Chapter 166
Alex's POV
I let Ethan have thirty seconds—long enough to break ribs, split skin, make Grey understand exactly how much pain he'd caused—and then I saw the shift in Ethan's posture, the way his shoulders hunched forward, the way his breathing turned ragged and uncontrolled.
He was about to go too far.
I moved forward and caught his arm mid-swing, my grip firm but not restraining, my voice cutting through the red haze I could practically see surrounding him.
"Ethan. Easy."
He froze, chest heaving, fist still clenched, and I saw the moment awareness flickered back into his eyes. He looked down at Grey—barely conscious now, blood pooling beneath him, face already swelling into something unrecognizable—and then at his own hands, knuckles split and bleeding.
"Careful," I said, keeping my voice level, matter-of-fact. "Don't kill him. We still need him breathing to get him to the police."
Ethan stepped back slowly, like he was fighting every instinct in his body, and I released his arm once I was certain he had control again. Grey made a weak, pathetic sound—half groan, half whimper—and I crouched down beside him, pulled out my phone with one hand while keeping the other on his shoulder.
Not to restrain. Just to remind him who was in charge.
"Here's what's going to happen," I said, my voice returning to that cold, clinical tone I used in boardrooms when I was about to dismantle someone's entire career. "You're going to sit here quietly while I call the police. You're going to tell them you escaped custody, you assaulted your daughter, you extorted money from her. You're going to confess to everything."
Grey tried to speak, coughed up blood instead, and I leaned in closer.
"Because if you don't, I will make sure you disappear. Permanently. And trust me when I say I have the resources to make that happen without anyone asking questions."
His eyes widened—good, he understood—and I straightened, already dialing 911.
I kept my explanation brief and professional when the dispatcher answered. We'd been out for an early run, heard sounds of a struggle, found a man matching the description of an escaped convict. Yes, we'd had to use force to subdue him. Self-defense. Citizen's arrest.
The dispatcher ate it up, promised units were on the way, and I ended the call, turning back to Ethan.
He was still staring at Grey, his expression unreadable, and I moved to stand beside him, shoulder to shoulder.
"You good?" I asked quietly.
"Yeah." His voice was rough, but steady. "I'm good."
"Good." I flexed my hands, felt the ache in my knuckles, the satisfying burn of split skin. "Because we're not done yet."
By the time the sirens echoed in the distance, I'd already wiped down our hands with sanitizer from my jacket pocket, disposed of the bloody wipes in a storm drain, and walked Ethan through exactly what we were going to say.
The officers who showed up were young, eager, and after one phone call to a contact in the DA's office, they were treating us like we'd just handed them a gift-wrapped conviction.
I pulled the lead officer aside while his partner called for the ambulance, keeping my voice low and confidential.
"Jack Grey. Escaped convict. Twenty-five to life for second-degree murder." I let that sink in, watched the officer's eyes widen. "He's been on the run for a week. Assaulted his daughter, extorted ten thousand dollars from her by threatening her mother's life. And given his escape history, I'd say he's a significant flight risk."
The officer nodded slowly, his jaw tightening. "We'll make sure the DA knows. Guy like that shouldn't see daylight again."
"Good." I held his gaze. "Because if he gets out on some technicality, if he makes bail, if anyone so much as thinks about going easy on him—there will be consequences. The kind that get reviewed by internal affairs."
The officer's expression hardened into something almost eager. "Understood, Mr. Monroe. We'll make sure he's locked down tight. Maximum security holding until trial."
Grey was loaded into the ambulance moments later, cuffed to the gurney, barely conscious. As the paramedics secured the restraints, the younger officer—fresh-faced, couldn't have been more than twenty-five—leaned in close.
"You gonna behave yourself, or do we need to have a problem?"
Grey made some weak sound that might have been agreement, and the officer's hand came down hard on his shoulder—right where I knew Ethan had broken ribs—making Grey gasp and jerk against the restraints.
"I said, are we gonna have a problem?" The officer's voice was pleasant, almost friendly, but his grip was merciless.
"No," Grey wheezed. "No problem."
"Good." The officer straightened, stepped back, and met my eyes with the faintest hint of a smile. "Don't worry, Mr. Monroe. We'll take real good care of him."
I nodded, satisfaction settling cold and final in my chest as they loaded Grey into the ambulance and slammed the doors shut.
Perfect.
He'd live. He'd go back to prison. And Emily would finally be safe.
"Let's go home," I said to Ethan, and he nodded, the adrenaline clearly starting to wear off, exhaustion settling into the lines of his face.
We drove back in silence, the sun just beginning to crest the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that felt obscene after what we'd just done. I pulled into the garage, killed the engine, and we sat there for a long moment.
"Are you okay?" I asked finally.
"Yeah," Ethan said, flexing his bruised hands. "I'm okay. Are you?"
"I'm fine." And I was. No guilt. No hesitation. Just the settled certainty that I'd done exactly what needed to be done. "I don't regret it."
"Neither do I."
"Good." I looked over at him, and something passed between us—an understanding, a pact sealed in blood and violence and absolute conviction. "We don't tell her. Not yet. Not until he's been formally charged and she's safe. She doesn't need to know what we did."
"Agreed."