Dennis Irwin pushed the industrial mop across the courthouse marble floor, invisible as furniture.

Rob Dixon stopped ten feet from Dennis. The two deputies flanked him immediately, unsnapping their sidearms.

"Well, well," Dixon said, a cruel sneer spreading across his broad, scarred jaw. "The Irwin father. Davidson must have fallen asleep at his post. You're trespassing in an active crime-scene processing area, Irwin."

"You have evidence from my son’s operation in that box, Dixon," Dennis said.

"This is county property, authorized by an emergency seizure warrant executed by District Magistrate Vance," Dixon spat, holding up the paperwork. "Your boy is being investigated for aggravated assault on a peace officer. The lead in this container is material evidence in an ongoing criminal probe against Tyler Irwin. Now step aside before we put you in a cell next to him."

Dennis didn't move. "Tyler was shot in the back of the knees while kneeling on the asphalt. You don't want ballistics running that trajectory, Dixon. Because trajectory doesn't lie. It proves execution-style intent."

Dixon laughed, a harsh, grating bark. "Boy, you really don't understand how this town works, do you? There is no state ballistics. There is no independent inquiry. I am the lead investigator. This evidence will be logged as damaged beyond scientific identification. Tyler will be charged with a Class A felony the moment Donnelly stabilizes him. He'll do five years in juvenile detention, and when he gets out, he won't have legs to run with. That's Barnes justice."

Dixon nodded to the deputy on his left. "Cuff him. Resisting an executive officer."

The younger deputy stepped forward, reaching for his handcuffs.

Dennis moved before the deputy's hand cleared his belt.

Dennis stepped inside the deputy's reach, his left arm deflecting the deputy’s wrist while his right elbow hammered into the man's sternum with the explosive concussive force of a breaching charge. The deputy collapsed instantly, his lungs paralyzed by the impact.

Dixon yelled, dropping the specimen box and raising his hands toward his rifle.

Dennis didn't give him the quarter-second required. He drove forward, closing the distance like a shadow, his hand slamming down on the rifle’s receiver, blocking the bolt carrier from chambering a round. With his other hand, Dennis struck Dixon's collarbone with a hammer-fist blow that produced a sickening, audible crack.

Dixon roared in agony, dropping to one knee as his left arm hung uselessly.

The third deputy drew his Glock, but Dennis was already using Dixon’s massive frame as a human shield. Dennis drew Davidson’s confiscated Taser from his waistband and fired. The two copper probes buried deep into the third deputy's chest, releasing fifty thousand volts of neuromuscular incapacitation. The deputy seized, convulsed, and hit the linoleum floor face-first, completely paralyzed.

The entire engagement had lasted precisely 4.2 seconds.

Dixon was on his knees, gasping for breath, sweat pouring down his graying face. He looked up at Dennis, his arrogance replaced by primal, staggering shock.

"Who... what the hell are you?" Dixon wheezed, clutching his shattered collarbone.

Dennis knelt down until his eyes were level with Dixon's.

"I am the man Stuart Barnes should have investigated before he pulled the trigger on my son," Dennis whispered softly.

Dennis picked up the metal specimen box containing the bullet fragments. He reached into Dixon’s tactical vest, pulled out the radio, and clicked the emergency broadcast button on the county-wide tactical frequency.

The station speakers crackled to life across the county.

"Sheriff Barnes," Dennis spoke into the microphone. His voice was smooth, completely devoid of adrenaline, broadcasting to every patrol car, every dispatcher, and the central precinct.

There was a five-second silence. Then Barnes’s furious, gravelly voice blared across the radio: *"Who the hell is on this net? Dixon, is that you?"*

"This is Dennis Irwin," Dennis said clearly. "Your brother is on the floor of Mercy General Hospital with a broken clavicle. Two of your deputies are unconscious. I have the ballistic evidence your men tried to steal."

A barrage of radio static erupted. *"Irwin! You're a dead man! You hear me? Every unit in this county is rolling to that hospital! We will put fifty rounds through you!"*

"You had five days, Stuart," Dennis said calmly over the radio. "Now you have three. Pull your men away from this hospital, or the next voice you hear over this frequency will be the state police."

Dennis unclipped the battery from the radio, dropped the components onto the floor, and smashed them beneath his steel-toed work boot.