Chapter Seven: You Cannot Have My Family

Carl Elias was in the middle of his morning workout when his phone rang, the soft chime echoing in the mid-sized room. Frowning, the mob boss pushed himself up from where he'd been doing his third set of crunches. Snagging a handy towel to wipe down his forehead, he strode over to the phone and snapped it up, casting the caller ID the briefest of glances.

"You have news for me, Anthony?"

His second audibly fidgeted. "You ain't gonna like it, Boss."

Brown narrowed behind wire frames. "Anthony."

"That cop you wanted me to keep an eye on? He got shot, real bad."

Elias's free hand clenched and he kept his voice even with an effort. In a light, nonchalant, almost disinterested tone at odds with white knuckles, he inquired, "Will he live?"

"Don't know," Anthony admitted. "I got 'im to the hospital, Boss. Best I could do."

"I see," Elias murmured. "Did you see who shot him?"

"Sorry, Boss," Anthony replied. "I only realized sommat was wrong when the cop didn't come back outta the cemetery real quick. By the time I got to 'im, he was down and bleedin'."

The knuckles were going whiter, a terrific scowl on the crime lord's face, but still his tone remained casual. "And the files?"

Anthony exhaled and fear rang. "Still there, Boss. Was more worried 'bout gettin' the cop to the hospital. You, ah, you want me to go get 'em?"

"No, Anthony, that won't be necessary," Elias reassured his second. "You did well and I'm sure by now the cops are swarming. No need to make trouble for ourselves."

For several moments, he regarded the window in the opposite wall, watching the sunlight streaming in, painting light and shadows alike on the floor. A single exhale, then hazel hardened, turning to topaz behind his glasses. Furrows carved their way across his forehead and his jaw tightened in resolution. Enough.

"Anthony," he said, voice sharp. "I'm sending you an address. Meet me there."

Wind whistled around the lonely, long-abandoned factory near the outskirts of Toronto. The smokestack jutted into the sky, a reminder of better, happier days, but the factory gates were old and rusted, the parking lot shot through with cracks, potholes, and spots where the pavement had buckled – depressions in the formerly smooth surface marking where heavily loaded trucks had once plied their trade.

He'd been here before, though he remembered little enough of his very first visit. Elias pushed the memories away, just as he always did. He didn't have time for that, nor the focus to spare. Keen brown studied the exterior, searching for any hint, any sign that his preparations had been discovered and tampered with. The plan was foolhardy and beyond risky, but it was the best one he had. She'd ensured he had no one else to call upon – an elegant trap if ever there was one; he'd walked into it, eyes wide open, but still unseeing his real danger.

He turned at the sound of a car engine, a faint smile crossing his face at the sight of Anthony's vehicle. One last scene in this play, then he could stop the act. Bring decades of pain and tragedy to one final conclusion. The mob boss spared one more moment to breathe in, holding memory close, then he turned, donning his well-practiced mask. Just like always.

His second parked, then jumped out, jogging over. "Boss?"

"Anthony."

Elias took in the honest concern on the younger man's face, sighing inwardly. He'd watched this man learn and grow, even if he'd inadvertently hampered that growth during their first meeting. For such a would-be tough guy, Anthony had quite a hand with children; they knew he would protect them, no matter what, and they responded to that, ignoring the mobster growls and glares. And Anthony, who'd gotten little enough affection throughout his life, was secretly pleased and reveled in the children's admiration. A good man, a good second, even if he lurked on the wrong side of the law. Pity this was their last meeting.

"Sommat wrong, Boss?"

He considered a moment, then replied, "I'm afraid so, Anthony. The cop I had you watching, he's my brother's former commanding officer."

Anthony jerked in surprise and to attention.

"That was no random shooting, Anthony; I have little doubt that he was targeted."

"By the upstart."

Elias inclined his chin.

"But why, Boss? Why target a drunk who's not even on-duty anymore?"

For a long minute, the wind whistled around them, skating through the smokestack far above their heads. Then Elias sighed. "Because, Anthony, my brother was the cop who arrested him all those years ago."

Anthony froze in place, except for his jaw, which dropped open.

A flash of amusement gleamed. "Don't be so surprised, Anthony. My brother always did have a tendency to do the right thing, regardless of the consequences." Hazel darkened. "And there were consequences, Anthony. Grave and severe consequences."

"Your family," Anthony breathed.

Elias snorted, derision clear. "Troy never bothered," he snapped. "He knew just as well as us that we were well shot of our so-called parents." An unfeigned sneer curled the crime lord's lip. "Our father drank away every penny he earned and then some. Mother stood by him the whole time; you don't leave your husband, not in the Church. Not when he knocks your sons into walls every other day and shows up to work drunk four days out of five. Not even when he starts knocking you around every day." A breath and Elias forced himself to calm down. "My brother was just out of the Police Academy, Anthony – marriage was years off in the future and we'd already gone our separate ways. There was no family to threaten. Not then."

"But now there is."

Ahhh…he'd known Anthony would understand. Elias nodded once. "My…my nephew." His jaw tightened, determination blazing. "I won't let Troy have him. Once he gets tired of toying with my brother's fellow officers, he'll come for the boy." Pure topaz narrowed. "I won't let that happen, Anthony, even if I have to go down myself."

"So…you're gonna risk your life for a cop?"

"For my nephew," Elias retorted.

Anthony smirked. "Don't you mean your son?"

Startled hazel swung to Anthony, caught off guard.

"It's a good story, Boss, but you don't have a twin, do you? You're that SRU Sergeant, just like that cop said."

Ed…Eddie, Eddie, Eddie… Greg Parker smiled at Anthony, accepting the curveball. "All this time, you've known I'm a cop and you didn't make a move?"

Embarrassed, Anthony shrugged, fidgeting. "Never had a boss I could be proud of, you know? Never had a boss that made me proud of myself."

For a long moment, Greg regarded the other man. "I'm sorry you've never had that before." Then, rather than let the words hang and embarrass Anthony even more, he turned, regarding the factory instead of the flushing mobster. "The organization's yours, Anthony."

"But Boss…" Anthony protested.

"No." Greg's voice was soft. "I'm a cop, I'm SRU; that will never change. I was only sent undercover because of Castor Troy, Anthony." He drew in a breath, held it. "And this is likely my last stand, anyway."

"What…what do you mean, Boss?"

The Sergeant looked up at the factory. "Holleran's down," he murmured. "I won't let Troy have my family, Anthony. He wants me, he's gonna get me. But not on his terms."

Anthony followed his gaze, paling. "You…what have you done?"

Greg refused to flinch. "In thirty minutes, I'm sending a message to my undercover handler with this location and the tiny tidbit that I'll be completely alone since we need to meet." He glanced over at Anthony. "With Commander Holleran down, it will look legit; I'll need a new backup handler."

"Your handler sold you out?" Anthony hissed.

A sardonic smirk. "Took me awhile to put the pieces together, but Eddie confirmed it for me." Not that Eddie knew he'd done that. "She won't be able to resist; she'll send Troy here." Brown narrowed. "And that's when I'll spring my trap."

"I can help, Boss," Anthony volunteered. "You don't have to take that scum alone."

"No." Not iron, adamantium. Greg pulled off the glasses he'd been using as part of his mob boss persona and met the other man's gaze, every bit the cop he truly was. "It's a death trap, Anthony. Once I set it off, no one inside is going to survive. I made sure of that." He let that hang, then drove forward. "I won't sign your death warrant, Anthony. Castor Troy made his choice a long time ago and he'll walk into this thinking he finally has me. He won't suspect that I know he's coming or that I'm willing to commit suicide if that means he can't hurt my family."

Anthony shook his head frantically. "There's gotta be another way. Maybe…maybe if we put a phone in there…"

"I'm touched that you're willing to protect a cop," Greg drawled, "but for all that I've put into this setup, it won't be a death trap in the first minute or so. If Troy smells a trap, he'll get away. The only way to keep him from realizing until it's too late is for me to be here." His gaze softened. "You're gonna be just fine, Anthony. You've already got all the tools you need to survive without me and keep this organization thriving. But maybe teach the littles that between predators and cops, they should chose the cops. Eddie and Wordy were a little hurt that Jane was afraid of them." More than a little, but he had no right to say more. Not now, when he was about to spring this trap and probably end up dead.

Anthony stared at him, wide-eyed. "They really are your crew," he whispered, earning a nod.

Greg straightened from the slight slouch he'd acquired during the conversation and held out a hand. "Goodbye, Anthony." A faint smile reappeared. "And keep to the Code."

That startled a bark of laughter from the mobster. "Take all you can," he recited, shaking the officer's hand.

The Sergeant didn't finish the sentence, his gaze turning sorrowful again. He turned and strode towards the factory, head high and shoulders back.

"Boss!"

Pausing, Greg glanced over his shoulder, one eyebrow rising.

For a moment, Anthony chewed on his words, then he yelled, "Hang the Code and hang the rules! They're more like guidelines anyway!"

A broad smile spread across Sergeant Parker's features before he looked forward, determination glowing. He would finish this. He would. One hand drifted down and tapped twice against a certain spot on his belt.

His Auror badge reappeared, the proud eagle letting out a silent cry. The Game was on.

The final preparations didn't take long – Spike would either be proud of him for picking up so many bomb tricks or appalled that he'd taught his boss how to make such a lethal trap. Greg smiled to himself as he finished connecting the last bomb to the daisy chain. One button press would set all of the bombs off in a precisely controlled sequence. From the first to the last would take roughly half a minute, then another thirty seconds to when the newborn flames found the accelerant and turned the old factory into a four-sided blaze that would cut off any – and all – attempts at escape.

The bombs themselves were small, only large enough to trigger the fire; he didn't need Castor Troy catching on before the flames took hold. If he was lucky, Troy wouldn't realize what was going on until the smoke started rising. Which would take longer due to the carefully positioned fans he'd placed on the factory floor; they would run until the fire cut off the power.

As he worked, his thoughts drifted to his family. How he wished he could have told Lance and Alanna the truth, but that would have jeopardized the whole scheme. It had been absolutely critical that Troy never had so much as an inkling about his young cousins. Crucial that the kids went to Wordy as quickly as possible, their information buried as deeply as Holleran could manage. To be parted from them had burned like the strongest acid, but better that then to wind up holding their broken, battered bodies, screaming at the uncaring sky in anguish.

The undercover cop knew he was taking a risk, but he had to know. Had to see. Judge Dale Gordinski had been one of the best trial judges in the city up until his retirement. He'd presided over hundreds of trials during his tenure, earning a reputation among the city's law enforcement for being fair and honorable; a gentleman and a scholar who was no man's fool and wasn't afraid to keep a weapon at hand during some of the more…contentious…trials under his auspice. More than one cop had regretted His Honor's retirement even as they raised a glass to him and wished him well.

And now… Hidden in a trenchcoat and in the depths of the onlookers, behind Carl Elias's spectacles and cold, disinterested expression, Sergeant Greg Parker watched as the judge and his wife were brought out of their townhouse on stretchers, draped in white sheets – rumor held the townhouse was too bloody to bring body bags inside for fear of contaminating the scene even worse than the stretchers already had.

Gryphon hearing caught the furious whispers between the unis and the detectives on-scene. Not just the judge and his wife, then. Brown eyes closed in grief. His daughter, son-in-law, and two infant granddaughters. Damn it. Damn him, damn him to the depths of hell. Kids. Children, infants. Greg had little doubt that the judge had been the last to die. How better to punish a dead man walking. Taunt him one last time before the guillotine fell.

Quietly, with no outward emotions besides neighborly concern and rubbernecking, Carl Elias worked his way out of the crowd, slipping back into the misty morning unnoticed. The crime lord frowned, already working through his strategy for how to respond to Castor Troy's latest assault on the city's criminal justice system. Inside, the police Sergeant he truly was seethed and vowed anew to never let Castor Troy near his family.

After that, he'd worked even harder to drive his team away, playing the part of the drunken ex-cop with a serious chip on his shoulder to perfection. The more his team sought to maintain their connection to him, the greater the risk to them, to his kids. So he pushed and snarled and spat, using skills gained from a lifetime in law enforcement to best advantage, manipulating those he cared about into believing he hated them, resented them, and was happily occupied in drinking himself to death.

Only Ed had refused to give up, pushing back just as hard. Only Ed had maintained faith that he could be saved, brought back to the Greg Parker he knew and valued. The newest SRU Sergeant had proven his mettle, somehow seeing what none of the others did. Or maybe it was just Lane tenacity at its finest. Either way, as the weeks dragged on, it had become more and more difficult to maintain the act and escalate to new depths of drunken tantrums. By that last conversation, Greg had all but run out of tricks to play. Not to mention he'd gotten awfully tired of guzzling bottled Coke whenever Eddie called. Frankly, if he never drank another bottle of Coke, it would still be too soon.

Naturally, therefore, that had been when Ed had broken the whole case wide-open. Once Ed had given him that critical hint, the clues had all been there, staring him right in the face. Greg had cursed his own stupidity even as he pumped his contacts and confirmed the obvious. He'd walked right into a trap, abandoning his own backup just when he needed it most.

And yet…

Morose, Greg regarded Carl Elias's apartment, already longing for his own. His messy, loud apartment with two growing teenagers and a perpetually empty 'fridge. He wandered to the apartment kitchen and scowled at the empty shelves, the vacant refrigerator. That was coming out of the expense money he'd been given – how was he supposed to be a mob boss with no food?

The cop located a handy pad of paper and started making a list. An idea prickled…if his team tried to contact him – as they almost certainly would, he needed a way to trick them. Convince them that he was drinking like a fish – without actually getting drunk. Perhaps some of those old style glass soda bottles? A definite possibility.

Inside, the 'team sense' nudged at him, trying, once again, to get him to turn it 'on'. Greg stilled. Beyond his own ambivalence and outright hatred of the 'team sense', there was the practical concern that his team would have access to his mind and emotions. How could he trick them when they could sense the truth through the links? He had much less practice than they with emotional shielding and he knew for a fact that he tended to 'broadcast' more readily than his teammates. He was getting better, but this situation…his emotions were going to be all over the map; he didn't need his teammates figuring out he was snowing them right in the middle of one of the most dangerous ops of his life. And he was not going to order them to not notice. The guilt alone…he'd end up halfway down a bottle for real.

Grim, the Sergeant mentally 'summoned' his magic to the forefront of his mind and icily laid out the situation, thrusting the truth – that to have contact with his team was to risk their safety – at that protective layer of gryphon instinct. His gryphon side growled and snapped, insisting that he was being stupid to leave his Pride behind; Greg held firm, thrusting facts – old and new – at the creature. He would not risk his team, he would not risk his kids. That…that broke the standoff, his gryphon side bowing to his judgment, though Greg had little doubt his wild side still regarded him an utter fool.

Fine, whatever. As long as it stopped bugging him about the 'team sense', it could call him whatever it liked. Tension eased out of his shoulders, as though the reduction in mental pressure was enough. Not enough to make his situation better, but… Enough to give him a light at the end of the tunnel. Heart, mind, and soul with not so much as a hint of someone else. How long had it been since he was truly alone in his head? Not just 'off-duty' for a night and a day. Oh, he knew he wasn't free of the 'team sense', but the longer he could leave it off, the better.

Now…about that grocery list…

The first couple of days had been odd…he'd kept waiting for that prickle in the back of his mind, for that surge from his gryphon side bypassing him to force the 'team sense' on. But the more time had gone by, the more he'd been able to relax. Even revel, after a fashion, in no longer having anyone besides himself in his head. He hadn't even realized that just having the 'team sense' on meant having that low-level flow of foreign emotions in the background. The constant tension of sensing his teammates' locations and how they were doing. For every advantage, there was a disadvantage, even if only in the form of stress that had built up over years, wearing him down just as surely as the ocean wore at reefs and stone.

He would never be the young, idealistic cop he'd been that day when he'd walked into a bar to blow off some steam after work and spotted the city's most notorious crime lord ordering a drink, but that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. Castor Troy knew the cop he'd been, not the cop he'd become, and that would be his undoing. Troy had no idea that he was up against a cop who'd faced off with far worse enemies; for all of the crime lord's downright cruelty, he was nothing compared to Moffet or Morgana Le Fay.

Brenda might've tricked him into leaving his team behind, but if she and her brother thought he needed his team to stand up to them, well… Best not to interrupt them as they made their mistakes. Because for all that Greg Parker was a negotiator, he was every bit as much a SWAT cop as any member of Team One. And one measly little crime lord wasn't enough to bring him down, not on their lives.

A grim smile crossed Greg's face as he brought up a message on his phone and sent it. For better or for worse, it was time to end this. He wasn't going to get a better shot than this. Mentally, he reached out, letting his magic fill him while he brushed the 'team sense', but left it off. His team was with him, if only in his memories. His head was high, shoulders back, spine straight. The burdens he carried set aside in favor of the fast approaching battle. Ironic. In isolating him, cutting him off from those he cared about, Brenda had given him a breather. Time to set down everything he'd been carrying around and deal with it. Slowly, steadily, with enough day to day distraction to keep depression at bay.

They wanted a fight? They were gonna get one, brought to them by a Greg Parker who'd faced his past and made peace with it. He wasn't the naïve cop he'd been that day, nor the drunk he'd been over a decade ago. He was Team One's Sergeant, the city's top negotiator, and he was a Squib-born Auror with Wild Magic and a gryphon Animagus form. Straddling two worlds, with the advantages and disadvantages of both.

"All right, guys," he whispered. "Let's keep the peace." Then he pulled out his service weapon and racked the slide back a tad, just enough to check his first round. Eighteen shots. He'd better make every last one of them count.

Greg watched as they entered – they. So…in the end, Brenda was every bit as bad as her brother for the dramatic flare, the incendiary stand-off. She wanted to gloat, to rub his nose in his stupidity. Pity for her he'd never trusted her. Holleran, he trusted, Locksley and Toth, he trusted. Not her, never her; his instincts had gone off the moment he'd met her, screaming warning. Something about her had twigged his sixth sense, reminding him of a certain Witch who'd hidden right in the heart of the city she was busily betraying.

Two, though…that would make this a touch more complicated. Oh, he could handle a two-on-one fight, but he would've preferred not to. He would've preferred to arrest Brenda, not kill her. Precious little he could do now, though; she'd made her choice, every bit as much as her brother had. He wouldn't let her presence endanger his family.

So Greg watched as the siblings strolled into the factory, arrogance practically wafting off them. He leaned against the wall, right at the top of an upper catwalk that had once allowed the factory's office workers to watch operations safely from above. That might've even been used by the odd tour group, eager to see the factory in its heyday. He'd picked a spot where the catwalk met a corridor that led further into the building's second floor. Plenty of shadows for him and easy to watch his opponents move inwards. Right into his trap.

Castor, it seemed, had caught on, for he was looking around, smug smile dropping off his face. Blue eyes scanned the room beneath a high forehead and bushy brows. A sharp nose, plus closely cut and groomed brown hair set off the crime lord's clean-shaved chin with its tiny cleft.

Time to give them another whiff of the cheese. Greg strolled forward, leaning against the catwalk's railing. "Hello, Brenda."

Both siblings looked up, taken aback when they realized he'd been waiting for them. Expecting them. Brenda stepped back, then sneered, lifting her chin. "Surprised, Greggy?"

"Not particularly," Greg replied, discreetly triggering the device in his left hand. "Though I suppose the Italian mob boss was a nice touch. Pity it meant I could fight you more effectively. No pesky rules about procedure and evidence."

Troy's gaze lit up. "You enjoyed it," he cried, delighted. "You've been having fun!" The crime lord clicked his tongue. "You're much more entertaining than that killjoy Archer." The mental picture clicked into place. Castor Troy, like the Joker or Professor Moriarty, was more interested in destruction than anything else. He was a force of Chaos, almost always the negative kind, and cared nothing for his victims. Only the challenge interested him – that and the delight of bringing his opponents down to his level.

Greg kept his voice level and even. "You'd be surprised what a man will do to protect his family," he remarked. For them alone, he'd discarded his cop side and buried himself in an Italian mobster. For his kids, he'd become one of Toronto's top criminals, forcing a stalemate with the monster in front of him. And for his team, for his kids, for his family, he was putting everything on the line to ensure Castor Troy never killed anyone else, ever again.

Troy sneered. "You seem to think you're going to win. Against me."

One brow arched. "You seem to think I'm worried about surviving this." A smirk of his own. "I'm not. Even if it costs me everything, you cannot have my family." Ferocity rang, backed by a gryphon's snarl. "You want to bring me down?" The smirk turned cruel. "Let's dance."

Dropping the now useless detonator, he backed up a step and slammed his fist against the lights, killing them. Then he launched forward and vaulted over the railing. Gunshots rang out, the bullets impacting with his previous location. Gryphon wings snapped out, catching his fall, cushioning his landing. The wings flared in the shadows, ready for his next move; Greg ran through the darkness, trusting all the practice he'd gotten in to know exactly where everything around him was. When he reached another doorway, he turned towards where the siblings had been, pulled his Glock, brought it up, and fired twice. One hand slapped another set of controls as he twisted around and sprang upwards, pushing off the wall; light flared in the factory for a split second, illuminating the Troy siblings' locations.

Castor swiveled, howling as he opened fire with a spray 'n' pray; every bullet missed the fleet Sergeant already back on the second floor catwalk. His wings vanished as soon as he regained the higher ground – no need to give Troy another target. Greg kept moving, yanking a grenade off his belt; he tossed it over the side as he hustled for another spot of cover.

The flash-bang went off, the Sergeant turning immediately afterwards, firing twice more at his opponents. He dove for cover, smiling grimly as bullets impacted the solid metal of the panels he'd added to certain parts of the catwalk. Casual, he kicked the lights on again, letting them flood the factory. The smoke was rising now; it wouldn't be long before the lights made no difference at all.

A sound brought him around; he came up with his gun, firing almost before his target registered. Brenda's gun clattered from her hands and she stared at him in blank horror, reaching briefly for the spreading blood on her chest before she collapsed.

"Brenda!" Castor howled, outrage ringing clear. "You $^#?$*&! You killed my sister!"

"And she almost killed my brother!" Greg roared back, visions of Eddie flashing through his head. So close, it had been so close. Too close.

A renewed volley of bullets struck the panel shielding Greg from the crime lord, Castor trying to wear it down through attrition. The Sergeant crept to the edge, then rolled, cutting across the distance between himself and the next safe spot. Castor snarled, bullets spraying the wall as he sought to outgun his opponent and follow his movements. Greg tugged another grenade off his belt and pulled the pin, smiling grimly as smoke surrounded him. Even as the smoke flooded his lungs and made his eyes sting, he smiled. Leaving the grenade where it was, he crept back towards his first cover and rolled back into it. No bullets followed him; he worked his way around and out of the smoke, mouth twitching at the sight of Castor intently studying the smoke cloud, searching for him. Searching for him in the wrong direction.

Five rounds fired, thirteen left. Not a single round wasted, so far as he was concerned. Let Castor paint the walls with bullet holes; every shot he took had meaning and purpose. Patient, Greg stayed where he was, waiting. Everything inside him wanted to end this, but he couldn't afford any mistakes at this point. Wait…wait for it…steady, Parker.

Sparks flew from the factory's four corners, fire behind them, its roar steadily rising. In that moment, Castor turned, saw the flames, and he understood. Understood what his opponent had done. Laughter rang, rising with the smoke. "Well played, Parker, well played. Never thought you'd have the guts."

Hazel closed in grief. Grief for the cop he'd been once, the cop that never would have done this. He'd crossed the line – he'd never be Team One again. But maybe…maybe it was enough that they'd live. Enough that his kids would live. I told you, Castor. You cannot have my family. Not a single word escaped – that was what Troy wanted. For him to screw up at this last, critical moment.

"Never thought you'd commit suicide to bring me down," Castor sneered. "Not even Archer wanted me that bad."

Fire roared, the four walls igniting. The noose was complete.

"That's true," Greg granted, still behind his cover, hands steady on his gun. "Detective Archer let you live; he sent you to prison." A brief pause. "I, on the other hand… I know what you're capable of. I send you back to prison and you'll come back in another couple of years and kill my family. I won't let that happen." Hazel hardened, turning to pure topaz. "You see, Castor, I'm not your ordinary cop."

"Then what are you?" Derision rang – Castor still thought he was getting out of the factory alive.

Wings reappeared, flaring out, ready for action. Greg turned his head, gryphon eyes spying his opponent through the smoke. Muscles coiled, tensing for action. Inside, he accepted the truth of what he was about to say, the end of the cop he'd been once upon a time.

"I'm a gryphon."

Castor whirled, gun rising; Greg sprang, wings fully extended as he leapt over the catwalk, plummeting towards the factory floor. Mid-air, he fired, once, twice. Then he was down and springing for his opponent, gun spinning out of his hands. Before Castor could fire, Greg was on top of him, chopping the wrist that held the weapon. A snarl echoed in the depth of the fire, Castor unleashing a punch that knocked Greg sideways; the wings vanished as the officer fell. Troy scrambled for his fallen gun, but then the cop was back, his return strike impacting Castor's jaw.

Flames spurted, licking at the factory roof; burning tiles tumbled to the ground. Troy rolled, managing to slam Greg against one of the scorching hot tiles; the officer howled, but kicked out, breaking bones in the impact. Both men pushed themselves up, fury roiling. Then they closed once more, trading punches before Greg slithered around Castor, a fresh snarl erupting as he used a standard SRU takedown maneuver, slamming the older man to the ground.

Castor laughed, a sharp, shrill sound. "I've won, you know," he yelled. "You've lost everything, cop!"

He had. His family, his team, his reputation, his honor, his morals. But one thing remained and always would. "My family will live," he retorted. "That's all that matters anymore." With that, Sergeant Greg Parker lunged, throwing himself away from the spray 'n' pray gun Castor had regained. Hands reached out, grabbing his Glock and he rolled back to his feet. The gun came around, firing even before it came on target.

The first round missed. The second and third rounds did not.

Panting, Greg watched Troy fold over; the crime lord hissed, trying to bring his gun up again, but already his strength was fading. A rasping sound came from the dying man, a choking, and then he collapsed. Fire boomed, but Greg ignored that. With quick steps, he approached Castor Troy and kicked the gun away from him. One foot flipped the man over on his back, then the officer breathed out. Blank, staring eyes.

He'd done it. He'd taken down Castor Troy and his sister, Brenda Troy. Hazel lifted, gazing around at the death trap he'd sealed himself inside. Yes, he'd won, but he'd done it by fighting like Carl Elias, not Sergeant Gregory Parker. He had no moral ground left to speak of, not any more. He was no better than Troy, for all that he'd only been trying to protect his family.

Two choices lay before him. He could be a coward, turn his gun on himself, and escape life's consequences. Didn't even have to go that far – he could just let the fire do its work. Or he could live and accept the punishment he so richly deserved. For a moment, Greg wavered, then his jaw firmed and he holstered his gun. He was many things, but he would not be a coward. He would face whatever the future held for him – he owed his team and his family that much.

With a nod, Greg reached for his Auror badge, pulling it loose from his belt.

Then something impacted the back of his head and he fell, slumping to the ground as flames roared, engulfing the factory walls. The badge tumbled out of his hand, rolling away from the unconscious Sergeant. The roof above groaned, then caved in as fire and years of neglect won the war. As fresh oxygen hit the fire, it rolled, then boomed outwards, incinerating everything in its path.