by Karen Rose
“How about chocolate?” The taunt was mockingly delivered. “I have some left over.”
He gritted his teeth. “That’s not funny.”
The amusement vanished. “Why should I help you hide her if I can’t have her?”
He took a breath, forced himself to smile. “Because you love me?” he asked lightly.
After a long pause, a chuckle filled the room. “You’re lucky that that’s still true.”
Thursday, April 7, 2:00 p.m.
Dammit. Silas gritted his teeth as another person went into Smith’s house. Smith and Holden had still not come out. They hadn’t even come close to the window by the door.
And I’m running out of time. A woman had gone in the hour before and just now a third man. There were now five people in the house.
And that bastard still has my baby. His mind was torturing him with all the ways Violet could be hurt. I will kill him. If he touches a hair on her head, I will gut him.
Violet… oh God. His heart was pounding, his hands trembling. Stop it. Stop thinking about him and pay attention to that damn front door.
Through which no one emerged. He drew a shaky breath, made the decision. I’ll shoot the next person who goes in or comes out. Then when the others rushed out to help, he’d shoot them all. Then he’d run like hell.
A car drove up, stopped on Smith’s side of the street. A big guy got out.
He was a cop, Silas could tell. The man moved like a cop.
Silas leaned forward, keeping the man in his sight, his finger on the trigger. He put pressure on the trigger, aiming at the base of the man’s head.
Squeeze, dammit. Squeeze the fucking trigger. For Violet.
His hands were shaking. Shaking. A car door slammed, but he kept his eye on the sight. On the cop walking up to Smith’s front door.
He squeezed the trigger just as a petite brunette moved into his sight. His hand jerked and the window shattered. Stevie. Oh my God. It was Stevie.
The man on the front porch dropped to his stomach and rolled, sitting up against a slender tree. That would be J. D. Fitzpatrick, Stevie’s new partner. Fitzpatrick pressed his hand to his shoulder. When he brought his palm away, it was red.
Stevie ran to her vehicle, weapon drawn. Pointed up at the roof. Toward me. Move. He left the rifle behind, running in a crouch to the edge of the roof. He jumped, landing on the fire escape. He took the stairs, five at a time.
“Stop! Police!” Stevie was behind him. He drew the revolver from his shoulder holster and turned, firing at the ground between them.
“Silas!” She was crying. Stevie was crying. “Dammit. Stop!”
He got to the car he’d parked on the next street and hunkered. He trained his revolver on Stevie, who was only steps behind. “Drop your gun,” he said.
She came to a skidding halt. “Why, Silas?” She didn’t put down her gun.
“Don’t make me take your child’s mother. Drop your gun and back away or I swear to God I’ll fire.” His voice was desperate. “Please don’t make me hurt you.”
She stared, shocked. Devastated. Betrayed. Slowly she laid her gun on the ground.
“Hands where I can see them,” he said. “Kick the gun over here.” She kicked the gun, hands still raised. He picked it up, got in the car. “I’m sorry,” he said.
He only dared to drive three blocks. She probably had already reported his license-plate number. Ditch the car. Steal another. Methodically he worked, finding a car, hot-wiring the ignition. Driving away again. He’d failed. Smith and Holden still lived.
And that bastard still has my child.
Clay threw open the door, covering Joseph and Grayson as they dragged J.D. inside. The window was shattered. Peabody was barking and J.D. was bleeding.
Paige sent Peabody to a corner, away from the broken glass, then dragged a chair into the dining room, away from the windows. “Sit him here.”
Daphne had already called 911. “The ambulance is on its way,” she said.
“I’m all right,” J.D. said. “Stevie went after him.” He started for the door, staggered.
Grayson grabbed his arm and forced him into the chair. “Where are you hit?”
“My partner is out there,” J.D. said viciously. “I’ve had worse. Let. Me. Go.”
“I’ll cover her.” With that, Clay took off at a run.
“What are we talking about here?” Joseph demanded. “Is this Silas? The cop?”
“He’s a sharpshooter,” Grayson said, taking his gun from the holster at his back. “But Silas has gone out of his way not to kill me. It doesn’t make sense that he’d try to kill me now. I’ll take the street to the left. Joseph, you go right.”
Paige bit her tongue as the brothers hit the street. She wanted to beg Grayson to stay put. But she knew he needed to go. She turned her attention to J.D. He was bleeding. A hell of a lot. She ran to the kitchen for towels.
When she got back, Daphne had taken J.D.’s jacket off. He was sweating, his face pale. His shirt was already soaked with blood. Daphne had unbuttoned it, exposing the wound, an inch from where his Kevlar ended.
“It’s not so bad,” Daphne said, forcing a strong note into her voice. “Just a graze.”
J.D. stared at her, his eyes starting to haze. “It really is you. I didn’t believe Stevie.”
“Tomorrow I’m back to loud clothes and big hair.”
“Like you better that way,” J.D. mumbled. “Hell, I’ve had worse than this.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Paige said to Daphne. “You’re dressed for Reba.”
“This is why I like simpler clothes,” Daphne snapped. “I’m useless this way.”
“You won’t be once we get to Reba’s office,” Paige said. She pressed a towel against J.D.’s wound. “Why do I feel like I’ve done this before?” she muttered.
“Because he’s your third bleeder this week,” Daphne said dryly. But Paige wasn’t fooled. The woman’s voice trembled.
“Daphne’s rattled, so it must be bad. How much blood have I lost?” J.D. murmured.
“A lot,” Paige said bluntly. “Looks like the bullet may have nicked an artery. Lie down on the floor.” She eased him to the carpet, kneeling at his side, keeping the pressure steady with one hand while she grabbed a cushion off the chair with the other. She handed the cushion to Daphne. “Elevate his feet.”
“You do medic work?” he asked. His voice was thickening.
“No. But I had a hole like this one in my shoulder. You’ll have a pretty scar.”
“It’ll go with all my others,” he said.
“I’ll call Lucy,” Daphne said. “Have her meet you at the ER.”
“Hell, no,” he insisted, but his voice was weaker. He was still bleeding. A lot. Paige pressed harder against the wound. “Not in her condition,” he added, then closed his eyes. “I didn’t say that out loud, did I? I wasn’t supposed to tell.”
“I didn’t hear anything,” Daphne said, forcing a smile. “Did you, Paige?”
“Not a word.”
Daphne peeked out the door. “Stevie’s coming back. Clay’s with her.”
“Is she okay?” J.D. asked.
“Not a scratch,” Daphne said. “You’re the one who’s bleeding buckets, sugar.”
Stevie and Clay walked into the house, stepping over the glass. Stevie looked devastated, the little color she had left in her face fading when she saw J.D. “Oh God.”
“I’ve got him,” Paige said tersely. “He’s not dying. Sit her down before she faints.”
“I don’t faint,” Stevie snarled. But she sank to her knees next to J.D. “It was Silas.”
Paige’s head jerked up in surprise. “What? Are you sure?”
“Damn sure. I chased him. He… pointed his gun at my head.”
J.D. patted her leg clumsily. “I don’t like your old partner so much,” he said.
Stevie hiccuped a startled laugh that sounded more like a sob. “Me either.”
“Where is Sil
as?” Paige asked, thinking of Grayson still out there, looking for him.
“He got away,” Clay said.
“I radioed his license plate in, but he’s probably found another car already,” Stevie said. She’d regained a bit of color in her face. “How much blood loss?”
“It’s slowing down,” Paige said. “A little. He’s not dying.”
“I’m not dying,” J.D. repeated forcefully.
“Grayson and Joseph are back,” Daphne announced.
The brothers were grim-faced. “No sign of him,” Grayson said.
“He was shaking,” Stevie said. “Silas, I mean. It’s why he missed.”
Grayson frowned. “It was Silas? What did he say?”
Stevie sat back on her heels. “He said he didn’t want to have to kill ‘your daughter’s mother.’ Rose never answered her phone. This is not good. Silas was desperate. He begged me not to make him hurt me.”
“He said the same thing to me when he had Logan. What if they have his kid?”
“Possible,” Stevie said. “Violet wasn’t at school yesterday. But she was there on Tuesday.”
“Leaving no explanation for the other kills,” Grayson said.
“He could have come to me. Asked for help.” Stevie swallowed. “But he didn’t.”
“The paramedics are here,” Joseph said. “Give them room.”
“I’m going to the ER with you,” Stevie told J.D.
“No, you’re not,” J.D. said wearily, his eyes closed. “You’re going to cover Grayson. I’m not dying. Paige says so. Besides, Lucy will come to the ER and she’ll probably cry. She hates for anyone to see her cry. So go, do your job. All of you.”
“All right,” Stevie agreed. “I’ll handle everything here. As soon as I get the scene secured, I’ll join you at the restaurant. I’ve already briefed Hyatt and he’ll be waiting for you there. Paige, you and Daphne go to Reba.”
“I’ll put Peabody in the bedroom,” Paige said. “But don’t leave him alone, okay?”
“I’ll be sure the house is covered.” Stevie stood. “Go.”
Thursday, April 7, 2:15 p.m.
Silas didn’t go far. There were no real places he could hide. It wouldn’t take long for news of his botched attempt at Grayson’s town house to hit the TV waves.
He’d tried to kill a cop. He’d find no one on the force willing to help him now. Especially Stevie. He tried to erase the image of her face from his mind, only to have it filled with the worst possible things that could be happening to Violet.
He pulled a ball cap low on his face and found an alley. He ditched the car, which would be reported missing soon. He slunk into the shadows, leaning against a brick wall and closing his eyes. What am I going to do? Grayson was on alert now. He and Paige Holden wouldn’t give him another chance to shoot them.
Not that I could get them with my rifle. He’d left it. He had more at his storage unit, but that was miles away. He had two handguns on him. For now they’d have to do.
A low roar had his head jerking up, his eyes scanning the alley as he pressed against the wall. The roar was abruptly cut and a guy pushed a motorcycle into the alley from the street. The guy set the kickstand and straightened, taking off his helmet.
Silas didn’t think, he just acted, slipping from the shadows and striking the man with the butt of his handgun, hard, in the base of his skull. The man went limp and Silas guided him to the ground, careful to make no noise. He stripped the man’s leather jacket from his body and shrugged into it. Then he put the helmet on, picked up the man’s keys where they’d fallen, started the motorcycle, and drove away.
The air helped clear his mind. And he knew where he could go to hide, plan, and do what he needed to do to save his child before it was too late.
Thursday, April 7, 3:30 p.m.
“We’re turning a few heads,” Daphne murmured as they waited for the elevator to Reba’s office. “Socialite and Ninja Girl accompanied by brooding bodyguard.”
It was true. Daphne wore her McQueen and Paige wore her gi. Clay hovered over them all in black, an earpiece in one ear like the Secret Service. The earpiece was really a digital recorder. Everything said would be captured.
“Sounds like a TV show,” Paige murmured back. “A really bad one.”
“I’m not brooding,” Clay muttered.
Paige tossed him a wry look. “Sure you are, Mr. Don’t-say-hi-or-bye.”
“Am not,” Clay said, but there was a smile in his voice. “I’m taciturn.”
Paige snickered, but when the elevator doors closed, she frowned at Daphne. “She’s going to know you’re a prosecutor working with Grayson.”
“She would if I’d told her my correct name. But today I’m Mrs. Travis Elkhart, first name Elizabeth. The current Mrs. Travis Elkhart is the bimbo using my wedding china, but there were enough photos in the society pages of my ex and me that I’ll pass muster with Reba. Daphne is the lawyer. Elizabeth is the woman I left behind.”
The doors opened and Paige walked up to the receptionist, whose eyes had widened at the sight of them. “We’re here to see Ms. McCloud.”
The receptionist studied Paige’s gi with confusion. “I’ll tell her that you’re here.”
Daphne sat, crossing her legs, her hands folded primly on her lap. Paige spied Clay staring in a way she was certain he thought discreet. She couldn’t blame him. Daphne had amazing legs. She was a beautiful woman. Paige had a million questions about the man who’d left her, but held them back, instead standing at attention next to Clay.
She tugged briskly on the lower hem of her gi jacket, hearing the familiar snap of fabric. I’ve lived in the quiet of my mind for too long, she thought. It was time to live in the outside again. Her friends had told her to be patient, that this day would come.
Paige hadn’t expected it to feel so right.
“Do you like mojitos?” she asked Daphne.
“And martinis. And margaritas. As well as cocktails beginning with many other letters of the alphabet.” Daphne’s brows went up. “Why?”
“I have these two best friends in Minneapolis. We used to go out for major mojito night, spill our secrets and generally trash the men who’d done us wrong.”
Daphne’s lips twitched. “Sounds like a fun girls’ night out.”
“I’m standing here, you know,” Clay muttered.
“If you’ve never caused a major mojito meltdown, none of this pertains to you,” Paige said, surprised to find him looking almost hurt. “Have you?”
“Not to my knowledge,” he said seriously. “But I’ve been on the receiving end a time or two. Guys don’t bitch. They suck it up. And get drunk alone.”
Daphne looked sympathetic. “You can join us. I’m not discriminatory.”
“Mojitos are not my thing,” he said dryly.
Daphne just smiled. “I’m sure I can find something that would appeal to your palate. My mother makes a really tasty G and T. Heavy on the G.”
“How heavy?” Clay asked.
“No T,” Daphne said demurely. “And the G is her own recipe. Sshh.”
The receptionist approached holding a tray. “Can I offer you some water?”
Paige instantly sobered on the inside, although she left her polite smile intact. Images of a dead Betsy Malone filled her mind. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“As are we,” Daphne said. “Thank you, though.”
Clay just gave a taciturn nod.
“If you change your mind, just ask. Ms. McCloud is ready for you now.”
Thursday, April 7, 3:35 p.m.
Anderson was late. I hope he’s still coming. Grayson hated to think he’d gotten all wired up for nothing. He sat down at the table set with fine china and crystal in Giuseppe’s private room. The door to the kitchen opened behind him.
“Anderson just walked in the front door,” Joseph said quietly. “Hyatt’s here. He’s got a man in the ceiling with a scope trained on Anderson. Stevie will wait in the main dining room, in case h
e decides to leave prematurely. The back entrance is covered.”
“I have a judge waiting to sign a court order for Anderson’s bank records if you can get him to admit anything,” Hyatt said from behind Joseph. “We’ll be on the other side of this door.”
The kitchen door closed. A few moments later, the door in front of Grayson opened and Charlie Anderson came through it, his step cocky.
He thinks he has me where he wants me. Think again, asshole.
Grayson gestured to the empty place at the table. “Thanks for coming, Charlie.”
Charlie took his seat. “I hear you had some excitement at your place.”
“Yeah.” It had been all over the police radio. There was no point in trying to hide it. “Silas Dandridge just shot Detective Fitzpatrick—trying to get to me.”
“I told you to leave this alone, but you always know better. If you’d listened to me…”
Anderson’s voice was oily and made Grayson want to strangle him. But he kept his voice humble. Afraid even. “I fucked up. I should have listened to you. I got influenced by a woman. I should have walked away from Rex McCloud. Now my life is fucked. Somebody’s tried to kill me twice in the last day. I’m backing off.”
“Smart. But too late. Even if they leave you alone, which they won’t, I’m still following through with my promise. You pushed, I tell it all.”
Grayson suppressed his contempt. Instead, he leaned forward, let a little desperation show. “I will do whatever I need to do to make whoever I pissed off happy. I mean anything. I can do a lot of good from the prosecutor’s table. In many different ways.”
“Aren’t you listening? Even if you don’t get disbarred, when your family secret comes out, no court will have you. You’ll be a media circus. ‘Son of serial killer wielding the sword of truth,’” Anderson said dramatically. “Every defense attorney you face will claim conflict of interest, and the judge won’t have any choice but to agree. You’re finished.”
That might actually be true. But Grayson couldn’t think about that. He needed to use Anderson’s arrogance to line him up where he wanted him. Then he’d use Stevie’s evidence to knock him down. He blew out a nervous breath. “What if you didn’t tell?”