STEALING POWER: A powerful psychological crime thriller (A Detective India Kane & AJ Colt Crime Thriller)

by Bo Brennan

  Removing his gloves he smiled and sat down on the bed between her legs, closed his eyes and ran a hand up her cold mottled thigh. Felt the blood rushing through his veins, pounding in his ears. He threw his head back, sucked in the air through gritted teeth and groaned long and loud with pleasure. Then he unzipped his jeans.

  “Good to have you home, son,” Bill Colt said, gracefully casting the fly rod. The Montana Nymph landed with subtle ease a few yards off the opposing river bank.

  AJ Colt swallowed hard and gave his father a wry smile. He’d always been a man of few words, left their mother to do the berating and chastising, preferred to save his wisdom for the things that needed to be said. Colt had worried about today. Worried he’d left it too long to ever comfortably share this riverbank with his Dad and brothers again. But in one simple sentence his father had made it all right.

  The ice broken, Luke rubbed his hands together. “What's the wager then, fellas?”

  Without hesitation the youngest of their brood, Joe, said, “Last one to catch buys the first round.”

  “You'd better go and get 'em in now then, Joey boy!” eldest brother John said, with the merest hint of his usual sarcasm gleaned from years of working in Police Professional Standards.

  “No chance, I'll wipe the floor with the lotta ya!”

  “You couldn't wipe the floor with a sodding mop,” John grumbled. “Mine's a pint, mate. Jim, you'd better get your order in now. It’s been so long since young Joey here bought a drink it'll take him a week to find the bloody bar.”

  Colt let out a hearty laugh. “I think it could be longer since I bought a round.”

  “I wouldn’t be so bloody sure about that,” his father mumbled, frowning down at his youngest son rooting through his fly box, spoilt for choice and struggling to make a decision.

  “Happy with last to catch, Dad?” Luke said, seeking their father’s approval before shaking hands on the wager.

  “None of you are going to catch anything if you don't get your rods wet,” Bill Colt said, reeling in the first fish of the day with a self-satisfied smile. “Put me down for a pint, Joseph.”

  “Well that’s Dad off the hook,” John exclaimed to heckles of brotherly jeering.

  Colt grinned as he cast his fly rod. It felt good to be back in the fold.

  “Martha, you ruined it today, you cold bitch,” he sneered.

  Squeezing her cheeks with a gloved hand, he watched the black congealed blood slide across her face as he filled her open mouth with petrol. He hadn't expected the dirty bitch to throw up while they screwed.

  Whistling as he worked, he generously splashed the fuel across her body like a cheap perfume, amply dousing the bed and surrounds. Working backwards towards the door he poured a line of petrol along his route, stooping to collect the white cotton knickers in his path he'd discarded days before. Knew they'd come in handy. Standing on the safety of the landing, he dangled the knickers by one finger over the orange flame of his lighter until they caught.

  “This will warm you up you frigid bitch,” he said, tossing them towards the bed and firmly closing the door. He heard the whoosh as the room went up in flames. The fire took hold surprisingly quickly, in seconds smoke began seeping under the door whispering sweet nothings around his feet.

  “See ya, wouldn't want to be ya,” he trilled, as he sauntered casually down the stairs.

  Pausing at the back door, he delighted in the sounds of crackling coming from the floor above. It made him think of apple sauce. Made his mouth water. Funny really, they say human flesh burns like pig. Somewhere round here must serve a lovely pork roast on a Sunday.

  This time he locked the back door behind him, returning the key to his pocket as he emerged into the alley via the back garden gate. He was hungry, had worked up quite an appetite. Laughing to himself he headed off in search of that roast pork dinner his mouth watered for and deserved.

  Gray picked the table laid up with cutlery and condiments nearest the bar.

  India bypassed his choice and headed for the furthest corner of the Nag’s Head dining area. “We'll get all the pool table rabble sitting there,” she said.

  Gray sighed and followed her, draped his coat over the back of a chair at her table of choice. “We can't keep an eye on the new barmaid from here.”

  India rolled her eyes and took her seat as Gray went off to anonymously place their food order. She couldn’t ever recall a time that Pete wasn’t behind the Nag’s Head bar – morning, noon or night. The weather report this morning had shown heavy rain covering most of the West Country, and gloomily predicted it for the entire week ahead. Ironically, the winter sun was at its brightest in the south today, while Pete and Bev had taken their new caravan west for their first weekend break in over twenty years.

  Gray returned, handing India a glass of wine and sipping thoughtfully from his coke as she eagerly awaited his opinion. “So?” she said.

  He frowned. “So what?”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Who?”

  “The Queen of bloody Sheba,” she said. “Who’d you think? The new barmaid you fool.”

  “It’s Kelly,” he said, casually looking towards the bar and blushing when she smiled at him.

  “Kelly?” India said, raising her brows. “What, from –”

  “Yep,” he snapped, nervously straightening his cutlery.

  India peered over his shoulder to see a beaming Kelly heading their way with two roast pork dinners. “Do you want me to have a quiet word?” she said.

  “No, just leave it,” he mumbled.

  “Can I get you anything else?” Kelly grinned at Gray as she placed the plates in front of them. He glumly shook his head, eyes fixed on his dinner.

  “Got any ketchup?” India said.

  Kelly smiled politely and fetched the bottle from the next table. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me,” she said, gently squeezing Gray’s shoulder and winking at him, before returning to the bar.

  “See, you were getting your knickers in a knot over nothing.” India said, tucking into her roast. “She’s got a soft spot for you.”

  “She gave me her number at the bar,” he whispered.

  “Who wouldn't?” India mumbled, her mouth full of food. “You're a catch.”

  He pulled himself tall in his seat and gave her a cocky smile. “Yeah, you reckon?”

  India nodded. And you’ve been caught by the wrong woman, she thought, glancing over at Kelly. “Personally I don't get it myself,” she said, waving her hand in front of his face. “But there are a lot of women out there into the whole bulldog chewing a wasp look.”

  He sighed. “I should've known there'd be a sting in the tail somewhere.”

  “This is your last roast dinner as a single man,” she said, studying him as he poked it around his plate. “Not getting cold feet are you?”

  Gray stilled and lifted his eyes to hers. “Why?”

  India shrugged. “Just wondered if you can you imagine waking up with Cara every morning for the rest of your life?”

  “Right now all I can imagine is paying it off for the rest of my life.” His laugh was bordering on manic. The small intimate family affair he'd wanted had become a fanciful event with a guest list approaching a hundred and a price tag to match.

  “Shit.” He pulled the beeping pager from his pocket and rose to his feet. “Sorry babe, I gotta go.” He shrugged into his jacket on the way to the bar, virtually throwing the money at poor Kelly – whose obvious attempts at seduction were wasted on him – before returning. “I’ve settled up, and got you another drink in,” he said, downing the remainder of his coke. “Give her a shout when you're ready for it. Your cab home will be here in an hour.”

  “Just go,” India said, shooing him away with her hand.

  He shovelled one last roast potato into his mouth before kissing the top of her head and heading for the door. “Give me three rings to let me know you're home safe,” he shouted.

  “For g
od’s sake, just piss off,” she said, shaking her head wearily as he finally exited the building. Once again India Kane found herself eating dinner alone.

  Luke manoeuvred the MPV laden with fishing rods, tackle and almost twenty pounds of freshly caught trout, into the last available space in the Nag's Head car park. Colt tucked his Lexus tightly along the back of his brother’s car, blocking him in, and glanced over his shoulder to make sure he’d left the entrance clear.

  “It’ll be fine here,” his father said, stepping from the passenger seat. “If anyone needs it moving they’ll know where to find you.”

  High jinks and laughter filled the air as a despondent Joe dragged himself towards the bar. Colt laughed as his fishless little brother gazed forlornly into his wallet and begrudgingly placed their drinks order. “I'll get these, Joe,” he said. “I can't stand it anymore; it's just too painful to watch.” Joe triumphantly punched the air as Colt pulled his own wallet from his back pocket.

  “Sucker!” John said. “I can't believe you’re still falling for that face after all these years.” Joe, his hands now firmly in his pockets, shrugged his shoulders and grinned. Luke shook his head.

  “Put your money away, son, your brother has to learn to settle his debts,” his father said, placing a hand on his shoulder. Colt raised his hands in mock surrender and stepped away from the bar. Joe sighed and reached for his wallet once more.

  They took the opportunity to arrange themselves into two pairs around the pool table, while a solemn Joe ferried their drinks from the bar. Back in the day Colt and his dad were an unbeatable combination; it went without saying they would be a pair. Some things in life were a given, this was one of them. The loser could sit the first game out.

  Luke and John were not thankful for Joe’s expert guidance being shouted from the side lines. Colt smiled to himself when the vivid memory of a ten year-old Joe cheering louder than anyone else from the rugby stands came home like it was yesterday. And then his heart skipped a beat, remembering. Remembering Jenna.

  Every game he'd ever played all of them were there, sisters included, giving him their unfaltering support. But all he cared about back then was Joe, and how he used to cringe with embarrassment at his over excitable displays. His mother was hurt when he'd asked her to stop bringing him to matches because he thought it damaged his street cred. It was only when he realised the girls found it cute how his little brother idolised him that he accepted it, or rather used it to his advantage. Now, if he could turn the clock back for just one hour, to those days before the family was missing a piece, he would in a heartbeat.

  “Your shot son.” His father had set up the balls leaving him an easy sweep to clear the table and grab glory from the clutches of his resigned to defeat brothers.

  He swaggered to the table smirking, making a grand display of which ball was sinking into which pocket and the precise order they would go down. “Watch and learn boys. Watch and learn.”

  Colt aligned his eye along the cue, setting up the shot to execute his clean-up master plan to perfection. Left hand steady as a rock, he drew his right arm back, and said, “One of you boys might want to make your way to the bar right about now.”

  As he took the shot he briefly lifted his eyes to see the unmistakable denim clad backside of India Kane, leaning seductively against the supporting pillar of the bar. The cue tore into the green baize cloth, Joe let out a howl, and Colt found himself cringing with embarrassment just as he had done all those years before. He was leaning awkwardly over the torn table, unable to divert his eyes, when she turned in the direction of Joe's hysterical laughter and looked straight through him.

  The men followed Colt’s gaze, nudging each other and raising their eyebrows as his face glowed through shades of crimson and scarlet.

  “Who's that?” his father mouthed to John.

  “You must remember her, Dad,” John whispered. “That's Pete's girl, India. She's in Winchester CID now. Almost single-handedly keeps my department in work. ”

  Bill Colt watched his flustered son struggling to recover his composure, as the woman who had such a profound effect on him exchanged pleasantries with the new barmaid. And he didn’t like what he saw one little bit.

  “Can I get you another?” Colt said, stepping into the heady scent she wore that signalled her arrival in a room.

  “No. Save your money,” she said, twiddling with the stem of her wine glass. Nodding towards the pool table, she added, “That's gonna cost you plenty.”

  “Ah, that,” he said, feeling his cheeks warm. He glanced at his family of indiscreet observers. They hurriedly busied their eyes elsewhere and rambled in random conversation about the weather.

  India downed the last of her drink as Kelly looked to Colt for his order.

  “Same round again, and whatever the lady's drinking,” he said, pushing her empty glass towards the barmaid.

  “I said no!” India grabbed his hand and warmth rushed through his body. Colt drew a sharp intake of breath and she quickly released her grip. “I'm done. I’m waiting for a cab home.”

  “Excuse me,” a meek voice said. “Can I just squeeze in here to the bar, please?”

  Colt glanced over his shoulder to the source of the tiny voice. The round friendly face of a middle-aged woman greeted him. “Sure, you squeeze away,” he said, happily moving closer to India, and fully submerging himself in her intoxicating air. “Busy in here today,” he said, raising his brows.

  The sudden racket as the sound system blared to life, startled them both. George Michael huskily belted out 'I Want Your Sex’ at the top of his lungs. A cursory glance in the direction of the jukebox met his youngest brother’s mischievous face, Joe was laughing so hard he was holding his stomach. Colt narrowed his eyes and looked away.

  She pressed her back against the pillar as he leant in to make himself heard, breathing in the mixture of her perfume and sweet vanilla shampoo. “Why are you leaving?” he asked, his gaze shifting down her body. Glimpsing the bowl of the empty wine glass gripped tightly in her palm, he abruptly straightened up in the confined space. As he stared at her, he could taste the musky overtones of her perfume on the back of his suddenly dry tongue.

  Her lips were moving, but he couldn't hear a thing she was saying. And he genuinely wanted to. But he certainly wasn't going to get in her face again and risk getting glassed. Something about her warned him she was perfectly capable of such an act. That alone intrigued him. Made him feel like a mouse being toyed with by a cat. Intentional or not, he found the edginess of the situation oddly arousing.

  Colt shook his head and raised a hand to his ear. Noticed her own hand was trembling when she placed the glass on the bar. The worst case scenario removed, moisture returned to his mouth. She rose on the balls of her feet to reach his ear. When she wobbled, he deliberately straightened up to his full height, leaving her no option but to touch him. She placed a warm palm on the tense muscles of his shoulder to steady herself, and he held his breath. With his hands itching to slide around her waist, he bit down on his bottom lip and shoved them safely in his pockets.

  “I was with Gray,” she said. “He got a call out. I’m waiting for my cab.” They stood silently for a moment, his broad shoulders hulking over her long, lean body that was such a welcome addition in his personal space, inches from full bodily contact. Christ he wouldn't say no to full-bodied contact with India Kane. Bloody hell, with what was going on in his pants right now he'd chuck his sodding career in for it. The thought shocked him.

  But nowhere near as much as the sudden shunt from behind did.

  Caught off guard he lurched forward, the full weight of his body slamming her against the pillar. Heard a sickening crack as her head made contact with concrete over the hard-core dance music now thumping out of the pub speakers. Confused, he looked over his shoulder to see what the fuck had just happened, and turned back to see a trail of blood appear on the smooth cream wall as she slid to the floor.

  “You're a fucking idiot, Joe
!”

  “Let go of him, son. Now!” The stern words of the authoritative older man were clearer and closer than the angry angst ridden words of Colt, but they still echoed around her head like she was in an underground cavern.

  “I'm sorry, I was trying to do you a favour, I didn't mean to hurt her,” a panicky younger voice blurted, much clearer now.

  The ceiling of The Nag’s Head blurred into view, and the face of a woman with the familiar dark eyes of Colt loomed into focus. India moved her hand to the egg on the back of her head flinching at the unexpected pain, and wondered what the hell she was doing sprawled on the pub floor.

  “Let's get you up on your feet,” the woman said. “Jim, put that testosterone to good use and give me a hand over here, please. Joe, pass me that ice.”

  India felt a strong arm slide under her knees and another around her back, and in one fluid movement she was airborne. She could feel the hard muscles of Colt’s chest and the rapid thump of his heart against her breast as she found herself suspended in mid-air. She frowned as he gently lowered her into a chair, had a vague recollection of another hard muscle of his pressed against her too. Shit, she must be seriously concussed.

  “Shouldn't we be getting her to the hospital?” Colt said to the woman poking and prodding her.

  “No hospitals.” India snatched the bag of ice from the woman’s hand and pressed it to the back of her head. “I'm fine. That is unless I'm supposed to know who the hell you are.”

  The pretty version of Colt in drag smiled. “It’s nothing a couple of hour’s observation, two paracetamol, and a bit of TLC won't cure.”

  “But the blood –”

  “Don’t worry, it’s just a graze,” the woman said, rubbing his arm. “She's got a lot of hair, looks far worse than it is.”