Chapter 2 - Jurisdiction

They say a cornered rat will bite the hardest, but Jason was no rat. He was just a coward who had run out of places to hide.

While Eleanor collapsed on the stage in a weeping, pathetic heap, Jason shoved past a waiter, bolted through a side exit, and sprinted into the service corridors of the hotel. He knew the building well, slipping out through the loading dock before the perimeter was fully secured.

He didn't run to an airport. He didn't run to a lawyer.

He ran to my house.

He figured Sarah was there. In his twisted, desperate mind, he thought if he could take her hostage, he could leverage his way out of federal prison.

I was already waiting for him.

I had let him slip through the net. Harris didn't know, but I had left the service door unguarded on purpose. Some things the law can handle, and some things a father has to finish.

The rain had stopped by the time I pulled my old pickup truck into the driveway of my house. The garage light was still on, casting long shadows across the yard. I stepped out, leaving the engine running.

The front door of my house had been kicked in.

I walked up the porch steps slowly, the wood creaking under my boots. I pushed the splintered door open.

“Sarah?!” Jason screamed from the living room, his voice cracking with hysteria.

I stepped into the room. Jason was standing near the fireplace, shaking violently. He held a 9mm pistol in his hands, pointing it in every direction. He looked terrible—his tuxedo was torn, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes wild and bloodshot.

“She’s not here, Jason,” I said softly.

He spun around, aiming the gun at my chest. His hands were shaking so badly I wondered if he could hit the broad side of a barn.

“Where is she?!” he shrieked. “You ruined everything! You ruined my life! I’ll kill you, you old bastard, I’ll kill you!”

I didn't draw a weapon. I just walked toward him, slow and steady.

“You want to pull that trigger, son, you better make sure you don't miss,” I said, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “Because if I'm still breathing when you're done, I’m going to take that gun and feed it to you.”

“Stay back!” he cried, stepping backwards until his back hit the brick fireplace.

“You like hitting people who can't fight back?” I took another step. “You like standing over women with a baseball bat? Where’s your smirk now, Jason? Where’s your mother?”

He let out a pathetic, animalistic sob and squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Nothing happened.

Jason stared at the gun in disbelief. He racked the slide.

Click.

“I field-stripped your backup weapon in your office,” I told him, closing the distance. “I filed down the firing pin on this one before I left it in your glovebox three days ago. You never even checked it.”

The realization hit him like a physical blow. The gun slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor. He dropped to his knees, covering his face with his hands, sobbing uncontrollably. He was a broken, pathetic shell of a man.

I stood over him, my fists clenched so tight my knuckles ached. Everything in me wanted to end him. It would be so easy. One strike.

But I thought of Sarah. I thought of the peaceful life she deserved, a life not tainted by her father becoming a murderer.

Red and blue lights flashed through the living room windows. The sirens wailed as federal vehicles swarmed my lawn.

I reached down, grabbed Jason by the scruff of his expensive, ruined tuxedo, and dragged him out onto the porch, throwing him at the feet of the arresting officers.