Shallow Creek

From the landing at the top of the stairs, Brendan had no view of the front of the house.  He quickly descended and made the U-turn that left him on the far side of the living room, looking at a big man wearing a vest with a DEA logo.  The man took a break from screaming at his father when his eyes locked onto Brendan.

“Get him!”

Two guys clad in full SWAT gear charged around their leader and rushed Brendan.  Fighting the instinct to lash out at the pair, he held his tongue, knelt down, and put his hands over his head.  Judging by the way everyone was acting, he assumed this was what they wanted.

Sure enough, they wrestled his hands down, yanked them up behind his back hard enough to lift him to his feet, and then cuffed him tightly enough to cut into his flesh.  As their commander strode towards him, having waited until Brendan was properly restrained, Brendan started to wonder what the hell his brother had done to him this time.

“Brendan Rhodes, you are under arrest in connection with the disappearance of Special Agents Casey Spee and Mario Tyson,” the DEA guy said, his face less than an inch from Brendan’s.  “You have the right to remain silent.  Anything you say will be used against you in a court of law.  You have the right to an attorney.  If you cannot afford one, one will be provided to you.”

Brendan caught a glimpse of his mother breaking down in hysterics in the doorway to her bedroom.  When his dad moved to comfort her, one of the SWAT guys made to motion him back, but good ol’ dad slapped the man’s hands away and pushed past to get to his wife, who’d crumpled in a heap on the floor.  Brendan twitched involuntarily as the anger consumed him.  In response, one of the men holding him drove the butt of his rifle into his side.  His lungs emptied in an instant, leaving him on his knees, bent double and gasping for air.

“Stay down!”

“That all you got?” Brendan said, trying to suppress the convulsions in his chest.

“Bring him,” the leader snapped before turning quickly and power walking his way out of the house.

The goons in black forced Brendan up and prodded him onward as he continued to cough uncontrollably, still reeling from the strike.  Shame stung him deeper than the butt of the rifle as he shuffled past his wailing mother, who lay inconsolable in her husband’s arms.  Darryl Rhodes’ eyes narrowed when he shifted his gaze from his wife to his son.  Brendan refused to break the demoralizing stare until his escorts shoved him on.

Outside stood the SWAT truck and a couple of cruisers, lights flashing.  They’d been so kind as to leave their sirens off, but Brendan could see his parents’ neighbors watching from their lawns up and down the street.  Just once he would’ve liked to not cause his parents so much grief.  An unknown agent popped open the back door to one car and the SWAT guys guided Brendan into the backseat.

The car in front pulled away from the curb and Brendan’s vehicle followed suit.  He shifted in his seat to see the SWAT truck sticking close behind.  This was a hell of an escort, so obviously something huge had happened, but Brendan was damned if he knew the secret that everyone else seemed in on.

“What happened to Agent Spee?” he asked the two strangers transporting him to what he assumed was the sheriff’s office.

Neither man acknowledged him.

“Do I file the claim for my broken ribs with the DEA’s insurance, or the sheriff’s?”

And still nothing.  These were pros, federal agents with explicit instructions not to talk to their quarry, not sheriff’s deputies like the punks who’d transported him from the hospital to the police station yesterday.  How the hell had he ended up in the back of a police car for the third time in twenty-four hours?

As the journey wore on, Brendan’s meager two hours of sleep started to catch up to him.  Despite the awkward position of sitting with his hands behind his back, his head still drooped forward of its own accord.  Suddenly hands were on him and dragging him from the backseat.  He processed all of this just in time to force his feet out in front of him, otherwise he’d have face-planted into the sidewalk outside the sheriff’s office.

His entourage cleared a couple of gawking deputies from the entryway and led Brendan to the same damn interview room that Spee had interrogated him in the previous morning.  Once they had him situated in the familiar uncomfortable chair, everyone left except for the lead agent.

“I’m Special Agent Norman, and—”

“Nice vest.  Worried I’ll shoot you?”

“I’ll ask the questions here.” The guy slammed his palms onto the same table Casey had used before.

“Do you guys take acting lessons for this, or does it come naturally?”

The man leaned closer, his heavy breathing the only noise in the otherwise silent room.  Rancid breath from overdosing on dense coffee filled Brendan’s nostrils.  The agent balled his hands into white-knuckled fists on top of the table.  When Brendan refused to break eye contact, the guy stood straight up.