Cufley fought and yelled while Niall wrestled him to the ground and cuffed him. Conall pushed Cufley’s gun into his own waistband, then nodded for Niall to go up while he went down.
Niall advanced silently up the stairs. Nothing happened. After watching him ghost out of sight, Conall flattened against the wall and exposed a few inches of himself in the stairwell. Gunfire exploded and he jumped back. The sidelight beside the front door smashed outward. Cufley curled into a tight ball.
Niall bounded down the stairs. “Son of a bitch.”
“There’re two more of them in the house,” Conall said softly. “Shit. I can’t return fire with Bren down there.”
His brother lifted the radio he carried. After conferring briefly he said, “Sean’s got one of the garage doors open. He’s going in.” Pause. “He’s going for the interior door. Duncan’s ready to go through a window.”
“Can he see anything?”
“Quick glimpse, didn’t get a good look.”
Conall swore. Then he raised his voice. “This is the police. The house is surrounded. We know you have the kid down there. You’ve already shot at a police officer. We can end this without anyone getting hurt and without you being in any more trouble than you already are. Let the kid go. Put your weapons down and come out.”
If they were garden-variety criminals they would have done it. But they weren’t. They were crazies, ready in their own damn minds to be martyrs to their beliefs.
He crouched and prodded Cufley with his gun. “Tell them. Order them to let the boy go.”
Cufley wanted to be defiant but he must have seen something on Conall’s face, because he shrank away. “You won’t shoot me.”
“See, here’s the thing,” Conall murmured. “I love that boy. I’d do anything for him. Shooting off your foot might be a good start.” He slid the barrel of the Glock down the scrawny body and then shoved it hard against the bottom of Cufley’s bare foot. “Tell them,” he snapped.
Eyes fixed in horror on his own foot and the gun held in a rock steady hand, the guy called in a voice that quavered, “Let him go.”
“Louder.”
“Let the kid go,” he yelled.
“Bullshit!” someone downstairs snarled. “I’m going to kill this kid if the cops don’t leave the house. Now.”
Conall swiveled on his heels. “You’re not getting out of this.”
“We’ve got enough firepower to take you all out.”
“I told you the house is surrounded. What are you going to do, start World War Three? You’ll still die.”
“So will the kid.”
The radio crackled. “Keep him talking,” Niall murmured.
Goddamn it. Conall wanted to see Brendan, know he was alive and unhurt. He had no patience; this terrible urgency gripped him.
My kid.
This was how he’d feel if Brendan was his.
“Use your head,” he called down the stairwell. “You haven’t done anything that bad yet. If you hurt a ten-year-old boy, you’ll get the death penalty even if you survive tonight. I’ll see to it.”
A salvo of gunfire was his answer. Bits of wallboard and slivers of the studs beneath flew. Niall and Conall both hit the floor. Downstairs there was yelling. Glass shattered. Guns barked and Conall took a chance, rolling toward the head of the stairs.
The guy at the bottom was half turned away from him. Conall yelled, “Drop it!” When he didn’t, when he spun back already firing, Conall squeezed the trigger and saw the red bloom in the middle of the bastard’s chest. He squeezed again, and again.
Duncan yelled, “I’ve got Brendan.”
Relief exploding inside him, Conall bounded down the stairs, his Glock held at the ready. He flattened against the wall then spun through the first doorway, his gaze sweeping the room.
A man was down. Sean knelt beside him, holstering his gun even as he was pulling handcuffs from the pocket of his windbreaker.
Duncan was talking to Brendan, who was crying in gulps that shook his whole body. His eyes found Conall and the next second they were both moving until the small body slammed into Conall’s.
“You came! You came!”