Chapter 2 - The Only Man Who Could Get There Faster
My mind raced through options with the speed of a high-speed camera. The police would take too long to dispatch from the central precinct; city traffic was a nightmare. But my older brother, Derek, lived on the east side of town, managing a hardware supply warehouse just a few miles from my suburban neighborhood. Derek had been our rock ever since Lena and I’s marriage started crumbling a year ago. He was the uncle who showed up with a toolbox when Noah’s training wheels bent, the one who sat beside his hospital bed all night during a severe flu, and the man who never judged my desperate attempts to keep a broken family together for my son's sake.
Derek had fought professionally in regional mixed martial arts circuits years earlier before a devastating shoulder injury forced him out of the ring. But it wasn't his fighting background that made my blood run cold with urgency; it was his chilling emotional control in a crisis. He knew when to hesitate, and he knew when to detonate.
I slammed the elevator button once, twice, three times before giving up and sprinting down the concrete stairwell, punching Derek’s number into my phone as I ran.
"Hey, what’s up?" Derek answered instantly on the second ring, his voice calm and steady.
"Derek, listen to me," I gasped, bursting through the glass exit doors into the humid downtown parking garage. "I just got a call from Noah. Lena’s boyfriend, Travis, hit him with a baseball bat. I’m twenty minutes away in downtown traffic. Where are you?"
There was a microsecond of silence on the line—a tiny, lethal pause where I could hear the exact moment Derek shifted gears from brother to protector.
"I’m about fifteen minutes out, heading north past the industrial park," Derek said, his tone dropping into a flat, dangerous register. "Do you want me to go by?"
"Go now!" I screamed, breaking into a sprint toward my sedan. "I’m calling 911 right now!"
"I’m already moving," Derek replied. The line didn't click off, but I heard the deep, resonant roar of his truck engine revving violently as he slammed his foot down on the accelerator.
I hit the speed-dial for emergency services while scrambling into the driver's seat. A dispatcher picked up on the second ring, her voice crisp and professional. "911, what is your emergency?"
"My four-year-old son just called me from our home," I babbled, tears of pure panic blurring my vision as I backed out of the parking space with a squeal of tires. "My estranged wife’s boyfriend, Travis, just struck him with a baseball bat. I heard the threat over the phone before the line went dead. I’m twenty minutes away, but my brother is closer and already heading there!"
"Sir, calm down and listen to me," the dispatcher commanded sharply. "Is your child injured?"
"Yes! He said his arm hurts really bad!"
"Is the adult male still inside the house?"
"I believe so! Please, you have to hurry!"
"Units are being dispatched to your address right now," she assured me, her fingers flying across her keyboard. "You mentioned your brother is closer. Tell him not to engage physically if he can avoid it. Wait for the deputies."
I threw my car into drive, mashed the gas pedal, and swerved out into the congested afternoon traffic, honking aggressively at a delivery truck that cut me off. Every red light felt like a physical wall, mocking my desperation. Then, my phone buzzed on the dashboard mount. Derek’s caller ID flashed brightly.
"Derek?" I shouted into the hands-free system.
"I’m two blocks out," he said, his voice terrifyingly quiet.
"Stay on the line, Derek. Please, stay on the line."
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A few seconds dragged by like hours. Then his voice dropped almost to a breathless whisper.
"I see the house."
