by Layla Reyne
Holt: Not intentionally. You know what this means to me. Kind of like you and the job thing, I needed to be sure.
Brax: I’m glad you found that spark with someone.
Else.
Holt: Spark isn’t all there is to it. Amelia helped me understand that. She brought me to the shelter, didn’t judge, and helped me put a word to it. I’m demi, and I’ve come to trust and care about her. We have a connection.
And she was there while Brax was a continent away. Brax took another swig of whisky.
Brax: I’m happy you found her.
Holt: I’m gonna marry her, Cap. I asked her, and she said yes.
Lowering the glass, Brax propped his elbows on the table, buried his face in his hands, and screamed.
The phone dinged.
Holt: Cap?
Cover. Divert.
Brax: I was just imagining how red your face is right now.
Holt: *flips you off*
Holt: Maybe a little. Nothing like those desert sunburns, though.
Brax: Congrats, Holt. I really am happy for you.
And he was, even if his own heart was breaking. Holt’s happiness came first. Brax never wanted to see that look of sadness in his eyes again. He’d worried so much when Holt had first returned home, had seen it in his eyes again in that first picture, and Brax was terrified it would take hold when he was an ocean, then a continent away. But Amelia had entered Holt’s life and given him answers and hope. She’d helped when Brax couldn’t. She’d made Holt happy.
Brax would have to live with that. Somehow. He’d have to accept he was Holt’s friend and nothing more.
Holt: Are we okay?
Brax didn’t delay in answering, not wanting to dampen Holt’s mood.
Brax: You’re my best friend. Nothing is going to change that.
Holt: We’re family, I know, I just—
Brax: I can’t wait to meet her.
Once they finished their conversation, Brax stood, poured another glass of whisky, tossed it back in one shot, then hurled the bottle across the room.
The Next Year
Brax: A position opened up with SFPD. Do you still want me to come?
Holt: You made me a promise.
Brax: And I intend to keep it. But only if you want me there.
Brax had to ask. Had to make sure it wouldn’t be awkward for Holt. They weren’t exes, but they had slept together, and Holt was with someone else now.
For his part, Brax had gotten used to the mentions of Amelia, had wrapped his brain around Holt in love with someone else and accepted it. It had forced him to finally move on. Having Holt in his life was more important than losing him to an impossibility.
Holt was his family, and now he had the opportunity to be in the same town with him. But only if Holt wanted him there.
Holt: As long as you want to be here, my answer to that question will always be yes.
Chapter Seven
Six Years Ago
Brax peered out the airplane window. Normally, he wouldn’t have the opportunity, always taking the aisle seat, his legs too long to be jammed into the window seat. Except he’d arrived at Logan this morning to find his seat in coach had been upgraded to first class, first row, window.
The gate agent had a note for him, along with the upgraded ticket: Enjoy the view. Don’t be freaked out by the tandem landing. —H
If there was another plane out there on their wing, Brax couldn’t see it. It was pea soup outside—like that first picture Holt had sent him—the fog so thick it left condensation on the window. Brax laid a hand on the plastic pane, fingers spread. Felt as cold as it looked. He’d left behind ninety-degree heat and ninety percent humidity in Boston… for fucking winter in July.
Confirmed when he stepped off the plane onto the Jetway. Wind whipped off the Bay and whistled through the gaps in the mechanical walkway. Brax hitched the lapels of his blazer closer and cursed the lightweight material. Fuck. He’d need to go shopping. The moving truck with his box of wool suits wasn’t scheduled to arrive until next week.
Holt thought this was perfect weather? For summer? Fuck, no wonder he’d been so out of sorts—and permanently sunburned—in the desert.
Brax followed the signs for baggage claim to the lower level of the terminal, but at the turnstile where his luggage was due, a suited man waited, Brax’s suitcase and duffel already at his side. He held a paper placard that read Braxton Kane.
“You’re here for me?” Brax said.
“Braxton Kane?”
Brax nodded.
“Then, yes, sir, and I already have your bags. A car is waiting outside.”
“Did the department send you?”
“No, sir. Mr. Madigan.”
Brax’s insides were pulled in two different directions. Lightness from the laughter he had to bite back. Mr. Madigan. Heaviness from the disappointment that Mr. Madigan—who’d told him to come, who’d paid for his first-class ticket, who’d sent a car for him—wasn’t there himself.
“Mr. Madigan had a work emergency,” the driver said, answering Brax’s unasked question. “He apologizes for not being here. If you’ll follow me, sir.”
They loaded into a town car and were out of the airport faster than Brax thought possible. But there was no escaping the fog. It only grew thicker as they approached the city, like someone had laid a heavy wool blanket over San Francisco’s skyscrapers.
“Is it always like this?” he asked.
“Summer in the city,” the driver replied. “Though this week is a little drearier than usual.”
They crested a large overpass, the ballpark on the right, and began to weave through the city’s streets. San Francisco wasn’t what Brax expected. A mishmash of old and new buildings, some short and others tall, but not like New York City, and even further from what he’d grown used to in Boston.
It felt different, wrong almost, like nothing he knew. He felt out of place, even more so than he had his first day in the desert. Brax wondered, not for the first time, if this whole thing was a colossal mistake. This was never supposed to be, never supposed to happen. Except for that one night in DC, he and Holt had never been in the same place outside of Camp Casey. Never had the chance to be friends in civilian life. What if this ruined everything?
Before he was able to tell the driver to turn around and take him back to the airport, the car pulled to the curb in front of a two-story building. One he didn’t recognize. It was an older building, judging by the architecture, but newly renovated, judging by the black-framed gable windows and arched doorway. A rainbow was painted into the crenellations over the door. Not the police station, certainly not his rental, and not the Victorian mansion Holt had described to him as the Madigan family home.
“Are we in the right place?”
“Yes, sir. This is one of the LGBTQ shelters the Madigans sponsor.”
“One of?”
“Yes, sir. There are several…”
The driver was still talking but Brax’s attention was drawn elsewhere. To the big man pushing open the shelter’s door and loping down the front steps. Bigger than Brax remembered, and the tattoo sleeve on Holt’s right arm was on full display beneath short sleeves, an array of colors that contrasted with his pale freckled face and other bare arm. He’d let his hair grow out too, longer waves of reddish-dark blond on top, and a neatly trimmed auburn beard that covered his dimpled chin, making his jaw seem more square, more severe. Severity that was undercut by brown eyes wide with joy. Not a bit of fear or sadness in them. Holt looked good, happy, a long way from the man who five years ago questioned if he belonged back home.
Brax didn’t question his decision to move to San Francisco any longer either. Especially not when Holt’s lips curved into a huge smile, nearly splitting his face in two. Brax was meant to be where this man was. Period. He threw open the car door, and his feet hit the sidewalk at a brisk pace, embarrassingly almost running. But Holt was too, so fuck it. They collided midwalkway, throwing their arms
around each other.
“Hey, Cap,” Holt mumbled against his shoulder.
“Private.”
“Fuck, I missed you.”
Brax hugged him tighter. “Missed you too.”
They stayed like that another minute or so before Brax drew back, needing to see Holt’s face again. For real, in person. He was still smiling, and Brax felt his own lips curve to match.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t at the airport,” Holt said. “One of the kids here needed me.”
Yes, Holt had finally settled into his life in San Francisco, where he was needed, and it pleased Brax to hear. “Thanks for the ride and the flight upgrade,” he said. “Though I couldn’t see anything outside the plane’s window for this fog. I thought you said the weather was perfect here.”
“It is perfect.” Holt flicked his eyes up at the gray sky. “Nothing like summer in the city.”
“Stop lying, babe,” came a voice from behind them. “I can see the goosebumps from here. Your ass is freezing.”
Holt stepped the rest of the way out of Brax’s arms, shifting to his side and revealing a tall willowy woman coming down the shelter steps. She was beautiful with long dark hair, alabaster skin, and bright green eyes, and she moved toward them with a gracefulness Brax had to admit was a perfect counter to Holt’s massive bulk.
“Someone I want to introduce you to,” Holt said. The way his smile softened and love flooded his eyes, the way he slid an arm around her waist and held her tight, gave Brax that ripped-in-half feeling again. His heart sank for himself but flew high for Holt.
“This is Amelia,” Holt said. “Amelia, this is Braxton Kane.”
“I’ve heard a lot about you.” She held out her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise.” Brax returned the handshake, impressed by Amelia’s strong, confident grip. Again, a perfect match for Holt.
“Thank you for making sure he got home,” she said, drawing back her hand and patting Holt’s chest. “The family will never be able to repay you.”
“I didn’t—”
“Yeah, you did,” Holt declared. He stepped forward and yanked him into another crushing hug. “And now you’re home too.”
Brax couldn’t argue the truth he felt in his bones. This hadn’t been a mistake. This was, indeed, exactly where he was supposed to be.
The Next Day
“This will be your office.” Chief Williams opened the door to the corner office at the opposite end of the hall from his own. Intentional, if Brax had to guess. Truth be told, he was surprised he’d gotten the job at all. His interview with Williams had been awkward, terse, and almost hostile, but he’d clicked well with the other officers with whom he’d interviewed. The others had assured him it was just the chief’s way.
From the interview then, and the morning meetings and welcome lunch today, he had the distinct impression Chief Williams was not looking for an assistant chief to work with, but rather someone to work for him. Brax wasn’t sure if that was in a do-my-bidding way or a do-the-shit-I don’t-want-to way. Maybe both, more of the latter if Brax had to guess, especially given the afternoon tee time with several other law enforcement officials, including US Attorney Bowers, with whom Williams seemed particularly chummy. In any event, Brax could do the job. He was used to being the middleman, the one subordinates came to first. Brax would keep to his end of the hall, and Williams could keep to the other where Bowers was waiting for him now. He wasn’t going to be a pleasant boss to work for, but it was worth it to be there with Holt.
“Kane.” Williams’s sharp bark jerked him back to the present where the chief had ventured ahead of him into the office. He was resting against the front of Brax’s new desk. Mostly bare except for the computer and phone.
And three thick file folders stacked in the middle. Cases already?
Brax stepped into the office. “Yes, sir.”
“Your captain in Boston said you had some experience with organized crime.”
“Mostly cartels.”
“We got those too, but let’s start with this.” Williams grabbed the folders off the desk and held them out to him. “Shake up happening with one of the city’s crime families.”
Brax glimpsed the name on the file tabs and almost dropped them.
MADIGAN.
Dread clawed up his spine. Surely not. San Francisco had a sizable Irish American population. Maybe this was a different Madigan family. Some of the ones he knew back in New York. This would be like Holt’s first day at Casey, when Brax had wondered if Holt was connected to any of those Madigans. He’d open the folders and just like last time—
Except it wasn’t like last time. His blood ran cold, and his world came to a screeching fucking halt. He recognized these names.
Rose and Callum Madigan.
Noah and Charlotte Madigan.
Helena.
Hawes.
Holt.
There was no denying this. They were the same Madigans as his Madigan, further confirmed by Williams. “Patriarch just stepped down and the grandson, Hawes, is taking over. They run a successful cold storage business, but it’s a front. Not all they do by a long shot. Only the big one is remotely clean, and that’s because he’s a good enough hacker to cover his tracks.”
The big one. A good enough hacker.
The best hacker Brax knew.
Holt.
This was the answer. To all those questions that had kept Brax awake at night.
“This something you can handle?” Williams asked.
“Yes, sir. I’ll get up to speed.”
“Good.” He pushed off the desk and headed for the door. “We’ll discuss in a couple days after you get through the rest of department orientation.” He left without another word, which was good since Brax didn’t have any, his mind, heart, and guts a jumbled mess.
Hours later, Brax wasn’t any less unsettled. He’d read through the three thick files, one for each generation. He struggled to fit his best friend, a person he thought he knew almost as well as himself, a man who still held a wide swath of his heart, into the bloody picture the files painted. There was no denying certain facts, certain statements that suddenly made sense.
Holt’s parents’ sudden death.
His brother’s and sister’s invincible attitudes.
The family fortune.
The skills Holt had come into the army with, the seemingly innate proficiency with weapons and hand-to-hand combat at odds with a man his size. They weren’t innate, though. Holt had been trained. By his family.
Of assassins.
“I can handle myself in one-on-one situations. My family made sure of that.”
The Madigans didn’t just run a cold storage business. They were ghosts who haunted the city and killed and maimed in a cold, methodical fashion. Who had built an empire of fear and leverage. Who, over the past five years, had expanded their arsenal to include cybercrimes and digital assassination.
Only one explanation for that.
Brax flipped to the middle section of the last file. Thinner than the other two but the most dangerous to him. A picture of Holt stared back at him from the left flap. Even if there wasn’t an Amelia in the picture, even if Holt didn’t look happier than Brax had ever seen him, this right here knocked the impossible future a tiny part of Brax’s heart still clung to off the fucking cliff. A nosedive into the abyss. Why the fuck had he come to San Francisco? Why the fuck hadn’t Holt said anything? He had to know this couldn’t work. Brax, an assistant chief of police, and Holt, a digital assassin, among a family of assassins. Fuck, could they even still be friends?
The stab of loss cut deep, and Brax lashed out in pain, sending the files careening off his desk. The folders fluttered to the floor, the antithesis of violence, and not satisfying in the least. Just fucking silence. No pens clattering down, no stapler hitting with a thunk, no crystal candy dish shattering as it hit the floor.
Fuck.
Could he even put the name plate and cand
y dish on his desk without incriminating himself? Without looking at them every day and feeling like a traitor to one or the other of the two things he loved most in this world?
Anger and frustration escalated, searching for another target. He drew back an arm, preparing to swing at the computer.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
His arm halted midswing, and his gaze darted to the woman in the doorway. He’d been so lost in his head, in his pain, he hadn’t heard her approach. Or maybe she was just that silent… and deadly. He recognized her from Holt’s many descriptions—a petite powerhouse, long blond hair, dancing blue eyes, a teasing troublemaker’s smile. A match to the photo in the last third of the last folder, the contents of which were strewn across the floor. For the subject of the SFPD’s ongoing investigation to see.
Fuck.
“My brother would be upset if you did grievous harm to a computer.”
She strode into the office and knelt to gather the scattered files. Brax remained frozen. From everything he’d read in those files, even though Hawes Madigan had been dubbed the “Prince of Killers,” Helena Madigan was the deadliest of the current generation of assassins, but you wouldn’t know it by her petite frame, designer suit, and flirtatious smile.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
She rose, files in hand. “Meeting with a client.”
A bark of laughter escaped. “That’s right. Criminal law, specializing in the wrongfully accused. When Holt told me, I admired you. Now…”
“The irony, right?” She gave him a cheeky grin and tossed the files on his desk.
“Not what I expected.”