Except Caleb Vance wasn’t lowering his head now.
His posture was frighteningly rigid. His eyes carried a cold, predatory intelligence that caused Vance to catch his breath. Caleb raised his right hand, tapped his wrist—a universal gesture for time’s up—then disappeared into the darkness of the alley.
Vance slammed the door release and rushed into the street. “Stop! Sheriff’s Department! Stand where you are!”
He charged into the alley, raising his sidearm, his heavy boots echoing against the brick walls. “I’ll put you in the ground right next to your cripple son, you old bastard!”
Vance turned the corner near the dumpster—and collided with a wall of solid muscle. Before he could lift his gun, a gloved hand seized the slide of his Glock, forcing the action out of battery. Another hand struck his throat with precise, terrifying force. Vance dropped the weapon, choking and gasping for air as he fell to his knees on the wet asphalt.
