Page 44 of Girl, Reborn

‘Got who?’ Ella shouted back.

‘Lawrence Holbrook, apprehended inMillsville. Uniforms got a hit on his plates at a grocery store. He was fillingup his tank and loading up on granola bars.’

The adrenaline rush was more potent thanmainlining espresso. With any luck, they might have just found theireco-warrior-turned-murderer.

‘Hold him tight and text me the address,Sheriff,’ Ella ordered.

‘You got it. Holbrook ain’t goingnowhere.’

‘Great work. We’re on our way.’

Luca hung up and slapped his palm on thedashboard. ‘Yes! We got the son of a bitch. Teamwork makes the dream work.’

Ella's mind raced ahead, synapses firingfaster than an Uzi on full auto as she formulated questions, planned herattack, envisioned the dozens of ways she could make Lawrence Holbrook squirmunder the hot lights of an interrogation room. She'd crack him open like a ripewatermelon, spill his guts across the table and pick through the mess until shefound the truth.

Her new pal was about to learn there areno heroes and villains in this world. Just the law and those who broke it.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

He sat beside his creation; a behemoth ofsteel and glass that dominated the cavernous space. The steady drip of waterechoed off the walls like a metronome counting down the final moments of alife. His life's work, this monstrous device, hummed with potential energy. Acycle, endless and unforgiving as the river that had shaped his town – and now,his vengeance.

Some might call him a monster. Avigilante. A killer. But they didn't understand. Couldn't understand. Thiswasn't about revenge, not really. It was about balance. About setting thingsright in a world gone so terribly wrong.

He rose to his feet, moved over to aworkbench and ran his fingers over the implements laid out with surgicalprecision. Zip ties. Duct tape. Enough sedatives to take down a city. The toolsof his new trade.

Once, he had built things. Homes, schools,bridges. Now he built only this – a machine of retribution, a monument tojustice long delayed but finally delivered.

The irony wasn't lost on him. Using thevery skills that had once been meant to create, now turned to destruction. Butwasn't that always the way? The most devastating weapons were often thosedesigned for peace.

A sudden memory hit him like a punch tothe temple. He was a child again, no more than nine or ten, splashing in theshallows of the same river where he’d dumped Ayers not a few hours ago. Thesummer sun beat down, the water cool against his skin. Paradise, until itwasn't.

One misstep. That was all it took. Hisfoot sank into the muddy bottom, trapped as surely as if it had been set inconcrete. Panic bloomed in his chest as he lost his balance, topplingface-first into the current.

Water rushed into his nose, his mouth, hislungs. He thrashed wildly, fingers clawing at nothing, lungs burning for airthey couldn't reach. The world narrowed to a pinpoint of agony, every cell inhis body screaming for oxygen. His vision began to darken at the edges, thefight slowly leaving his limbs.

In that moment, suspended between life anddeath, he understood true terror. The absolute certainty that this was it, thathis short life would end here, in the murky depths of a river that had alwaysseemed so benign.

Then, salvation. A hand gripping his arm,hauling him to the surface. Air, sweet and painful, filling his abused lungs.He coughed and retched, expelling river water as his rescuer pounded his back.

He shook his head, banishing the memory.That was then. This was now. And now, just a few feet away, another man wasabout to experience that same exquisite agony.

The builder's muffled cries reached hisears. Desperate pleas for mercy bubbling up through the rising water. He didn'tbother to respond. What was there to say? The man had sealed his own fate themoment he agreed to work on that damned dam. He was in a watery grave of hisown making now. No one was coming to help him.

He couldn't bring himself to feel sorryfor the builder. Not after everything that had happened. Not after watching histown wither and die, its lifeblood diverted to feed the insatiable greed of menin faraway offices.

His mind drifted to the others. Toledo hadbeen almost laughably easy. A spiked drink at a fundraiser, a helping hand tothe ‘inebriated’ councilman, guiding him to a waiting car. The man had beenunconscious before they'd even left the parking lot.

The engineer, Ayers, had required onlyslightly more effort. He'd waited outside Ayers' office, watching the windowsfor signs of movement. When Ayers finally emerged, bleary-eyed and exhaustedfrom another late night, it took little effort to approach him under the guiseof a concerned colleague. One quick jab with a syringe full of sedative, andanother domino fell.

And now the builder. The man who hadpoured the concrete, who had shaped the very instrument of their town'sdestruction with his own hands. He'd put up more of a fight than the others,trying to crawl to freedom, trying to power through the inebriation.

But in the end, they all fell. They allpaid.

It all came back to the dam. Thatmonstrosity of concrete and steel that had reshaped the landscape and doomed acommunity. The same project he had been offered a part in, all those years ago.The job he had turned down, taking what he thought was the moral high ground.

If only he had known then what he knewnow. That his refusal would change nothing, that they would find someone elseto do the work. Someone with fewer scruples, someone who didn't care about theconsequences.

Maybe if he had taken the job, he couldhave sabotaged it from within. Could have prevented this slow-motion disasterthat had unfolded over the past year.

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