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waited as he was trained. He had done his job. He had taken a life to save a life.
    Now the shit would hit the fan.

Chapter
4
    T HE ENTRY TEAM descended upon the house, confirming one male subject, now missing half of his head. Then the entry team beat a hasty retreat. The residence no longer belonged to STOP. It had just become a crime scene.
    The call went out to the DA's office, Suffolk County. An ADA got roused out of bed, assembled a task force of investigators, and arrived on the scene. Bobby's Sig Sauer was entered into evidence. His teammates were immediately sequestered and interviewed as witnesses.
    Bobby got to sit in the back of a patrol car, technically not in trouble, but feeling very much like a truant kid.
    Media was already gathering outside the yellow crime-scene tape. Television lights were blazing, while reporters vied for the best position. So far, the DA's office had everything wrapped up tight. The body had already been transported from the scene; Bobby was sheltered inside the patrol car.
    Name of the game was never to provide too many visuals. Denied on the ground, however, the media would soon take to the air.
    His LT, John Bruni, arrived at the scene. He came over to the cruiser and clapped Bobby on the shoulder.
    “How you feeling?”
    “All right.”
    “These things are always lousy.”
    “Yeah.”
    “Employee Assistance Unit will be here shortly. They'll explain your rights, give you some support. You're not the first guy this has happened to, Bobby.”
    “I know.”
    “Just answer what you feel like answering. If you get uncomfortable, call it a day. The union provides a lawyer, so don't be afraid to ask for legal counsel.”
    “Okay.”
    “We're here for you, Bobby. Once part of the team, always part of the team.”
    Bruni had to go. Probably to check in with Public Affairs, which would soon be making a statement to the press: Tonight an unidentified officer was involved in a fatal shooting. The DA has taken over investigation of the incident. No comment at this time.
    And so it would go. Bobby had seen it happen once before. A trooper was ambushed when making a routine patrol stop. Two Hispanic males in a beat-up Honda opened fire on the officer. He fired back, wounding one and killing the other. The officer had gone on immediate paid leave, disappearing from the barracks, disappearing from life, while the press tried his case in the papers and the Hispanic community accused him of racism. A month later, the DA's office ruled that the case didn't merit criminal charges—maybe the fact that the officer had a bullet lodged in his upper arm helped. The press never seemed to notice, though. A brother of the fatally shot man launched a civil suit against the officer, and last Bobby knew, the trooper was dealing with a million-dollar lawsuit.
    He never returned to duty. And most people in Boston probably did think he was a racist.
    Was it bad to have just killed a man, then sit here worrying about what that meant for your career? Was that totally self-absorbed? Inappropriate? Or was it just the way these things went?
    Bobby was thinking of the woman again. Slender. Pale. Holding her child tight against her body. Thank you, her lips had said. He had shot her husband in front of her and her kid and she had thanked him for it.
    Fresh knock on the window. Stupid, since the car door was open. Bobby looked up and saw one of his teammates, Patrick Loftus.
    “Hell of a night,” Loftus said.
    “Yeah.”
    “Sorry I missed it. Just got here a few minutes ago. When all was said and done.” Loftus lived on the Cape. Probably only an hour away. So the shooting had happened that fast. Bobby realized for the first time that he had no idea what the hour was. He'd gotten the call, jumped in his car, set up his rifle. The whole thing was already a blur in his mind, a series of actions and reactions. He came, he saw, he did. Holy shit, he had killed a man. Honestly, blown off half a man's head.
    Thank