by Julie Miller
“You’re sure they’ll be safe?”
“I can’t guarantee anything right now, babe.” He took her hand and helped her stand, leaning in to press a quick, strengthening kiss to her lips. “But we’ll all make smaller, harder-to-hit targets if we split up.”
She summoned a shaky smile. “I’m putting all my trust in you, Kincaid.”
“Then I’ll make sure I don’t blow it. You ready to move out?”
Liza nodded.
They’d lost Mr. Smith and his SUV a few miles back. But the Jeep had run out of fuel and they’d been forced to move out on foot through the trees and giant rock formations that dotted the hills leading down toward the Black River. They’d paused long enough for Holden to tie his bandanna around her wound to staunch the seeping blood, and for Liza to check the dogs for injuries. Beyond a few nicks in Cruiser’s hide, they were rattled by the stress of the unfamiliar situation, but basically unharmed.
She held tight to Holden’s hand whenever she could and scrambled down the rocks leading toward the shut-ins and river below them. Sometimes she climbed, sometimes she slipped because the continuous splash of the water made the granite rocks mossy and slick. But always Holden was there to help her. To protect her. To keep her moving and alive.
Liza was a woman who was in excellent physical shape, but even she was panting from the endless descent and flat-out runs from tree to tree to rock to whatever hiding place Mother Nature offered them next. Holden led her unerringly through twists and turns, over hard-packed dirt and through icy water.
After another five minutes, Liza realized the occasional scattershot of bullets had ceased. “Holden. Holden! Wait!” She tugged on his hand to get him to slow down and stop. The cold-eyed cop was back again, searching in every direction. They were both breathing hard, wet and nearing exhaustion. She snatched up a handful of his sweater and demanded he look at her. “I don’t hear him behind us anymore. Can’t we rest for a minute?”
He shook his head, barely sparing her a glance. “He’s not that far behind us. Going off-road bought us some time, but not much. I feel him out there somewhere. Probably watching us right now.” He touched her cheek, maybe saw something in her pale features or felt something in the chill of her skin. “I’m sorry, babe. Of course, we’ll rest for a few minutes.” He quickly glanced around them, looking for the best hiding place, no doubt. “Here. We’ll…” He froze. “Son of a bitch.”
“What? Kincaid, what?”
She followed his line of sight across to the far side of the river.
Despite the mud-stained suit and the gun cradled between his hands, Mr. Smith was smiling.
“Nice try, cowboy. Now who’s the best?”
He fired.
THE BULLET RIPPED through Holden’s shoulder before he could even raise his gun. He heard Liza scream as he wrapped his arms around her and tumbled down into the river. He felt every rock, every branch, every painful cry from Liza before they hit the icy water and plunged down into the swift-moving current.
He kicked them back to the surface, let Liza grab a deep breath, and then pushed her under the water again. The current buffeted them from rock to rock, threatening to crack a skull or break a bone. The water chilled, stole his strength as it carried them downstream toward the giant rocks and waterfalls of the shut-ins.
Plan B sucked. His Glock was long gone and the combination of blood loss and icy temperatures were rapidly depleting his strength. He needed a Plan C. And fast. Or he was going to die. And then Liza would be all alone against a living, breathing, deadly nightmare.
He didn’t want her to be alone anymore.
As they bobbed to the surface again, he was vaguely aware of laughter, then cursing. Mr. Smith must have realized that his prey was only wounded, not dead.
Not yet.
The black man scrambled along the bank above them, firing into the water.
“Hold—” Liza’s words bubbled as the river rushed into her mouth. She surfaced again beside him. “Spare gun! Your leg!”
Right. Damn. Idiot.
Thank God he’d fallen for a woman who could keep her head when the world was crumbling to bits all around her.
“I love you!”
He said the words and dove beneath the water to unstrap the Smith & Wesson at his ankle. Its power was limited, but his aim would compensate if he could keep a clear head and steady hand.
He hit the next boulder with his foot, slammed into it with a bruising stop. The current pounded against his body, pinning him against the granite outcropping.
Guessing Holden’s intent, Mr. Smith stopped on the bank above him, raised his weapon and trained the red laser dot center mass of Holden’s chest.
Liza sailed on past as Holden raised the gun out of the water and lined the bastard up in his sights. Pain exploded in his side as he pulled the trigger.
LIZA TIED YUKON’S lead around Holden’s wrist and commanded the dog to pull. “Come on, Yukon. Go! Pull, big guy. Pull!”
Yukon sat on the bank while she shivered. Liza was exhausted, too weak to pull Holden’s unconscious body out of the water. He’d lost so much blood. In addition to being shot twice, he’d hit his head on one of the rocks when the kick of the gun had cost him his balance in the rushing water.
But Mr. Smith was dead, lodged in the rocks on the bank somewhere upstream.
She was free. She was safe.
But Liza was so tired. And Holden was so hurt.
“Damn it, dog. I saved your life. Don’t you think you owe me one? Please.”
Then Holden whistled. A shrill, loud, wonderful sound that hurt her ears and warmed her heart. “Move it!”
Obeying the voice she wanted to kiss with relief, the big malamute clawed at the mud and slipped back toward the river, but then his back paw hit solid rock and she felt a tug on the leash. “Come on, boy. Come on.”
“Yukon, pull!” Holden’s voice was stronger now.
Yukon leaned into his collar and pulled. And pulled. Holden’s arm came around Liza’s waist as she found her footing and used what little strength she had left to help him.
When they were securely on dry land, Liza freed Holden’s wrist. “Good boy. Good boy.”
She wanted to hug the dog, but she was too exhausted to spare time for anything more than to press her hand to the wound in Holden’s side. The movement of the water must have deflected Smith’s shot to a less vulnerable region of the body, but she knew that a bullet could ricochet inside the body and do more damage than the entry wound itself.
“You’re not going to die on me, are you, Kincaid? Kincaid?” Liza grunted with the strain of turning him, while Holden bit down on a moan. She probed and bent her ear to his chest and back to check his breathing, then checked his pulse. Finally, she pulled her shirt off from beneath her soggy sweater and created a makeshift bandage. When her shaking fingers and lack of medical supplies could do no more, she collapsed beside him on the riverbank. “Your shoulder wound just caught the flesh, nothing vital. It looks like the bullet is still inside. But your breathing is steady and I don’t hear fluid inside the chest cavity, so I don’t think it nicked a lung. The cold water might actually be a blessing. The temperature must have slowed your heart rate, so the bleeding isn’t too severe. I’m used to treating dogs, not men, but I think if you don’t move too much before I get you to an E.R., that—”
“I’ll live.” He pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard, then fell back to the ground to rest beside her. He snapped his fingers and Yukon ambled over to sit beside them.
“Lie down, you mutt.” The dog lay down beside him, sharing the warmth of his body and finally offering his allegiance to the pack. “I’m sure my cell phone is shot. But there’s a radio in the Jeep. If we can hike back to it, we should be able to call the local sheriff.”
Hike? Liza’s weary sigh came all the way from her freezing toes. “In a minute, okay?”
“Okay.”
Bruiser and Cruiser joined them. Soon enough, th
ey’d be rested and warm enough to think about doctoring wounds and making phone calls and living their lives.
Liza marveled at the way Holden had tamed Yukon, and the strong bond the two shared. She cuddled closer, understanding why the dog would want to bond with this man. “You just called my dog a mutt, Kincaid. And after he saved your life.”
“My dog, Parrish. Yukon is my dog.”
Yes, he was. And as they lay on the bank, warming in the sun, Liza rested her cheek against Holden’s heart and hugged him as tight as her weary arms and his injuries would let her. “I’m yours, too.”
Chapter Twelve
Holden Kincaid wasn’t the first gunshot victim the Truman Medical Center had ever treated, but he might well be the most popular. Even in the middle of the night, long after official visiting hours had ended, he sat up against a stack of pillows, winked at the nurse who’d come to change his IV drip and promised he intended to get some rest.
He’d survived a freezing river, a bullet in his gut, nearly losing Liza to a hit man, being life-flighted to Kansas City and surgery to remove said bullet and stitch him up inside and out. He was beat up, he was beat. But he could survive a few more minutes with his friends and family creating a hushed, friendly chaos around him.
And he could damn well survive until somebody let him see with his own eyes that Liza had survived her injuries as well, and was merely being kept overnight in the same hospital for observation. His mother sat on a chair beside his bed, and he squeezed her hand a little more tightly, just thinking about how much he missed Liza and how much he worried about how safe she really was when out of his sight.
Susan Kincaid squeezed right back. “Are you in pain, sweetie?”
“I’m okay.” The tenderness of the surgery and bandages that held him together didn’t ache too much unless he tried to move that side of his body. But even the sharp twinge that stabbed through his gut when he adjusted his position on the bed was nothing compared to the uncertainties about Liza roiling inside him.
“I’m yours,” she’d said. But he’d been in and out of consciousness beside that river. Was she his for that moment? For as long as she was in danger and needed him? Was it forever? Or had he just dreamed what he wanted to hear?
It gave him a pretty clear understanding of the doubts and second-guessing Liza must have suffered through when her memory had been on the fritz. He didn’t like not having the answers he needed. Didn’t like it one damn bit.
Sensing his discomfort if not entirely understanding the cause of it, his mother pushed her chair back and stood, silencing the chatter in the room with a stern maternal look that could have commanded an entire police force. “Gentlemen? Visiting hours just ended. You can come back and see Holden in the morning. He needs to get some sleep.”
“Yes, ma’am.” With a flurry of similar responses, Holden’s precinct commander, Mitch Taylor, and his S.W.A.T. team leader, Lieutenant Cutler—along with his buddies Rafe Delgado and Trip—left the room with handshakes, commiserations about Dominic Molloy, good wishes and gibes about getting out of work for a few weeks.
Bill Caldwell rose from his chair in the far corner and came to wrap an arm around Susan’s shoulders. “Does that mean me, too?”
She reached up and patted his hand where it rested alongside her neck. “You might as well, Bill. I’m going to stay the night and keep an eye on my baby boy.”
“Mom…” Holden’s token protest at being labeled the “baby” of the family when he towered over everyone but Sawyer quickly faded beneath the love and concern shining from her eyes. “Thanks for looking out for me.”
“It’s a mother’s prerogative.” Her wink made him smile.
Bill leaned in and kissed Susan’s cheek. “Then I’ll be going.” He reached out to shake Holden’s hand. “You feel better soon, son. I don’t like seeing your mother get scared like she was today.”
“Bill—”
“She might not show it. But you four boys are everything in the world to her.” He kissed her again. “I’ll see you in the morning for breakfast?”
A breakfast date? Susan nodded. “Good night.”
But before Bill could open the door, all three of Holden’s older brothers filed back into the room.
“Hang on a minute, Bill,” Atticus said. “We need to talk.”
The older gentleman laughed. “That sounds ominous.”
There was something slightly ominous about the late night visit that made Holden grit his teeth against the pain in his gut and sit up straighter. Sawyer, Atticus and Edward—even with his cane to lean on—standing side by side at the foot of the bed created a daunting wall of don’t-mess-with-me attitude. They were on to something. And the one thing that had united all four brothers—four different kinds of men, four different kinds of cops—and put them on a single mission was solving their father’s murder.
“What’s up, guys?” Holden prodded.
Sawyer circled the bed and wrapped Susan up in a bear hug and a kiss. “If you don’t mind, Mom, we need to have a private conversation.”
Once her feet were back flat on the floor, her narrowed gaze took in all four of her sons. “Man talk or police business?”
The grim looks meant police business.
“I see.” She turned and smiled at Holden. “How about I go check on Liza Parrish. The doctor said her medical treatment in the field stabilized you enough to make it into surgery. I think I owe her a personal thank-you.” She squeezed a hand or kissed a cheek of each man as she made her way to the door Atticus held open for her. “Behave yourselves. Holden needs his rest.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
Atticus didn’t waste any time getting down to business as soon as the door closed. He pulled his reading glasses and cell phone from his suit jacket to read the information he’d stored there. “I got a message from Holly Masterson at the crime lab. She’s doing an autopsy on your Mr. Smith to try to get an ID on him, and see if they can match him to anything at Dad’s crime scene.”
Sawyer had apparently been talking to Dr. Masterson as well. “Some of her lab files, including Dad’s case, have been corrupted by a computer hacker—we suspect by one of the cons who escaped prison with Mel’s ex-husband six months ago. At any rate, she’s having her people retest the evidence they have on hand to rebuild the facts of the investigation.”
Pulling off his glasses, Atticus continued. Apparently, while Holden had gone on the run with Liza, his brothers had been busy. “Dr. Masterson also told me that preliminary reports indicate the bullet they took out of you, little brother, is a disintegrator, matching the ones they took out of Dad, James McBride, and the Jane Doe at the dump I investigated earlier this year.”
Edward had been silently hanging back until now. “Tell them about your hunch, A.”
“I’ve asked Dr. Masterson to run a DNA comparison against my Brooke to see if the Jane Doe could be her mother, Irina Zorinsky Hansford.” Holden remembered that Atticus and his fiancée, Brooke Hansford, had traveled to Sarajevo to move her parents’ bodies back to the States from where they had been buried after a car wreck when she was still a baby. But the body in the mother’s grave had turned out to be someone else. Had Brooke’s mother, once a government agent who’d worked with John Kincaid, staged her own death? Or had someone moved the body to cover up a different crime?
Did the Jane Doe in the city dump or the dark-haired woman Liza had seen at the warehouse the night of John Kincaid’s death have anything to do with missing mothers or the twisted cover-up that had prompted their father’s murder?
But Bill Caldwell had picked up on a different oddity in the conversation.
“Disintegrating bullets?” he questioned skeptically. “Bullets composed of an alloy that breaks down in the body’s tissues so that it can’t be traced? That sounds like something we were developing in the test section of Caldwell Technologies. But there were only prototypes. They had no commercial value, so we halted production.”
“No legitim
ate commercial value,” Atticus pointed out. “But an untraceable bullet would be a big seller on the black market.”
“Had any security leaks lately?” Holden’s sarcasm asked a very real question.
“No. None that I know of. And I know my company. I’ll still have my security team look into it ASAP, though.” Bill nervously twisted the ring on his finger as he looked from Holden to Sawyer, who’d moved in right beside him. But Caldwell hadn’t built himself a wealthy technology empire by backing away from suspicion or confrontation. The movement of his hands stilled and he pulled his shoulders back. “You’re not saying I had anything to do with your father’s murder, are you? He was the best friend I ever had. You four are like sons to me. And your mother is…becoming very special to me.”
Though Holden wasn’t completely comfortable with Bill’s growing relationship with their mother so soon after their father’s death, this conversation was about the case, not changing family ties.
Atticus tucked his glasses back inside his jacket. “You knew Irina Hansford, didn’t you?”
“Why would I know a woman from Yugoslavia? It’s not even a country anymore.”
Sawyer pushed further. “Thirty years ago, you and Dad weren’t just in the military together—you both worked for a covert agency called Z Group. Along with James McBride and Leo and Irina Hansford.”
Bill’s expression tightened into a poker-player’s mask. He held up his left hand to point out the gold fraternity ring he wore. “Your father and I were in the same fraternity in college. We went through ROTC—”
“Don’t lie to us,” Holden interrupted. He might not have been in on the discussion outside his room, but he knew where his brothers were going with this. “If Dad really was your best friend, you’ll give us straight answers, even if you’ve been sworn to silence. Our father found out that Z Group was still in existence—thirty years after it was supposedly disbanded by the government. Only now they’ve turned into a bunch of arms and intelligence dealers. Somebody killed Dad—a woman, I believe—to keep the secret.”