Clark managed to get Daniel halfway to the police car before a looming presence flanked them on the right.
“Clark,” said Isaac Whitaker, the chief of police. He stood two inches taller than Clark, had a shiny, shaved head, scars on one cheek from a fight with a petty thief who’d been too good with a switchblade, and carried himself like a moving mountain that would not be deterred by anything from weather to wailing women.
“Whitaker,” Clark replied, still moving and keeping his focus on Daniel.
“Is this the man?” the chief asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Does he need medical attention?”
“No, sir.”
“He terminated the madman?”
“Yes, sir.” Clark smiled at Whitaker’s way of speaking. He made some of the more deadly military men Clark knew look positively warm and cuddly.
“I’ll escort you to a car
