Page 167 of Distress Signal

“Alright,” Lane said. “Let’s go.”

We’d barely cleared the tree line before shouts rang out from inside the house—followed by a gunshot.

Moving before my brain had given my body permission, I raced toward the house like my life depended on it. I was halfway across the yard when two figures appeared running for their lives. Lainey first, followed not too long after by Reagan.

I sagged in relief at laying eyes on my girl again.

“Reagan!”

Reagan’s eyes landed on me for a beat, but she didn’t slow or veer toward me.

“I’m okay!” she shouted back. Then, “He’s got a gun!”

I lifted my own in response. “Get clear! We’ve got this!”

She nodded and kept moving, running straight toward the group of deputies, who parted to let them through, then reformed a wall between them and the open doorway of the house. Knowing she was safe, I returned my attention to the house. Tuck appeared in the doorway, looming like some monster from a nightmare. His right arm swung a pistol, waving it around like something as harmless as a water gun, while he screamed obscenities at the girls.

Blood dripped down his face from his nose, splashing into his mouth, garishly staining his gums and teeth as he grinned maniacally.

Lane took a step toward him.

“Don’t,” Trey insisted. “He’s fucking crazy.”

Lane looked at him over his shoulder, then spared each of us a glance in turn.

“I’ve got this,” he assured us.

Breaking further from our line, his gun never wavered as it remained trained on Tuck. When he spoke, Lane’s soft tone was entirely at odds with the tension gathered in the air around us like a thick storm cloud.

“Put the gun down, Tuck.”

Tuck laughed a bit hysterically, though he lowered his arm. “Fuck no.”

“Tuck,” Lane insisted. “It’s over. Put the gun down and come with us.”

“I’m not going to prison!” Tuck shouted. “I didn’t do anything wrong! They belong with me!”

My brother inched closer. “It’s over,” Lane repeated as he reached the bottom of the stairs, putting him within five feet of Tuck—point blank range for the Glock that, for the moment, hung at his side.

Meanwhile, Lane kept his sights on the center of Tuck’s chest, finger on the trigger, poised for any sudden movements.

Tuck continued muttering about how Lainey and Reagan were his, how he wasn’t giving them up.

Lane didn’t move closer or away, simply said, “It’s going to be okay, Tuck. I’m going to have one of these deputies cuff you and put you in a car. Then we’ll go to the station and talk, okay?”

Johns stepped forward, cuffs out, and climbed the steps.

Too fast. Too fucking fast.

“Stand down!” I shouted at Johns.

The warning came too late.

Before Lane could react, Tuck lifted his gun, pointed it at my brother, and fired.

As Lane was knocked backward from the force, my own weapon discharged, putting a hole in the center of Tuck’s forehead, as several more shots punctured holes in his chest.

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