officers deployed in front of the diner rushed over to Krotz's supine form, putting heavy boots to his flesh, rifles aimed at his head.
Krotz's chest heaved once, twice, then fell still, steaming in the frigid night air. A third SWAT officer arrived, took his pulse. He signaled. The suspect was dead.
Detective Kevin Byrne's senses went into overdrive. He smelled the cordite in the air, mixed with smells of coffee and onions. He saw the bright blood spread on the tile. He heard the last shard of glass shattering on the floor, coupled with someone's soft crying. He felt the sweat on his back turn to sleet with the rush of freezing air from the street.
Don't you love this fucking city?
Moments later an EMS van screeched to a halt, bringing the world back into focus. Two paramedics sprinted into the diner and began to treat the woman on the floor. They tried to stem the bleeding, but it was too late. The woman and her killer were both dead.
Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez-two detectives from the homicide unit-ran into the diner, weapons drawn. They saw Byrne and the carnage. They holstered. Chavez spoke into his two-way. Nick Palladino began to set up a crime scene.
Byrne looked over at the man who had been sitting in the booth with the victim. The man stared at the woman on the floor as if she were sleeping, as if she could stand up, as if they might finish their meal, pay the check and walk out into the night, gazing at the Christmas decorations on the street. Byrne saw a half-opened individual creamer next to the woman's coffee. She was going to put cream in her coffee, then five minutes later she was dead.
Byrne had witnessed the grief dealt by homicide many times, but rarely this soon after the act. This man had just seen his wife brutally murdered. He had been only a few feet away. The man glanced up at Byrne. In his eyes was an anguish far deeper, and darker, than Byrne had ever known.
"I'm sorry," Byrne said. The moment the words left his lips, he wondered why he'd said them. He wondered what he meant.
"You killed her," the man said.
Byrne was incredulous. He felt gut-punched. He couldn't begin to process what he was hearing. "Sir, I-"
"You… you could have shot him, but you hesitated. I saw. You could have shot him and you didn't."
The man slid from the booth. He took a moment, steadied himself, and slowly approached Byrne. Nick Palladino made a move to get between them. Byrne waved Nick off. The man got closer. Just a few feet away now.
"Isn't that your job?" the man asked.
"I'm sorry?"
"To protect us? Isn't that your job?"
Byrne wanted to tell the man that there was a blue line, yes, but when evil stepped into the light, there was nothing any of them could do. He wanted to tell the man that he had stayed his trigger because of his wife. For the life of him, he couldn't think of a single word to begin to express any of this.
"Laura," the man said.
"Pardon me?"
"Her name was Laura."
Before Byrne could say another word, the man swung his fist. It was a wild shot, poorly thrown, inexpertly leveraged. Byrne saw it coming at the last instant, and managed to sidestep it with ease. But the look in the man's eyes was so full of rage and hurt and sorrow, Byrne almost wished he had taken the hit. It may have, for the moment, filled a need in both of them.
Before the man could take another swing, Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez grabbed him, held him. The man did not struggle, but began to sob. He went limp in their grasp.