by Julie Miller
He’d been poised and ready to strike. To shoot. To kill.
It was just a furry musketeer needing a bed of his own or a potty break.
“Cool your jets, Pee-Wee.” Again, he breathed the words, unwilling to wake Grove or Liza, and hoping the dogs wouldn’t wake them, either. But Bruiser must have already smelled his approach, and excitedly scratched at the door again. “I’m coming.”
Thud. “Unh.”
Dog? Or woman?
The sound repeated itself. Not the dog. Unless one of them had learned to speak. Actual words.
“Shh, baby. They’ll hear.”
“Parrish?” Holden opened the door. Bruiser jumped over his boot and trotted past him, heading straight for the kitchen. Holden began to push the door open farther, but hit a roadblock. He glanced down to see silver fur and an indifferent glance. “Yukon.”
“Black Buick.” Thud.
Ah, hell.
“Move.” Yukon got up and ambled to the foot of the bed as Holden pushed his way into the room.
With his vision well-adjusted to the darkness of the house, Holden had no trouble identifying the sound now. Liza was thrashing in her bed, caught in the grip of a vicious nightmare. Her body shook. With her legs pinned beneath twisted covers and Cruiser’s paws, the only thing that could move was the mattress itself. That explained the thud every time it knocked against the wall.
“Stay with me,” she muttered, clutching her pillow to her stomach. “I’m trying. I’m trying.”
“Liza?” The greyhound seemed frozen to the spot, either sitting on Liza to protect her mistress, or too stunned by the spasms that had disrupted her sleep to move. He shooed the dog out of the way. “Go on. Get down. I’ll handle this.”
Cruiser quickly obeyed, hopping down from the bed and spreading out on a pillow over in the corner.
“Liza,” Holden repeated, picking up the hem of the quilt she had kicked to the floor, trying to untangle her legs without startling her awake. “Wake up, babe. It’s just a bad dream.” A thin sheen of perspiration dotted her skin and made a dark spot in the cleavage of her long-sleeve T-shirt. Holden eased himself onto the edge of the bed and stroked the back of his knuckles across her forehead, smoothing aside a damp fringe of copper. “It’s okay, Liza. You’ll be okay.”
“…hate dogs. He’ll shoot us. Hush…”
“Liza?” He moved his hand to her shoulder, and had to use a little muscle to hold on as she jerked. “Wake up.”
Her ramblings now, her whimpers of anguish, weren’t all that different from the terrified cries he’d heard coming from Trent Jameson’s office during that last so-called therapy session. Was this muted suffering what her amnesia cost her? Or the aftermath of what those sessions did to her? How many times had she faced these night terrors?
No. How many times had she faced them alone?
The fist of hurt that had strangled his heart eased its grip. A lie of omission didn’t seem like such a big stumbling block right now.
“Liza.” He shook her. This needed to stop. “Wake up. Li—”
“No!” A fist flew at his chest. “No-o-o!”
She twisted from his grasp and sat up, fighting for her life, screaming.
“Sh, sh, sh.” Holden easily absorbed the unconscious blows and quickly gathered her to his chest, pinning her arms between them and forcing her mouth against the pillow of his shoulder. “It’s okay, babe, it’s okay.” He rocked back and forth, hugging her tight, muffling the last of her cries against his chest. “Hush now. I’ve got you.”
“Kincaid!” The bedroom door flew open and Kevin Grove barged inside, his gun drawn—his eyes alert, his posture ready to fight.
Holden held up his hand, warning him off. “Easy.”
“What the hell is going on in here?” Grove moved closer to the bed. Liza’s jerk must have been as visible as the jolt he felt against his chest because Grove holstered his weapon and backed off a couple of steps. “I thought…we were under attack.”
Holden wrapped his arm back around her. “Only inside her head.”
“Nightmare?”
Holden nodded. He could feel the heat of her tears soaking through his sweater and the manic clutch of her fingers pinching into his skin underneath. “I’ve got it under control.”
Liza was shaking, her breathing coming in shallow, erratic gasps. But she was finally awake, and coherent enough to apologize. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I…woke you.”
“That’s okay, ma’am. Stress, I guess.” Grove looked to Holden as he retreated to the door. “You got this?”
Holden nodded. As Grove closed the door behind him, Holden tunneled his fingers beneath the soft, sleep-matted fringe of hair at her nape. He massaged her gently there and rocked her back and forth. He wasn’t a therapist. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say or do. He just knew he wanted to make this better. “Easy, Parrish. Easy, girl. You’re okay.”
The stiffness of her muscles and the cold chill he could feel through her shirt and flannel pajama pants said otherwise. “I want to remember. I see the car, and the men…But every time I come close to a face, it all shuts down and all I can remember is being afraid.” Her words were little more than a sob against his chest. “I’m tired of being afraid.”
“I know you are. Don’t think about it now. Don’t think about anything at all.” He held her tight, stroked her hair and continued to rock her in the darkness.
Her tears continued to fall. “I can’t remember…”
“Shh.” When the right words escaped him, he started humming a tune, a mournful lullaby in his throat. He dipped his head and pressed his lips to her temple and let the simple melody—one that his father had taught him long ago—be the only sound in the room.
The tears eventually stopped and the death-grip on his sweater began to relax. Minutes later, he guided her back to her pillows, smoothing her damp hair away from each freckle as he stood and pulled the sheet and quilts up to cover her.
Liza turned away and curled her legs up into a fetal position. Her eyes were closed. She wanted to sleep. But she was still shaking.
He couldn’t put his own feelings to sleep, either.
With a shush of warning to the curious dogs, Holden sat back on the covers, and then lay down behind her. He slid one arm between her neck and pillow and curled the other one around her. He wrapped her up, fetal position and all, and pulled her into his body and warmth.
Resting his lips against her ear, he began to hum again, crooning a quiet tune. He held her like that, until the shaking stopped, until her muscles relaxed—and long after, until they both settled down into a deep, healing sleep.
BLESS THE TERRIERS OF THE world for always knowing when to sound the alarm.
Bruiser’s frantic bark woke Holden an instant before a window in the front room shattered.
“Hell.”
Holden looped his arm around Liza’s waist and rolled to the floor. “Stay down!”
“Kincaid!” Grove cursed and fired his weapon. “Kincaid, get out here!”
Liza was wide awake and nightmare-free as she yanked away the covers still tangled with her legs. “What’s happening?”
“Sounds like D-Day.” Holden trained his ears to identify the sounds. There was no answering report of gunshots, only the crash and smack of bullets decimating their targets inside the house. Their attacker was using a silencer or was one hell of a distance away. He palmed Liza’s hip and pushed her toward her closet. “Stay close to the floor. Get your shoes on.”
She nodded, then hustled across the hardwood as though she’d been to S.W.A.T. training herself. Some part of Holden grinned in admiration of that wiggling ass, but he willed the rest of him to ice over inside as he pulled his weapon and slid a bullet into the firing chamber.
“I’m comin’ out, Grove!” The detective laid down a barrage of cover fire as Holden reached up to quickly turn the knob and then slide out into the living room. “What do we got?”
Grove was on t
he floor, using the overturned chair and coffee table as cover while he ejected his empty magazine and reloaded a fresh clip. “Shots fired on the house. At first I thought they came from the house across the street, but now I’m not sure. Every time I put my head up to pinpoint it, we get hit.” He nodded toward Bruiser who bounded back and forth through the shattered glass from the door to the sofa and back, barking his fool head off the entire way. “That crazy dog heard it before I did. Damn good thing, too.” He pointed toward the bullet hole ripped through the couch, just above where he’d been sleeping. He cocked his weapon. “I gotta get me a dog.”
The radio on Grove’s belt was buzzing with chatter. “I got nothing…from the east…our shooter’s mobile…we could have more than one…Where’s Molloy?”
Grove pulled the radio from his belt while Holden crawled for his own bag to pull on his flak vest and retrieve a spare. “Molloy, report!” Grove cursed at the static that answered. “Molloy! Hell. He was in the car at the north end of the street. Molloy!”
“What frequency you on?” Holden pulled out his radio and tried to reach his buddy who’d volunteered for the overtime assignment. “Dominic, this is Kincaid. Come in.”
Another voice cleared the static. “He’s hit, Kincaid, he’s hit. Man down! Man down!”
“Son of a bitch!” Another ripple of bullets sprayed the wall above the couch. Bruiser barked. The other dogs had picked up the panic and added their voices. Holden fought like hell to keep his emotions turned off so he could focus. But his stomach was twisting into knots. His best friend. Damn it. “Dominic! I need a roll call right now!”
“This is Delgado. I’m with Molloy. He’s gone.”
Holden punched his fist through the drywall beside his head. Tears burned in his eyes, but he couldn’t shed them.
“What’s going on?” Liza’s door swung open. She crawled from the bedroom with jeans and a sweater on as well as her running shoes, pulling the leashes of two dogs behind her. Still lying on the floor, she reached out toward Holden’s split knuckle and the blood seeping through his fingers. “You’re hurt. Kincaid?”
He snatched his hand away before she could touch him and shoved the vest at her instead. “Put this on.”
Ignoring her concern, Holden rolled back to his radio. “Every man, check in.”
The four surviving officers outside radioed in their location and situation, and the fact they’d lost sight of the shooter’s position—if they’d ever really had it.
Grief and anger must have plugged his ears because Holden wasn’t even aware of the silence until Liza asked, “Why has the shooting stopped?”
“Damn.” A thin red beam of light reflected off the shards of glass on the floor and bounced up onto the ceiling. The bastard was finding his range, taking aim. “He’s switched weapons. High-powered rifle!” Holden warned the others over the radio.
The first shot hit, blowing a hole the size of a cannonball in Liza’s front wall. They ducked their heads as the wood splintered and plaster dust snowed down on them.
“Where’s it coming from?” Holden tried to push himself up to follow the targeting laser back to its source. But the instant he raised his head, the sofa behind him was rent in two by a second shot and he dove for the floor.
“Oh, my God.” That was Liza.
He propped his gun at the top of the chair and fired blindly into the night. He needed his damn rifle. “You hit?”
“No.” Another shot took out a lamp. The red dot of light bounced across the back wall. “Bruiser!”
Holden rolled onto his back to see a flash of brown and tan leaping at the sofa. Bruiser barked at the laser dot, chased it back and forth. The red dot zeroed in on a patch of reddish-tan fur and stopped.
“Don’t shoot my dog!”
“Liza!”
They jumped at the same time. Liza grabbed the dog and Holden grabbed Liza. Wood and metal shrapnel followed them to the floor as the sofa exploded.
“Damn it, Liza! Are you crazy?”
“Aaaah! Damn!”
Holden climbed off of Liza and the dog to see Grove clutching his left shoulder. Blood poured through his fingers. “You hit bad?”
“It went through.” But the sleeve of his jacket was quickly turning red. Holden reached for the med kit in his bag. “Forget it,” Grove ordered. “Get out of here.”
“I’m not leaving—”
“Get out of here! He’s picking us off one by one. I’m not waiting until it’s just the three of us left standing.”
Liza ignored Grove’s tough command and pulled out a wad of gauze. While another shot tore her bedroom door off its hinges, she ripped the gauze apart and crawled over to check his wound.
Holden pulled his helmet from his gear bag and propped it up on top of the chair. He wasn’t leaving Grove to be a sitting duck. With his sharpshooter’s rifle and scope stored in the gun locker of the S.W.A.T. van, his improvised counterattack was going to be pretty piecemeal. But he hoped it’d be effective enough to buy them at least a few seconds of time.
“Go for it,” he whispered. Sucker. In the few seconds it took the laser dot to track the helmet, Holden braced his Glock atop the chair and centered his aim along the red light. And fired.
He saw a blur in the distant shadows, a chimera in the night. The attacker’s simultaneous shot hit wide, spinning the helmet to the floor, but missing dead center. He’d hit the scope or rifle, if not the shooter himself. “Ha! You son of a bitch—that one’s for Dom.”
Holden slid back behind cover and reloaded while Liza pressed the gauze to the back of Grove’s wound and the detective gritted his teeth and pressed the front.
“Okay, boys and girls. I’m bettin’ my next paycheck he’s got a whole damn arsenal out there with him. The bullets will start flying again any second. The time to bug out of here is now.”
“This will only stanch it for a little while,” Liza advised. “You need to get to a doctor.”
“Yeah, I’ll get right on that.” Grove bit down on a groan. “You must have the memories of some pretty important people inside your head, ma’am.”
“Maybe just some pretty crazy ones.” Plucking Holden’s bandana from his back pocket, she tied the makeshift bandage into place. “If I leave, he’ll come after me, right? He’ll stop shooting police officers and come after me?”
“Probably.”
She turned brave, knowing eyes to Holden. “Then let’s get out of here, Kincaid.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
Grove agreed. “Get her away from here until we can regroup. Here.” He pulled a pen from his pocket and wrote a phone number on Liza’s pant leg. “Call me when you’re someplace safe and we’ll get a Plan B in motion. Are you up to protecting her on your own?”
Holden nodded. “We’re going.”
Grove got on his radio again. “Little Red is leaving in the Mustang in the side driveway. Let’s give her cover. I repeat, Little Red is leaving.”
Holden waited for one more look from Grove. “We’re gonna get this son of a bitch who killed my dad and Molloy, and I hope the hell not you.”
Kevin Grove laughed. “Yes, sir, we will.” He nodded, then pulled himself up from behind the chair and started shooting. “Go!”
While Grove and the men outside fired almost continuously, and the sirens of KCPD backup sped toward the house, Holden snatched Liza by the back waistband of her jeans and hauled her along beside him.
He grabbed his duffel bag. She grabbed three leashes.
He had them out the side door, behind the cover of his open car door, and stuffed inside his car before the first wave of backup skidded to a halt in front of the house. A terrier, malamute and a greyhound took up a lot of space inside a little Mustang, but Holden shoved them into the backseat, pushed Liza down to the floor, and started the engine. He laid several feet of black rubber on the driveway before the spinning wheels found traction and he spun around the corner and into the night.
For the fir
st few minutes, Holden just floored it, putting the spinning lights and shouted commands and shot-up house as far behind them as he could. He passed two ambulances that were no doubt enroute. His head had such tunnel vision that he could no longer hear the sirens. No longer hear himself even praying that Grove would survive and Molloy’s death could be reversed—and that the brave woman clinging to the seat and dashboard and flying up into the air with every bump and curve might one day feel even half of the soul-deep connection that was pounding at him to keep her in his life.
There was only escape. Only speed. Only driving as fast and far as he could and hitting the open road of the highway.
Until he felt the warm hand branding his thigh. Squeezing him. Demanding his attention.
“Holden!” Liza’s voice pierced the single-minded fog around his mind. She’d already called to him twice. “Holden, can you hear me?”
He blinked, clamped down on the emotions and shoved them aside before his eyes opened again. Bruiser was on the floorboards now and Liza had climbed into her seat. Thankfully, her head was still down. Yukon’s puffy head was silhouetted in the rearview mirror.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “Maybe you should buckle up.”
“No.” She pointed to the back window. Her skin looked so pale, her hair so bright…
The dog was silhouetted in the rearview mirror.
“How the hell…?”
The high-beam lights of the car behind them were closing in fast.
“Get the phone off my belt. Call 9-1-1. Tell them an officer is in a high-speed pursuit on Highway 291, heading south. The shooter is no longer at Grove’s location.” She leaned over the center console, pushed Cruiser’s curious nose aside and retrieved the phone. “Tell them officer needs assistance and that suspect is armed and dangerous. Give them my plate number.” She dialed the number and recited the information as he gave it to her. “Tell dispatch the suspect’s car is probably—”
“—a black Buick SUV.”
Holden squinted against the blinding reflection in his mirrors. “You can see that?”
“From the other night. And…” He shifted his gaze to the firm tilt of her chin. “I remember. Parts of it. The tattooed man was driving a black Buick SUV that night. If the killers have used the same make of vehicle twice already…”