Chapter 8 - The Standoff
David hung up the phone. The house was quiet. Sarah had taken the kids to a local pediatric therapist an hour away. Thank God they weren't home.
David walked to the biometric safe in his bedroom and pressed his thumb to the scanner. He retrieved his 9mm handgun, checked the magazine, and walked downstairs.
He didn't wait for the police. He turned off all the lights in the house and sat in the dark armchair facing the glass patio doors, the gun resting heavily on his thigh.
At 11:45 PM, the motion sensor lights in the backyard flickered on.
A shadow moved across the manicured lawn. The man was holding a crowbar, creeping toward the sliding glass door. It was Mark. He looked desperate, unhinged, his eyes wild as he searched the empty living room through the glass.
Mark raised the crowbar to smash the lock.
David stood up, stepped into the moonlight pouring through the glass, and raised the gun. He didn't say a word. He just racked the slide.
The metallic clack echoed loudly. Mark froze, locking eyes with David through the glass.
For ten seconds, the two men stared at each other. Mark saw the look in David’s eyes—the primal, violent rage of a father who had spent fourteen months mourning a child that was buried alive.
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Mark dropped the crowbar. He raised his hands, took two steps back, and collapsed to his knees on the grass, sobbing. He was a coward. He always had been.
Ten minutes later, the Texas Rangers swarmed the property, dragging Mark away in chains.
