Tom’s brain went from his typical sleepy idle to a blistering hundred miles an hour as his body dumped adrenaline into his veins.

First, he analyzed every hostage/revenge phone call he’d ever seen in a movie and identified one ingrained weakness: The bad guy had to offer terms, or make contact with the target of their revenge and establish a dialogue before the killing started.

Tom hung up.

That’ll buy me another thirty seconds.

Tom’s gaze flicked over to Mr. Fluffybottom hiding in his tree.

Ellie. Now. GO! He mentally gave the skeleton directions to the motel. Mr. Fluffybottom could run at top speed indefinitely, which for him was about cruising speed on the freeway.

That’s still too far away, fuck! It would take Mr. Fluffybottom several hours, even running in a straight line and skipping traffic. Even then, a halfway-decent kidnapper would have taken them to a second location.

We’ll call Mr. Fluffybottom plan D.

The skeleton cougar reacted to his wordless directions, lunging out of the tree and hitting the ground like his ass was on fire. In a matter of seconds, the cougar was out of sight.

Okay, now I need to destabilize the other guy. Take advantage of any weakness he has to either buy time or give Grampa or Gramma an opportunity to turn the tables.

You shouldn’t have holed up like a turtle; you should have gone and found him and shot him in the head. This is your pathetic indecisive nature biting you in the ass again.

Shut up and do what I tell you, brain.

Okay, destabilize. He’s a cop who’s killed other cops, and shows a penchant for killing. He’s most likely homophobic, and has severe unresolved guilt from killing his buddies who were minding their own business.

A hostage phone call has a well-pathed song and dance where the receiver of the phone call blusters for a while, then the guy on the other end of the phone proves he has the hostages, likely through hurting one of them.

Tom’s guts twisted around themselves.

Rinnngggg.

This guy doesn’t realize it, but he’s going to respect the formula for a hostage phone call. Which means as long as I don’t play the game, I can operate outside of the norms and avoid the endgame, which is where he either kills my family (revenge) or forces my actions to benefit him (hostage).

Most likely some combination of the two.

Tom took a deep breath. Confirm presence of Grampa, initiate Guilt-Homophobia Blitz to allow Gramps to attack Ken while he vomits. Ideally.

Tom answered the call.

“Listen to me, you little shit—”

“No, you listen to ME!” Tom shouted with every fiber of his being, his throat instantly hurting as he mustered every ounce of volume he could.

“You know you’re not gonna be able to get anything out of me unless I know my family is alive. Put Gramps on the phone!”

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want!”

Tom’s heart turned cold as he heard Grampa scream, his voice seeming to originate from within arm’s length of the phone.

“Is that good enough for proof of life, huh?” In the background, Tom could hear Ellie’s full-throated screams of distress.

He’s close enough. God, I hope he can pull this off. I’m so fucking stupid!

“Wait, WAIT!” Tom shouted, following the hostage phone call script perfectly. Ken paused. Even Ellie stopped screaming, providing him this one, perfect moment to derail the situation completely. It had to be good.

…

…..

“Did you get hard when you killed Carlos?” Operation Guilt-Homophobia Blitz is go.

***Kenneth Peterson***

Ken’s jaw dropped.

He had, actually.

Ken took a step away from the old man’s ankle, clutching his chest as he got dizzy. No, that was just the adrenaline shock to my system. I didn’t enjoy killing them. I had to. It was either me or the— Wait, why the fuck am I thinking this?

“YOU—”

“Because if you got hard when you shot Carlos, but not when you shot Stan, I’m pretty sure you’re gradually becoming a fucked-up serial killer. I bet you thought you were the good guy, but just give it a few weeks and you’ll be jerking off on top of dead gangbangers, am I right?”

“I didn’t—”

“Didn’t what, didn’t enjoy killing them? Your brothers in blue? I think we both already know you did. Tell me, does the thought of killing me get you hard too? You psycho homo. Killer queer. Fucked-up faggo—

“Shut up shut up SHUT UP!” Ken bawled, hanging up the phone. He stood there, trembling with anger so intense his vision narrowed to a tunnel, and his guts felt like they were a hair’s breadth away from ejecting out onto the cheap motel carpet.

The tripwire set up inside the fucking motel room had caught him unprepared, and a quick, easy subdual became a knock-down, drag out fight with an old man who seemed to be made of braided wire.

Thankfully Ken had gotten the upper hand, regaining his gun and control of the situation.

But, when he’d marched the family out to his car, the old man had taken out a previously undrawn knife when he wasn’t looking, and instead of attacking Ken with it, the old man had faked a fall and slashed his fucking tire.

Can’t exactly Uber a vehicle to transport hostages at gunpoint.

So now they were forced to do this in the hotel.

Everything that could go wrong, had. This was an enormous steaming clusterfuck, and the only ace in the hole was his superpowers. It didn’t matter if this house eventually was surrounded by cops because the neighbors heard or saw something – which they probably did – he could slip through the back wall and escape the building as easy as breathing.

For a moment, Ken was tempted to execute the old fucks and be done with it. They were obviously beyond salvaging, looking up at him with their glassy eyes and wrinkly faces. Gross.

All he really needed to use as a hostage was the baby, who was both portable, and infinitely more valuable…but that was a real hard sell. The old folks had raised some kind of satanic cultist, so they were equally culpable, but the baby…

Ken had a really difficult time coming up with a reason why it was okay for a Chicago detective to use a baby as a hostage, regardless of the circumstances.

Fine, we’ll use the old people as leverage, simply because there are two of them, they are disposable, and I am the good guy. Can’t go threatening to kill babies. What kind of good guy would do that?

The drastic deviation between what he expected to happen, and what actually happened, had thrown Ken for a loop. But I can still salvage this. Ken had originally planned to have the kid deliver himself and his stolen superpowers in exchange for the lives of his family, but Ken had lost the ability to choose his location, and bringing Tom to a hostage standoff at a motel would be adding gasoline to a fire.

No, he had to do the second-best thing: Get Tom back in lockup along with his shit, then he could put the cultist down and protect everyone from his evil influence at his leisure. He could still leverage them as hostages despite being immobile.

“Turn yourself in, or—”

Ken realized he’d hung up on Tom. His finger was still on the little plastic nub that fit under the receiver.

“FUCK!”

Ken nearly threw the motel’s phone against the wall, but he was too disciplined for that. With a growl, he punched the redial button.

Rinnng.

Rinnnnggg.

Riiiinnnnnng.

I swear to God, if he doesn’t pick up in the next two fucking seconds, I’m gonna murder everything in sight.

There was a distinct change in ambient sound over the microphone as he connected to Tom’s phone.

“Finish your little hissy fit?” The young man’s voice came over the phone, pushing Ken’s anger to a melting point. He was about to execute the old man when a sudden realization snapped into focus for Ken.

Wait. He’s doing this on purpose. A wave of cold anger swept over Ken as he figured out the kid’s game. He was trying to buy time by putting Ken off-balance.

Too little, too late, kid.

“Choose a parent, Tom,” Ken said. “You already fucking killed one of them when you decided to play mind games with me. Choose one, or I’ll kill them both.”

“You execute a civilian, that’s on you,” Tom’s voice came through the receiver. “Because frankly, you’re not presenting as the ‘good guy.’ More like a homoerotic serial killer.”

Ken waited for the kid to run out of words. He’d already played his hand, and come up short.

“…Ya done?”

“One more thing,” Tom’s voice came over the phone. Ken could hear the kid’s false confidence crack along with his voice. “If you kill any of them, I’ll make it a point to FEED YOUR SOUL TO A FUCKING DEMON, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!”

“You think that scares me?” Ken demanded. “I’m a divine agent. God himself wants me to have these powers. Stan and Carlos got in the way of that. Right now, you are getting in the way of that.”

Ken levered his gun at the old man, aiming right between the eyes.

“Turn yourself in to the nearest station. I’ll know when you do. You’ve got twenty minutes before I kill the other one.”

Ken grinned, deliberately putting his finger on the trigger. “It’s been a blast.”

“NO, YOU FUCKIN—”

***Tom Graves***

“NO, YOU FUCKING ASSH—”

BLAM!

The concussive noise echoed through the cheap speakers of the disposable phone.

Tom felt like someone had kicked him in the gut. His legs gave out, and he collapsed onto the floor, his heart hammering violently. A bout of nausea assaulted him, and he doubled over, puking into the steel sink.

Which one did he kill? Tom thought, ice spreading through his veins to replace the adrenaline as he seized a ragged breath.

From the moment he’d gotten the call, he knew it was a no-win scenario. He knew the only option was to put Ken off-balance, to buy time and pray for a miracle. He’d stuck to the plan, acted like he wasn’t scared out of his mind of losing his grandparents, said some hateful shit, but it had only bought him…

Ninety seconds, give or take. What fucking good does ninety seconds do?

“Goddamnit!” Tom shouted, pounding the ground with his fist, the phone creaking under his grip.

“Drop the gun! On your fucking knees! Put your hands on your head!” A woman’s voice came over the phone.

…Who the hell is that?

***Chris Campbell***

Chris blinked several times to make sure his eyes weren’t playing tricks on him.

Did that sonofabitch just phase through a wall?

Chris had wasted Ken’s day, building up the kid’s frustration and impatience, then parted ways at a bar after ordering half a dozen shots. He’d made sure Ken had seen him down three in a row before he’d left, too.

In Ken’s mind, Chris was down for the count.

The instant his partner was out the door, Chris ran to the bathroom, jammed his fingers down his throat and purged the whisky. Once that was taken care of, he checked his tracking device, slipped into his car and started tailing Ken from a couple blocks back.

He nearly lost the rookie when Ken changed cars, but he managed to catch a glimpse of his face in a pale sedan, heading the opposite direction.

He’d followed Ken to a cheap motel on the outer edge of the city, rolling past the motel before coming back from the other direction.

The sedan was still there.

Chris parked across the street and used his binoculars to watch Ken’s dark form edge from room to room, peeking in the windows until he found something he liked.

A moment later, Ken slipped through the wall.

Chris didn’t have any other way to describe it. He just walked through the wall, which accepted him like the surface of a still pond.

What in god’s name am I looking at? Ken had some kind of tech or supernatural ability to walk through walls?

Like a ghost. Chris’s skin went cold. A person who can walk through walls could dodge security cameras pretty easy, couldn’t they? Here was the critical missing piece that no one had been able to solve. He spotted movement by the window, signs of a struggle. Flailing arms, a chair smashing through the motel window.

Whatever was going down in there, it was going down.

Fuck, gotta move! Chris thought, sliding out of his car and sprinting across the street, his gun drawn.

Not…thirty…anymore… Chris thought, winded by the time he hit the parking lot.

“Keep moving!” Chris heard Ken’s voice and slid to a stop, ducking behind a parked truck.

Chris risked a peek above the bed of the truck and spotted Ken leading the Graves couple toward his pale sedan. The man was sporting some fresh bruises, and the woman was carrying a baby.

“Driver’s side!” Ken snapped, gesturing with his pistol. “You, in the passenger s—”

The old man faceplanted on the driver’s side of the car, followed by a loud hiss of escaping air.

“You mother—” Ken bit his lip and kicked something away. A knife skittered across the parking lot before Ken hauled the old man back to his feet and steered him back to the motel room, gesturing for the woman to walk ahead of them.

Okay, whatever is going on here, it’s not in any way, shape or form, legal.

Chris took his moment to race after the three the moment the door was closed, gluing himself to the wall and creeping his way silently up to the broken window.

He peeked in and spotted Ken dialing on the landline in the motel room, keeping one eye on the Graves couple, who were corralled deeper inside. His back was to Chris.

“I fucking warned you. Now you’re gonna… Hello? HELLO? What the fuck!?”

Chris couldn’t hear what Tom said during the second call, but it seemed to get under Ken’s skin, making him more and more agitated as time went by.

“Listen to me, you little shit—”

“No, you listen to ME!” Chris barely made out Tom Grave’s voice, but it was loud enough to force Ken to take the receiver away from his ear.

Ken must not have liked what he heard, because he stomped down on the old man’s ankle with his boots, sending a sick cracking noise echoing through the room.

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want!

“YOU—

“I didn’t—

“Shut up shut up SHUT UP!”

Ken hung up, and Chris almost used that opportunity to take Ken down, but he had to know more. There was no proof Ken was the one who’d killed his friends. Had Ken and Tom been working together? Had Ken stolen the tech after Tom had used it? Chris had no idea what was going on.

Ken threw a minor fit, waving the gun around like a madman before calling Tom back. His face distorted with rage for a moment before going icy cold.

“Choose a parent, Tom,” Ken said. “You already fucking killed one of them when you decided to play mind games with me. Choose one, or I’ll kill them both.”

Chris limbered up his gun. He couldn’t allow that. I’ll shoot him in the shoulder or something.

Ken waited for a moment, listening to the other side of the line in deathly stillness.

“…Ya done?”

“…FEED YOUR SOUL TO A FUCKING DEMON, YOU FUCKING ASSHOLE!” Tom shouted loud enough for Chris to hear.

Demon? This night kept getting weirder.

“You think that scares me?” Ken demanded. “I’m a divine agent. God himself wants me to have these powers. Stan and Carlos got in the way of that. Right now, you are getting in the way of that.”

Chris’s blood turned cold. There it was. Ken admitted to killing Stan and Carlos. How can I take him in? In a flash of realization, Chris understood that there was no way in hell to prosecute Ken for misusing ‘powers’ that let him slide through walls.

What the hell am I supposed to do, then!?

Ken levered his gun at the old man, aiming right between the eyes.

Fuck! Chris adjusted his aim.

“Turn yourself in to the nearest station. I’ll know when you do. You’ve got twenty minutes before I kill the other one,” Ken said.

Ken grinned, deliberately putting his finger on the trigger. “It’s been a blast.”

Chris briefly bid his family goodbye, and pulled the trigger.

BLAM!

The top of Ken’s head erupted like a science fair volcano, spewing blood and grey matter onto the ceiling.

Ken’s body ragdolled, his finger twitching and pulling the trigger and putting a hole into the cheap carpet beside William Graves’ face before slumping to the ground.

Okay, they’re safe, and Stan and Carlos are avenged. Maybe I can get the hell out of here before—

“Drop the gun!” Chris sighed inwardly as he heard Debbie’s distinctive voice. He set the gun down onto the concrete path outside the motel’s window, still facing away from her. I guess I wasn’t the only person creeping around today.

“On your fucking knees! Put your hands on your head!”

Chris didn’t resist as Debbie yanked his arms violently behind his head and cuffed them together.

Click, click. As Debbie pushed his face into the concrete, Chris heard another sound slowly growing in the distance.

Clip clop, clip clop. Clip clop, clip clop.

Is that a freakin’ horse?