You Don't Want To Know - By Lisa Jackson Page 0,186

His jacket identified him, but it wasn’t safe and he wanted Reece alive.

On he ran, boots sliding in the mud, his damned ankle beginning to throb. Still, he was slowly closing the gap. Reece was fifteen feet ahead of him, but slowing. Soon it was ten feet, then five.

He could hear the rasp of his brother’s breath as he slowed.

“Reece! Give it up!” he yelled, and his half brother looked furtively over his shoulder, his eyes wild. He muttered something unintelligible, dug into the pocket of his jeans, and kept running toward the damned ocean. Did he think he could swim away? Get lost in the sea before he drowned or hypothermia took him?

No effin’ way!

Police were shouting. A warning shot fired.

But Reece didn’t break stride. Only feet from the surging ocean’s edge, he looked about to dive in.

Gathering all his strength, Dern launched himself.

Reece spun.

A knife was in his hand. With a ghoulish smile twisting his narrow face, he actually grinned. “Come on, dick face, just come the hell on!” he said as Dern landed on him and the skinny man drove his blade into Dern’s chest. The air rushed out of Dern’s lungs as together they toppled into the sand. Reece tried to squirm away and sliced at Dern again and again, thrusting his knife hard. “Die, you fucker! Die!”

Dern wrestled with the maniac, using all the tactics he’d learned on the force, but his half brother was slippery and hopped up on adrenaline, fighting for his life, his deadly blade ever in Dern’s view.

As one, they rolled toward the ocean, the rain pounding down, the sound of footsteps heavy, the voices of men shouting audible over the rush of the ocean.

Dern twisted and writhed, grabbing at the man’s arms and finally using his legs to turn Reece facedown while trying to avoid the deadly slash of the maniac’s blade.

An icy spray of sea foam splashed over them as they wrestled. Dern sputtered, salt water filling his nose and mouth. Slowly but surely, Dern forced Reece’s hand backward, farther and farther, until the older man was writhing in pain, still trying to strike. Another wave pummeled them.

Reece squealed like a stuck pig, sputtering, coughing, and spitting sand and salt water.

Dern gave another little twist. This time he felt sinews pop.

Howling in agony, Reece dropped the knife.

“I should kill you, you miserable piece of shit!” Dern said.

“We’ve got him!” Burly yelled.

Dern didn’t budge. He straddled the prisoner, not letting him go, feeling the arctic chill after another wave struck hard. Finally, four other cops arrived, weapons trained on Reece.

“I said, we’ve got him,” Burly repeated into his phone as he shoved Dern aside and cuffed the subdued, coughing prisoner.

“You sure do,” Dern said, freezing, with sand and salt water sticking to his skin, his hair plastered to his head, the flak jacket that had saved his life from Reece’s rabid knife thrusts hard against him. Shivering, he stared at the monster who had killed so many, a maniac with the same blood as Dern’s running through his veins.

Once he was cuffed and hauled to his feet, Reece, still spitting sand, zeroed in on Dern. His filthy jeans and jacket were two sizes too big and his once-blond hair, now wet and stringing to his shoulders, showed hints of gray. Dark eyes squinted a bit as if some memory tugged at his brain. “Who the fuck are you?”

Dern didn’t respond, wouldn’t give the prick the satisfaction. Because this pathetic homicidal maniac, no matter what, was no brother to him. If Reece figured out who Dern was, fine. Surely he’d learn it from the cops, but Dern wouldn’t give the psycho the satisfaction of an answer.

“I said, who the hell are you?” Reece yelled, nearly frothing for the truth.

Burly snorted. “I think he is your worst nightmare, Reece. But then, that’s what you are to the rest of us.”

Dern, limping slightly, followed the officers and their prisoner up the trail to the hospital where Biggs and a bevy of other cops were waiting. All eyes followed the prisoner, and Dern could feel the sense of relief, even elation rippling through the sodden group. The dogs whined, a few cops told jokes, still others were on phones or smoking or texting.

Once he was shackled, the prisoner was prodded toward a waiting car. Biggs was already beaming. The most reviled man in Washington State history had been captured on his watch, and no doubt, the big man was already considering how to make