Broken Angels Read Free Page A

walk out of here.” Byrne lowered his weapon. He placed it on the floor, put his foot on top of it “We’ll talk. Okay?”
For a moment, it appeared as if Krotz was considering it. Then it all went to hell just as quickly as it had begun.
“Nah,” Krotz said. “Where’s the fun in that?”
Krotz grabbed the woman by the hair, yanked back her head, and ran the blade across her throat. Her blood jetted halfway across the room.
“No!” Byrne screamed.
The woman folded to the floor, her neck a grotesque red smile. For a moment, Byrne felt weightless, immobilized, as if everything he had ever learned and done was pointless, as if his whole career on the street was a lie.
Krotz winked. “Don’t you love this fucking city ?”
Anton Krotz lunged at Byrne, but before he could take a single step the SWAT officer at the back of the diner fired. Two rounds slammed into Krotz’s chest, propelling him back into the window, exploding his torso in a dense crimson burst. The blasts were deafening in the confined space of the small diner. Krotz tumbled backward through the shattered glass onto the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. Onlookers scattered. A pair of SWAT officers deployed in front of the diner rushed over to Krotz’s supine form, putting heavy boots to his flesh, rifles aimed at his head.
Krotz’s chest heaved once, twice, then fell still, steaming in the frigid night air. A third SWAT officer arrived, took his pulse. He signaled. The suspect was dead.
Detective Kevin Byrne’s senses went into overdrive. He smelled the cordite in the air, mixed with smells of coffee and onions. He saw the bright blood spread on the tile. He heard the last shard of glass shattering on the floor, coupled with someone’s soft crying. He felt the sweat on his back turn to sleet with the rush of freezing air from the street.
Don’t you love this fucking city?
Moments later an EMS van screeched to a halt, bringing the world back into focus. Two paramedics sprinted into the diner and began to treat the woman on the floor. They tried to stem the bleeding, but it was too late. The woman and her killer were both dead.
Nick Palladino and Eric Chavez—two detectives from the homicide unit—ran into the diner, weapons drawn. They saw Byrne and the carnage. They holstered. Chavez spoke into his two-way. Nick Palladino began to set up a crime scene.
Byrne looked over at the man who had been sitting in the booth with the victim. The man stared at the woman on the floor as if she were sleeping, as if she could stand up, as if they might finish their meal, pay the check and walk out into the night, gazing at the Christmas decorations on the street. Byrne saw a half-opened individual creamer next to the woman’s coffee. She was going to put cream in her coffee, then five minutes later she was dead.
Byrne had witnessed the grief dealt by homicide many times, but rarely this soon after the act. This man had just seen his wife brutally murdered. He had been only a few feet away. The man glanced up at Byrne. In his eyes was an anguish far deeper, and darker, than Byrne had ever known.
“I’m sorry,” Byrne said. The moment the words left his lips, he wondered why he’d said them. He wondered what he meant.
“You killed her,” the man said.
Byrne was incredulous. He felt gut-punched. He couldn’t begin to process what he was hearing. “Sir, I—”
“You...you could have shot him, but you hesitated. I saw . You could have shot him and you didn’t.”
The man slid from the booth. He took a moment, steadied himself, and slowly approached Byrne. Nick Palladino made a move to get between them. Byrne waved Nick off. The man got closer. Just a few feet away now.
“Isn’t that your job?” the man asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“To protect us? Isn’t that your job ?”
Byrne wanted to tell the man that there was a blue line, yes, but when evil stepped into the light, there was nothing any of them could do. He wanted to tell the man that he had