I couldn't move.

"This way!" Another muffled shout: this time, it was undeniably my father. "Give me back my daughter, you sons of bitches!"

His response was given in gunfire.

Hunter's gaze shifted from me, to the door, and then to me again. He was hesitating, one boot already on the crunched glass outside, the other on the carpet. I could see him evenly split between a world of freedom, and a world with me... even if only for a few fleeting moments.

He was calling out to me, saying something. I could barely register his syllables. Everything was moving in slow motion, and I was struggling to maintain my grip on the world.

I swallowed slowly. It was the first motion I'd made in what felt like years.

He was even more pained now.

Still saying something. Maybe even shouting.

I tried to speak the words to him, "I'm coming, Hunter." When I parted my lips, I tried to tell him, "Please just take me away from here."

But those weren't the words that came out.

"Just... go..."

The world came to a complete stop.

As blurry and disconnected as everything felt, the next image burned into my mind. It was the striking pain plastered across his face. I met his heartfelt gaze and watched his heart completely shatter.

All this time, he had been afraid he would hurt me. Hunter had feared that taking me into the life would corrupt me. I had whittled at his conviction, convincing him that I was ready for this. I had promised him my complicity, my place at his side, supporting and nurturing him in the fire that he was about to tread.

The truth was now all too apparent. He shouldn't have feared hurting me. He should have feared being hurt by me.

I had broken my Hunter.

His jaw set, and he lingered for a second that felt like an eternity. If that door burst open before he disappeared from sight...

And just like that, he was gone.

Not a moment too soon, the door to our room broken open, and a strong, familiar arm squeezed around me, pulling me into its embrace as a gas mask was forced over my face.

"Oh, thank God..."

It was my father, backed up by two of his deputy officers. They fanned out around the room as he let loose a barrage of questions: "Did he hurt you? Sarah? Are you okay? What the fuck did they do to you?"

All I could do was sob, the weight of these last few minutes descending upon me, breaking me down into a husk of my former self. I choked on the words as much as the pepper spray I'd already inhaled. I was robbed of any coherency.

I couldn't breathe.

"He's not here," I heard one of the officers declare. As I turned my strained, tear-soaked gaze, I saw him glancing out the shattered window. "Looks like we found his escape route, though."

"Do you want us to try to apprehend him on foot?" The other deputy asked, turning towards us.

I could see the irritation in the deputy's eyes as his stare lowered upon me to him, I must have just been the wayward daughter, getting into the wrong kinds of trouble.

Every ounce of my body feared my father's next words, but he surprised me: "...No. I have what I came for."

I shuddered in his embrace.

The first deputy again: "Are you sure, sir? He couldn't have gotten far. We can intercept him if we leave now."

My father looked down at me again.

"Sarah, I need to know... are you hurt?"

Trembling, I shook my head.

With a heavy, shuddering sigh, he answered: "No, McAddams... we need to get our wounded to a hospital and process the assholes we've already handcuffed. Let him go. Let him understand the cost of crossing me..."

"And the others?"

"If they know what's good for them, they'll skip town. This is the last day that the Devil's Dragons prowl Phoenix. I'm going to call on some friends in the other precincts, just to be on the safe side... we'll drive them out east. We can force them to fend for themselves in the fucking desert."

He rose up, pulling me to my feet beside him. That's when I noticed the strain on his face, and how he hissed with his movements. I saw how his free hand clutched at his side, the red stains already soaking his uniform...

Blood?

I felt nauseous. I felt fear. I felt loathing and fury, my stomach churning violently with a cacophony of building, whipping emotions. But most of all... I felt guilty.

What the fuck have I done?

21.

Eight Years Later

I clenched and unclenched my hands, lost in thought as I gazed down at them.

In my peripheral vision, a shambling form came near. I turned my attention, smiling as my father approached with a limp in every step.

I kept up the beaming smile, hiding how guilty I felt every time I saw him. As always, the sight of his cane drew back the painful memories of that fateful morning...

The morning that changed my life forever.

"That's one hell of a promotion... Detective," he grinned back. "I've never been prouder of you, Sarah. If your mother could see you now..."

He pulled me into his heavy, hearty embrace.

The retired sheriff was right. I'd worked hard for this career move, putting in as many hours on the street as I possibly could. I'd put myself through the ringer because I wanted the world to know I'd earned this.

It was worth it.

I'd proven my mettle, coming out from under my father's shadow as the sheriff's daughter. A transfer here, a big case there... I had worked myself to the bone for every precinct I touched. Desperate to rise above, I put in more overtime than any damned officer on the force. My endless nights pounding the street and hitting the books in the academy were being validated.

I could finally make him proud.

He released his grip on me with satisfaction beaming in his eyes. "How about we celebrate with some grub? Your favorite steakhouse is calling my name..."

"Actually, Dad... I was kind of thinking we do something small, at home. Maybe I can cook?" I asked, fighting the urge to tear up every time I saw his fingers clasped around the hook of his cane. "Unless you've been lying about how much you enjoy my chicken lasagna..."

He smiled softly, the happiness evident in his eyes. "If that's what you want, Sarah..."

Unfortunately, the celebrations couldn't last longer than the evening. I let my father out just a bit past ten o'clock and was in bed before eleven. I was expected at my Sergeant's office bright and early the following morning, and after everything he had done for me, I had no intentions of displeasing him... After all, Sergeant Thompson had practically mentored me himself. He'd seen me as more than just the Sherriff's daughter... he saw the perceptive and detail oriented officer I'd become. He was steering my path towards this promotion for years now.

That's why it was a surprise when I found his office locked up tight the next morning. It wasn't like my boss to be late. A warm, churning pit developed in my gut.

Something was wrong.

"You're looking for Thompson?" One of the other Sergeants asked, passing by towards his area of the precinct. His friendliness was matched only by his impeccable record. "He's out on sick leave."

"Sick leave? But Thompson's never sick!"

"Broke a leg," he clarified. "Slipped in the shower right in the middle of budget cutbacks, too... For the next few weeks, you'll be reporting directly to Lieutenant Crabbe."

He added with a wink: "Good luck with that."

"Thank you, sir," I nodded politely, turning towards the opaque glass that marked the Lieutenant's office in the back of the room.

I'd only encountered the man a few times, and none of those instances had been what I'd call pleasant. The Sergeants usually positioned themselves between him and us for a reason that rose above simple matters of hierarchy.

A shiver went down my spine. This morning was not getting off to a good start.

"And, by the way?" The Sergeant smiled, extending his hand. "Congratulations on the promotion. You deserved it."

"Much obliged, Sergeant," I smiled, shaking his hand. "If you'll excuse me..."

"Carry on," he nodded.

Holding my chin high, I crossed between cubicles towards Lieutenant Crabbe's office. Each step forward sent an uncharacteristic impulse to my brain: Turn back. Turn back. Turn back.

No, I thought to myself. I've come this far. I'm going to make my father proud and no asshole Lieutenant is going to stop me.

I knocked on the door, and heard an ambiguous grumble from inside. Unsure how to proceed, I hesitated for a moment before giving another brief, louder knock.

"I said 'COME IN!'"

Great.

As I let myself into the room, Lieutenant Crabbe was perched behind his desk, twiddling his finger to indicate that I close the door.

The Lieutenant was a slovenly man: obese, sweaty, and perpetually fueled by anger that bordered on hellfire. His shitty attitude and unsightly physique was tolerated because he had an unblemished record of producing results, but his penchant for coming down hard on his subordinates was legendary on the force.

"I didn't ask, Jones!" He shouted down the desk phone that was jammed against his ear, his thick, Cheetos-stained fingers wrapped around it like undercooked sausages. "I said do it! I don't care how long your men have to stake out that fucking bowling alley, you do it and you do it with a fucking smile! Do you hear me?!"

Without waiting for a response, he slammed the phone down on the receiver, wiping his fingers off under his chair.

I hid my revulsion.

"So... Detective..." Crabbe muttered, gazing at me with his beady little eyes. Apparently, he'd already made an assessment, because those eyes were filled with contempt. "Out of the kiddie pool, eh? How's it feel to be at the big kid's table?"

I was taken aback, but thought quickly.

"This promotion is everything that I wanted, sir. I'm willing to put in whatever's necessary to"

"Don't bother, Detective," he sneered, leaning back in his chair. I heard it audibly strain beneath his weight. "Your boss says you've got the chops. Says your record speaks for itself. He doesn't fuck up often, so I'm inclined to believe him... for now. I know that you've earned your spot here. Don't piss me off by trying to butter me up."

From the looks of it the only thing he needed buttered was a thick basket of greasy rolls sitting at the edge of his desk.

"That said, everything that landed you in that chair in front of me? It's in the past. I couldn't give a flying fuck about your previous work ethic. This little promotion of yours? It's a clean fucking slate. You're back to square one, but now you're on a higher rung, you understand?"

I nodded respectfully.

"Good. Glad you're hearin' what I'm sayin'," he grunted, shuffling a few papers around on his desk. "With that said, I looked into you. Work ethic notwithstanding, I don't appreciate having some snot-nosed little sheriff's daughter shoved onto my plate."

And there it was.

It was always one reason or the other: the suggested nepotism, or the gender implication. Apparently, my temporary boss was one of the bigger misogynistic fuckers on the force, but went ahead and just struck for both sides anyway.

"You wanted this so bad?" The lieutenant grunted. "You've got it. Now keep it up, or else I'll have you back out there scribbling out parking tickets so fast it'll make your head fucking spin."

"I understand, sir." I chose my words carefully: "I'm not asking for your respect... I'm willing to earn it."

He took a cold, hard look at me, but I didn't waver in my conviction. After a moment, he finally nodded, apparently satisfied.

"That's what I like to hear."

He pulled open a drawer beneath his desk. Before I could pat myself on the back for learning the first steps in playing the game, he was tossing a thick folder in front of me.

"What the hell is this?" I asked.

"Your first case, Detective," he answered with a gravelly grunt. "Missing persons. Let me know if this rings a bell: three cheerleaders disappear from a football game in Tucson."