A Cold Blue Call

by A. J. Downey

  A Cold Blue Call

  A.J. Downey

  Contents

  BOOK SIX

  COPYRIGHT

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Also by A.J. Downey

  About the Author

  BOOK SIX

  Published 2019 by Second Circle Press

  Text Copyright © 2018 A.J. Downey

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner and are not to be construed as real except where noted and authorized. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or names featured are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement if any of these terms are used.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing by Barbara J. Bailey

  Book design by Maggie Kern

  Cover art and Indigo Knights logo by Dar Albert at Wicked Smart Designs

  Model - Salvador Herrera

  Photographer - JW Photography & Covers

  Dedication

  To Derek Cromwell, one of the unsung heroes before he folded up his cape. Don’t worry, world. He still unfolds it every once in a while for various causes and old times’ sake, and lucky us, it sounds like he might be fully coming out of superhero retirement soon.

  Prologue

  Angel…

  I stared at the Springfield XDS on my galley table. I had it for home protection, even though my home was actually a boat right now. I liked it, although with my big hands, I needed the extended magazine with the grip extender for a comfortable fit. Golden thought I should have just gone with something that fit my hand naturally, but I liked the feel of this one when I fired.

  I was thinking about putting it to my head and firing it for the last time. I had it sitting on the table in front of me, mostly empty, just the one round it would take to end me in the chamber, the rest of the magazine’s contents lined up like soldiers on the lacquered wood, by the bottle of Johnny Walker and the glass of whiskey that I’d just poured, my second of the night.

  I kept staring at the gun, and thinking about my brother, my sister, and her kid. How Maria would be angry, and how Golden, he would hurt, but he’d hold her and Manolo together okay. When he fell apart, the club would be there to put him back together. My twin was strong. Way stronger than me. He’d eventually be okay. I had to believe that.

  I did believe that.

  He was the better of the two of us, always had been. He was braver, stronger; more resilient. Me? I wasn’t any of those things. I was just going through the motions, saving as many as I could, but man, when I needed someone there to save me? There wasn’t nothing for it. I was alone and I didn’t have anybody I was comfortable reaching out to. Not my brother, not my club, no one. They all had their own things going and handled their shit so well, while me? I just seemed to fuck everything up. Except that when I fucked up, people died.

  I couldn’t do this shit anymore. I couldn’t save my sister from her douchebag baby-daddy, I couldn’t help my nephew, and my brother had just gone back out on the street after being shot, for fuck’s sake. I felt paralyzed. By guilt, by fear, by remorse; hopelessness ran through my veins, and not even God was watching anymore. I was alone. Bereft.

  I just couldn’t do this anymore.

  I started to reach for the Springfield, and found my hand deviating for the whiskey, instead. I downed what was in the glass and poured another, staring at the amber liquid subtly rising and falling against the edge of the glass as my live-aboard gently rocked in the bay.

  Was it going to hurt? Would it be quick or would I linger? I was tired of hurting, I didn’t want to hurt more. Please God, just give me a sign, and get me through just one more night…

  There was a faint shout outside my boat, thumping and thudding, and a woman swearing, her voice edged in pain. I got up as if pulled by strings, and went up and out on deck, looking over toward the dock and saw her, sprawled across the creosote-soaked wood.

  She sat up, hissing between her teeth, one hand wrapped around her delicate wrist, inspecting the palm of her hand in the dark.

  She groaned and looked around her at her spilled groceries and I called out softly.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah,” she called back automatically, and then took another look at her hand. Her shoulders dropped and she hung her head, a little defeated. “No.”

  “I’m coming to help you,” I said. I moved across the deck and went to the dock. It was low tide, so I gripped one of the mooring lines and braced a boot against the edge of the dock, hauling myself up onto it.

  “I think I’ll be okay, I don’t know what happened, I think my heel caught –“

  She stopped when I gently grasped her hand and turned it to the light from one of the poles. A wicked sliver cut across the heel of her palm, almost the entire width of her hand. I hissed between my teeth at the sight; that was nasty and had to hurt.

  “What’s your name?” I asked gently, all business, going right into paramedic mode.

  “Claire,” she said.

  “Hi, Claire. I’m Angel, and it’s your lucky night. I’m an Indigo City medic and we’re going to get you taken care of.”

  She laughed faintly and said, “I appreciate that, Angel, but, would you mind grabbing my oranges before they end up rolling into the drink?”

  I said, “Sure. Hang tight, I’ll get your things. Just don’t try to move yet.”

  “Oh, I’m sure everything else is fine; ankle hurts a little, but it doesn’t feel broken.”

  “Just don’t move for me, okay?”

  “Aren’t you sweet?” she asked and I could hear the smile edging her voice.

  I looked at her finally, and, Wow! She was breathtaking. Large dark eyes were set in a slender face with high cheekbones, her skin still sun-kissed despite the winter’s chill around us, a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Her long, dark hair was in a high ponytail, and a fringe of bangs fell across her forehead, longer on the sides, sending sweeping tendrils of all that deep brunette satin to frame her face, like the work of art that it was.

  “Just doing my job,” I stammered, and her smile grew, showing straight white teeth.

  “Pretty sure you’re off the clock,” she murmured.


  I felt an answering smile cross my lips, and it almost felt foreign on my face, it’d been so long since I’d done it genuinely, without it being superficial.

  “I’m a medic, I’m never off the clock.”

  She laughed and the sound was good.

  She raised her perfect sweep of eyebrows and said, “My oranges?”

  “Right!” I jumped slightly, startled back into action and realizing I’d been staring like some gob-smacked idiot. I gathered up her fruit into the canvas grocery sack and lowered it over the edge of my boat, onto the bench fixed to the port side.

  I went back to Claire and held down my hands, and said, “Easy now, don’t put any weight onto the ankle you’ve hurt until I can get a look at it.”

  “Um, okay.” She took my hands and I pulled her up easily onto her one good foot. She let out a little surprised yip and said, “Wow! Okay, you’re pretty strong.”

  I gave a nod and said, “Yup, and I’m going to pick you up.”

  “What? Oh!”

  Too late. I’d already lifted her easily, one arm behind her back, the other beneath her knees, and I swear her thick, stylish wool coat and the sweater dress she wore beneath it weighed almost as much as her. I stepped off the dock and down into my boat while she clung to me, her arms around my neck. I murmured, “Okay, tough part is over, I’m going to put you down. Remember, no weight on that ankle until I can get a look at it.”

  “Okay,” she said, breathy, and I carefully set her down. She hopped on one foot, using me to find her balance for a moment and let go once she had it.

  “Oh, shit, my purse,” she said.

  “I’ll get it, go on down below deck and sit. I’ll be right down to look at that ankle and take care of that hand.”

  “Um, okay. Thank you.”

  “No problem, it’s what I do.”

  I went back up on the dock and bent, snatching up her purse from the wood and dusting a few stray slivers off of it. I leapt back down onto my boat, and went for the door and the few steps leading below deck.

  I found her stopped in the galley, staring wide-eyed at the table.

  “Shit,” I grunted.

  She turned, slightly open-mouthed, and transferred the stare to me. “Did I interrupt something?”

  “It’s nothing,” I stated. “I was just cleaning it.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said flatly, like she didn’t believe me.

  I decided against trying another lie as she picked up the Springfield, removing the magazine and having a look. She set that down and pulled back the slide, ejecting the bullet in the chamber. She rolled her lips together, her eyes closing, the lashes fluttering against her cheeks for a moment before she opened those bottomless dark eyes and stared into mine.

  “Looks like this was a happy accident, then,” she said softly, and palmed the round, shoving it into her coat’s pocket. She put the magazine back and hit the switch on the side, the slide popped forward, and she handed me my weapon.

  I dumped it in the empty stainless steel sink of my galley with a clatter and moved further into my boat.

  “Please, sit,” I said, swallowing nervously. “I’m going to grab my first aid kit.”

  “Okay,” she said gently.

  I moved past her in the narrow space and went back, past the stair, to the stern of my boat and the berth. I opened up the cabinet door beneath my bed and pulled out the soft-sided first aid kit. It was the size of a small suitcase; I had everything for any kind of emergency in here. I think every good medic’s first aid kit was essentially the same kit we carried out in the field, fully-stocked and ready to rock.

  I expected her to be gone, but when I came back out, she was in my recliner in front of the TV, spun out to where I would have the most room to work. I knelt at her feet and opened up my kit. I was still in uniform from the shift I’d just worked, which I guess had helped sell the believability that I was, in fact, a medic. Why else would she just take my word for it?

  “You okay?” she asked softly, and I couldn’t look at her. I nodded and unzipped compartments and sat back on my haunches with a sigh.

  “I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” I reminded her and she smiled a charmed, if sad, little half-smile.

  “Can’t take care of anybody if you don’t take care of yourself, first,” she said and her voice was gentle with just an edge of seduction that I don’t think was intentional. I think that was just her voice. I nodded and switched subjects. She’d already taken off her coat. It sat, with her purse on top, on the bench back by the table my bullets were still lined up on. My glass was empty and I had to smile at that. I mean, wasn’t that why I’d been drinking it? For the liquid courage? Not that she had anything to fear from me at all. I was genuinely just looking to help her.

  “Not trying to get fresh with you,” I murmured, slipping my hands up the long skirt of her knit dress and finding the top of her heeled boot, up over her knee.

  “I think it would be fine if you were,” she said dryly and I nearly swallowed my own tongue. I felt my face heat and didn’t respond to the overt flirtation, instead trying to remain all business.

  I trailed my fingertips across the smooth leather and found a zipper at the inside of her ankle, let it down and gripped her heel gently; the high heel of her boot was loose and flopping.

  “Think I found why you fell in the first place,” I murmured. “Boots might be toast. Shame too, they’re nice.”

  “Dammit, they’re my favorite pair,” she pouted.

  “Brace yourself, this might hurt a little bit.” I eased the boot off her foot and she sucked in a sharp breath, tensing as I carefully brought it down and all the way off.

  “Ooo yeah, that’s a nasty sprain. You’re already swelling. Hang tight.” I rooted through my bag and found one of the chemical ice packs, popping the inner bladder and shaking it up; it instantly grew cold. I found a roll of Ace bandage and gently wrapped it onto the affected area temporarily so I could deal with her hand, which she was still cradling to her breast.

  “Okay, onto the main event, let’s see it.” I held out my hand and waved at her to give up hers.

  “This is probably going to suck, digging that bitch out, isn’t it?” she asked.

  “It’s not going to be fun, but it’s not going to be too bad. I don’t think you’re going to feel it, the way I think I’m going to have to do it; it’s the disinfecting that’s going to sting a little. But, we’ll see what I’ve got in here to minimize that.”

  “Okay, just get it out quickly,” she said, through gritted teeth and I chuckled.

  “More whiskey?” I asked.

  “Yes, if you please.”

  I laughed outright then, and stood up. “All right.”

  I poured her a little more and handed her the glass. She took it with her uninjured hand and sipped, while eyeing me with some trepidation. I smiled and turned my back to her, pulling her forward against it and resting her hand, palm up, on my knee.

  “Don’t move, and no peeking,” I told her.

  “Are you serious?” she asked, laughing a little.

  “I am. Just relax, don’t look, and let me do my job. It’ll be over before you know it.”

  “Okay, cool,” she said, her voice buzzing with nervousness, and I heard her take another sip.

  I pulled out a scalpel and uncapped it. The sliver was under a few layers of skin but I didn’t think she would bleed much if I just parted them and lifted it out. If I went after it with a needle, we’d be here all night and I would have to break it up and pull it out in chunks. It would be better to get it out in one piece, disinfect, and bandage it up. No fuss, quick and easy. I didn’t want or need the scalpel freaking her out, though.

  “Okay, here we go, ready?”

  “No!” she blurted after exhaling a breath but it was too late, I was already drawing a sharp, clean line down the middle, the skin parting easily, the sliver emerging almost as if her body rejected its presence, offended that it’d even trie
d to take up residence there.

  “Doing all right?” I asked, when I didn’t hear anything. I set the scalpel, still out of sight, on my kit and picked out a pair of tweezers from their pocket, flicking off the plastic keeping them together with my thumbnail.

  “No!” Her voice was tight and clipped.

  I could hear the smile in my voice as I told her calmly and evenly, “You’re doing great, Claire. Just a couple more things and we’ll be all done.”

  “Mm,” she said noncommittally, her voice strained, her breath held tight. I set the sliver aside on a piece of gauze and pressed another piece to the palm of her hand while I pulled a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from its spot. I pulled the cap off with thumb and forefinger and moved the gauze away. It was dotted with crimson and I frowned; it was bleeding a little more than I expected, but still not too bad.

  “Maybe a slight sting.” I sprayed the disinfectant solution onto the cut and it frothed and foamed with a vengeance. She jumped and let out an explosive breath that tickled across the back of my neck before her forehead dropped below it, to press just between my shoulder blades. I tingled all over at the contact.

  “That’s not as bad as I thought it would be,” she confessed.

  I dabbed at the cut and said, “Yeah, this is pretty mild stuff.”

  “Thanks for that,” she murmured, muffled, and I smiled.

  “You’re a tough girl, Claire.”

  “Ha!” she mocked and I smiled some more.