by Julie Miller
She felt the tough guy turn his conversation back to the man beside him, but the instant she snuck a glance over to make sure his fascination with her had waned, he blinked. And when those clear blue eyes opened again, they locked on to hers across the sea of desks and detectives. What the hell? Liza’s pulse rate kicked up a notch. Without looking away, he lowered his head to say something to the other man. Were they talking about her?
Liza broke eye contact as she neared his position. A distinct feminine awareness hummed beneath the surge of temper. But both energies fizzled as an all-too-familiar panic crept in. Maybe she had more than her sanity to worry about. Did he recognize her? Did he know why she was here? Dr. Jameson and Detective Grove had reached the hallway leading to the interview rooms. Another few steps and she’d be there as well.
Two more steps. One more glance.
Enough.
“What?” she exclaimed, turning and taking a step toward the armed man, realizing too late that he was several inches taller and a heck of a lot broader up close than he’d been with the length of the room between them. But guts and bravado spurred her past the unnerving observation. “Do I have lunch in my teeth? You think I’m some kind of circus sideshow? Why are you staring at me?”
Without batting an eye or missing a beat, he grinned. “You started it.”
“I did not.” Snappy, Liza.
“Holden…We need to walk away.” The caution from the detective beside him went unheeded.
Tough Guy faced her, looking as calm and bemused as she was fired up. When a man was armed for battle and built like a fort, he probably didn’t feel the need to lose his cool. “Maybe I’m just admiring the view.”
Liza scoffed at the flirtatious remark. Right. Like her freckles and attitude had turned his head. “And maybe you’re just full of it.”
An elbow in the arm from the man standing beside him made the tough guy raise his hands in surrender. “My apologies. Can’t help it if I’ve got a thing for redheads.”
“Uh-huh.” Liza hadn’t expected the apology. Didn’t trust it. Wasn’t quite sure how to handle it, either.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand at her elbow. She calmed her reaction before it reached her face and looked up into Dr. Jameson’s indulgent expression. “Liza? It’s not the time for chatting. I want to pursue this while the dream is fresh. Come along.”
“Who’s chatting?” Liza grumbled. Grateful for the opportunity to escape, she allowed Detective Grove to usher her into a room stuffed with a conference table and chairs. Before the door closed behind her, she gave one last look over her shoulder. The tough guy with the smooth lines and eerily familiar countenance was still watching her. Her reaction to his intense scrutiny was still sparking through her veins. Something about those probing blue eyes was as spellbinding as it was unnerving. Turning away from his inexplicable fascination and determined to dismiss her own, Liza let the door close behind her.
“Who was that man staring at me? I’m sure I’ve never met him, but he looked…familiar.”
Detective Grove glanced toward the door as if her ghost had followed them into the room. “The big guy in the S.W.A.T. vest?” As if anyone else had zeroed in on her through the midday crowd like that. “That’s Holden Kincaid.”
Liza sank into the nearest chair. “As in Deputy Commissioner John Kincaid?”
“Yeah.”
That explained the resemblance. A thing for redheads, my ass.
So much for anonymity. If she could figure out who he was, then he had probably identified her as well—the woman who’d reputedly witnessed John Kincaid’s murder. Behind that smart-alecky charm, he was probably wondering why the hell she hadn’t come forward with the entire story and fingered the killer already.
She’d get right on that. Just as soon as she could remember.
“Holden Kincaid, um…how is he related to the man who was killed?”
Grove spread open the case file at the end of the table. He could make that bulldog face of his look pretty grim when he wanted to. “He’s John’s youngest son. And you need to stay away from him.”
Chapter Two
“Got him.” Holden Kincaid framed the target in the crosshairs of his rifle scope, blinking once to make sure his vision was clear.
Clear like crystal.
His mind and body followed suit, blocking out any distraction that might interfere with the execution of the task at hand. The crisp October air lost its chill. The rough friction of the roofing tiles against the brace of his elbows and thighs vanished. Emotions were put on hold as months of training calmed the beat of his pulse.
Every observation was now made with cold-eyed detachment. From his vantage point atop the neighbor’s roof across the alley, he could look right over the privacy fence into Delores Mabry’s trashed kitchen. There was a cloudy spot on the window glass, a greasy hand print from the last time the perp had looked out into the back yard. But the smudge didn’t mask the gray-haired woman cowering behind a chair against the refrigerator. The window’s curtains hung wide open, indicating the target hadn’t given much thought to how the police would react to this hostage situation. Holden’s target was big enough to make this a relatively easy shot—if his orders had been to shoot to kill.
But as the pudgy stomach in the bright white T-shirt passed by the window again, Holden knew there would be nothing easy about this shot.
Al Mabry was armed. He was moving. And the poor SOB probably had no clue to the danger his delusional state had put his mother, himself, and a dozen cops into. Going off his meds did that to a schizophrenic. Mabry was ill. Suicidal. If possible, KCPD wanted to end this standoff with everyone alive. But if Mabry decided to obey the voices in his head and suddenly start shooting up more than the living room furniture, then Holden’s orders would change and a life would end.
No emotions allowed.
Static crackled across Holden’s helmet radio and Lieutenant Mike Cutler, his S.W.A.T. team leader and scene commander, came online. “You can take that shot?”
Holden rolled his shoulders and neck, easing the last bit of tension from his body before going still in his prone position. “Yes, sir.”
“Molloy, can you confirm?”
Dominic Molloy, Holden’s lookout, backup and best friend, adjusted his position on the roof beside Holden and peered through his binoculars. “I wouldn’t want to take it. But I’m not the big guy.” Holden sensed, rather than saw, the teasing grin around the steady chomp of Dom’s gum. “The hostage is on the floor,” continued Molloy. “Scared out of her mind, maybe, but she doesn’t appear to be harmed. Mabry’s pacing the kitchen with his gun to his head. Hasn’t pointed it at Mama yet. He does lower the weapon when he stops to drink his coffee.”
Mabry had ordered his mother to brew a fresh pot earlier. After spending the better part of the past night on this call, Holden longed for some hot coffee himself. Or a hot breakfast. Or a hot…No. He couldn’t afford to feel anything right now. Focus.
“The perp’s routine hasn’t varied for the last forty minutes,” Holden reported. “The next sip he takes, I could drop him. I think I can even neutralize the gun.”
“You think?”
Cutler’s skepticism didn’t rattle Holden. “Not a problem, sir. My shot is clear.”
Dom chuckled beside him. “I see what you’re planning.” He raised his voice for Cutler and their teammates to hear. “I can confirm. Kincaid can take the shot.”
“We’ve been messin’ with this drama long enough,” Cutler rumbled. “There’s no way to reason with him and I don’t want this to escalate.” If Mike Cutler couldn’t talk a hostage down from his crazy place, then no one could.
Holden was ready to take the next step. “Do you want me to take the shot, sir?”
“Let’s get him back in the psych ward. Remember, incapacitate him and we’ll take it from there. He hasn’t hurt anything but the furniture yet. I’d like to keep it that way.” Lieutenant Cutler’s tone
was concise and commanding—a trait that had always inspired Holden’s own confidence. “Assault team ready to move in?”
“Yes, sir.” The responses echoed from both the front and rear ground locations.
“You have clearance, Kincaid. Assault team—on my go.”
Dom patted the top of Holden’s helmet. “You’re up, big guy. Do it.”
Shoulder? Knee? Either shot would take Mabry down. Funny how the man who’d murdered Holden’s father six months ago had shared the same skills with a gun. One neat shot to the forehead, one to the heart. Clean. Precise. Deadly.
Hell. Where had that thought come from? Get out of my head. But the comparison lingered, forcing Holden to think his way through it before he could purge the ill-timed distraction.
The killer had used a hand gun, not a high-powered rifle like the one Holden cradled in his grip. He’d been a good forty yards closer than Holden was to this shot. The victim had been his dad, not a stranger. Had John Kincaid pleaded for his life? Had he held his head high in stoic silence at the end? Had he known death was coming?
Al Mabry didn’t know.
Holden’s heart quickened with each detail, beating harder against his chest, pumping a familiar rage and sorrow into his veins.
The man who’d killed his father had taken a perverse pleasure in torturing him before pulling the trigger. Holden was a better man than that. Mabry wouldn’t die. And if he had to die, he wouldn’t suffer. This was his job. Lieutenant Cutler’s S.W.A.T. team was here to save the damn day.
“Get out of my head,” he muttered, willing his training to retake control of his emotions.
“What’s that, buddy?” Dom asked.
This is my job.
“Taking the shot.” Holden iced his nerves, stilled his breath, framed the target in his sights and squeezed the trigger.
Boom.
Holden’s shoulder absorbed the kick of the rifle. Glass shattered and Al Mabry screamed.
“Go!” Cutler’s order echoed through his helmet.
Crimson bloomed on the perp’s hand as the gun sailed across the kitchen. Holden quickly lined up a second shot to the perp’s left temple in case things went south. But before Al Mabry could fully understand that he’d been shot, Holden’s teammates had battered down the door and rushed the mentally disturbed young man. Jones and Delgado had Mabry facedown on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back, the gun secured, before Holden allowed himself another blink.
The hate and sorrow were buried. The ice remained. Closing his eyes, Holden finally allowed himself to breathe.
“All clear, big guy.” Dom sat up beside him. His boots grated on the gravel roof as he stowed his gear into the various compartments of his uniform. With the flat of his hand, he reached over and slapped Holden’s helmet. “Hey. Cutler gave us the ‘all clear.’ I guess there’s a reason why they call you the best. You were aiming for the gun, right?”
Even more than the chatter of commands and replies zinging from the radio in his helmet, Dom’s gibe reminded Holden that he needed to get moving.
Striving for the same detachment from his work that Dominic Molloy seemed to enjoy, Holden rolled over, splayed his hand in Molloy’s face and pushed him away. He could give as good as he got. “Jealous, much?”
“You wish.” Dom’s eyes sparkled with humor. “I could have made that shot if I wanted to. But it’s my job to watch your backside.”
Holden secured his rifle and picked up the tripod as he pushed to his feet and made his way toward the ladder at the front edge of the roof. “Then enjoy the view. Last man down buys the beer.”
Once on the ground, they shed their helmets and locked their equipment in the back of the black S.W.A.T. van. Combing his fingers through the sweat-dampened spikes of his hair, Holden crossed down to the street to join Rafael Delgado and Joseph Jones, Jr.—Triple J or Trip, as he liked to be called.
He held up his hand to urge the gathering crowd of curiosity-seekers off the street while the others guided the ambulance carrying Al Mabry through. Lieutenant Cutler followed right behind, signaling the EMTs when they were clear to take off. Cutler joined the team as they gathered at the van. The lieutenant congratulated them on a successful mission, reminded them to write their reports. Then he shook Holden’s hand and pulled him aside. “Nice shooting, Kincaid.”
The October morning had enough bite in it to create a cloud between them when Holden released a long, weary breath. Winter was going to be damp and cold—and early—this year in Kansas City. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”
“We’ll get Mabry to the hospital to stitch up his hand and have him evaluated. But he’ll be all right.”
Holden propped his hands at his hips and nodded toward the house. “Take his mother, too. You said she had a history of high blood pressure. Being taken hostage by her own son can’t be good for her health.”
“Don’t worry. She’s on the ambulance, too. We’ll let her decompress, then take her statement at the hospital. I want you to do the same.”
“Go to the hospital?” Other than being hungry as a bear and needing to take a whiz, Holden was in fine shape.
“Decompress. You’re wound up tighter than a cork in a champagne bottle. You’ve been on duty twenty-four hours, standing watch while we tried to talk Mabry off the ceiling for the last eight.” Cutler pulled off his KCPD ball cap and smoothed his hand over his salt-and-pepper hair before tugging the cap back into place. “Your dad would be proud of you today. By wounding Al Mabry, you probably saved his life. And his mother’s. He was an innocent man, a sick man, but I know you were prepared to make a kill shot.”
“Just doing my job, Lieutenant. I turn off thinking about anything,” he lied, “and take the shot you tell me to.”
“Uh-huh.” There was something in Cutler’s sharp, dark eyes that saw more than Holden wanted. So he scuffed the steel toe of his boot on the pavement and looked down to watch a tiny pebble fly against the curb—until Cutler’s words demanded his attention. “Think about this, Kincaid. Before you report for your next shift, I want to hear that you got drunk, got laid or got checked out by the departmental psychologist. I know this has been a tough year for you, and this was a tough scene to work. Go home. Go out. Go to the doc. But take care of yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dominic materialized at Holden’s shoulder, his wiseass grin firmly in place. “Aren’t you gonna order me to go get some tail, too, sir?”
“That’d just be feeding the fire.”
Trip and Delgado joined the circle, laughing out loud at Cutler’s deadpan reply.
“Ha. Ha.” Dom slapped Holden on the shoulder. “C’mon, big guy. We’ll check out the action at the Shamrock after we clean up and get a bite to eat. Drinks are on me.” He turned to Trip and Delgado. “You comin’?”
“You’re gonna pry open that tight wallet of yours?” Trip’s lazy drawl mocked him with awestruck humor. “This I gotta see.”
“Lieutenant?” Dom looked up at their commander. “You’re welcome to join us.”
“I’ll pass this time. My son has a football game tonight. I’ll check in with you guys day after tomorrow. Don’t forget those reports.”
A chorus of “yes, sir’s” quickly changed into a noisy conversation about the new lady bartender at the Shamrock and whether she had any sisters she’d like to introduce to them. Delgado climbed in behind the wheel and started the van while the rest of the team buckled themselves in. Holden had found the woman pretty enough the last time they’d gone to the Shamrock, but for some reason he was having a hard time remembering what she looked like.
He must be off his game big time, to let his feelings about his father’s murder distract him from his work—and his play time—and to let them distract him enough that Lieutenant Cutler had noticed.
He’d been through all the grief counseling, and had been cleared by the department’s psychologist to return to duty four months ago. He hadn’t lied to Cutler or the psychologist about his a
nd his three brothers’ determination to see their father’s killer brought to justice. Even though they weren’t allowed to work the case because of a conflict of interest, Holden, Atticus, Sawyer and Edward had all found ways to keep tabs on the stalled-out investigation.
Atticus and his fiancée, Brooke Hansford, had uncovered evidence about a covert organization named Z Group that had operated in eastern Europe before the breakup of the Soviet Union. Before becoming a cop at KCPD, their father had worked with Brooke’s late parents in Z Group as a liaison from Army intelligence. Something that had happened to a double agent all those years ago in a foreign country had gotten John Kincaid killed.
His brother Sawyer and his pregnant wife, Melissa, had dealt with an offshoot of Z Group soon after their father’s funeral. But one of the thugs hired by the group had had a personal vendetta against Melissa. He’d terrorized her and kidnapped their young son. Despite the opportunity to blow open the murder investigation, Sawyer had done what any husband would have—he protected his family. John Kincaid would have done the same—any of Holden’s brothers would have—so there was no blame there. Now, Melissa and their child were safe, but anyone who could tell them anything had been driven into hiding or killed.
And yesterday morning, while Atticus had been reporting on the trip he and Brooke had taken to Sarajevo to visit her parents’ graves—only to discover that it wasn’t her mother’s body that had been buried in that casket nearly thirty years ago—Holden had run smack dab into Liza Parrish. A name he wasn’t supposed to know. A woman he wasn’t supposed to meet.
The lone witness to his father’s murder.
Yeah. He was a little distracted.
A lot distracted.
Liza Parrish could make the scattered pieces of this whole jigsaw puzzle fall into place. His father’s killer would be brought to trial and the Kincaid family could finally find peace.
So why wasn’t she talking? Why wasn’t she telling the detectives assigned to the investigation everything she knew?
And why the hell couldn’t he remember what the sexy bartender looked like, the one who’d slipped him her number at the Shamrock, when he had no trouble whatsoever picturing freckles and copper hair, a sweet, round bottom and an attitude that wouldn’t quit?