Heroes in Uniform: Soldiers, SEALs, Spies, Rangers and Cops: Sexy Hot Contemporary Alpha Heroes From NY Times and USA Today Bestselling Authors

by Sharon Hamilton

  Her Last Chance: Chapter Four

  There was a stillness in the air, an expectancy that excited him. A gentle mist of rain sprayed his face and cooled his feverish skin. This wasn’t his neighborhood, this wasn’t his town, but it was his hunting ground.

  He blinked twice, winced at the soreness of his left eye. He’d covered the scratches with makeup, but that bitch was going to pay. The bite on his wrist smarted, but he’d covered it with antibiotic cream and bandaged it carefully. His knife nestled reassuringly in his pocket. Solid. Real. Safe. Sharp. Vengeful. Memories crowded in, stirred his blood and made the breath catch in his lungs.

  The bloodlust wouldn’t let go. It was getting harder and harder to think about anything except killing, and that worried him. The woman in the downstairs apartment had been too old to truly satisfy him. But who could resist the symmetry of getting to Josephine Maxwell through another blond-haired bitch?

  Not that she’d been a real blonde.

  Trees rustled as a cold blast of air raced up the street from the Hudson bringing with it the stench of rotten seaweed exposed by the receding tide. A couple strolled along the sidewalk, arm in arm, tensing slightly as they neared him.

  Invincible, the Blade Hunter smiled, nodded his head and said, “Evening.” His fingers tightened around the handle of the knife until his knuckles ached.

  The woman smiled back with the slack focus of one who’d had too much to drink. She was a blonde and he would love to teach her a few lessons about letting her guard down, but he didn’t linger. The boyfriend had jarhead written all over his Cro-Magnon face.

  Something slithered around his legs.

  “Ow!” He let go of the knife in his pocket and went down hard on the sidewalk, breaking his fall with his forearms, skinning his palms.

  Meow.

  A cat sat on the sidewalk looking at him, flicking its tail.

  “You okay, bud?” The jarhead turned back toward him, leaving his girlfriend wobbling uncertainly in high heeled inebriation. If he had her to himself he’d slide his knife expertly across her skin…

  He shook himself. Clambered to his knees. “Yes. Thank you.” The guy picked him up, almost lifting him clean off the floor by his collar.

  “You need help getting home?” The guy’s voice was gruff, fierce and unexpectedly considerate.

  ‘I will deal with them according to their conduct, and by their own standards I will judge them…’

  “I’m good, thanks.” He smiled. Brushed off his pants, no damage done.

  The guy lowered his brows and muttered, “Get off the streets, man—there’s a freaking lunatic slicing and dicing people like you for breakfast.”

  Meow.

  The dark haired stranger shot his boot in the direction of the cat, sending it fleeing between parked cars into the gutter.

  He watched, fascinated, as the Good Samaritan strutted back to his girlfriend. New York City. The city that never sleeps. A siren blared far off in the distance. A blast of hip-hop music poured out of a passing car. He grinned. He loved this city. Maybe he’d stay awhile.

  Her Last Chance: Chapter Five

  Dancer thrust a copy of The NY News so close to his nose Marsh could smell the newsprint. He grabbed it out of Dancer’s hands, straightened up from the desk where he was overseeing Philip Faraday as the man accessed the galleries’ private inventory records.

  Front page and center was a picture of him and Josephine taken at last night’s murder scene, and alongside that, was a picture of him here with Lynn Richards.

  For fuck’s sake. He groaned. Hadn’t figured anyone would care enough to focus a lens on him. Then he read the byline—Nelson Landry. The little shit.

  Rubbing the bridge of his nose, he squeezed his eyes shut at the big, bold headline.

  SUPERCOP ON THE JOB.

  He was going to catch hell from his boss. The chances of this not getting to the director’s ears were less than zero. Good thing that financially he didn’t need to work.

  Philip Faraday craned his neck to see. “Looks like you had a busy night, Agent Hayes.” Turning back to the computer monitor, the man’s fingers tapped rapidly over the keyboard, calling up data. “That the woman you brought to the opening last night?” Faraday nodded to the newspaper.

  Marsh shot the guy a tight smile. If he could find out who sold the stolen art to the Faradays, he still had a slim chance of chasing down a lead, making an arrest and getting the hell back to Josephine before she figured out a way to leave town. “Do you have that information for me yet?”

  Wearing a burgundy shirt with gold cufflinks, designer sunglasses and black slacks, the art dealer looked sharp. And he was a damn sight easier to deal with than his flaky sister, Gloria, who teared up whenever Marsh asked her a simple question. He’d sicced Aiden and Dancer on her, which seemed to be working because she’d stopped crying, except when she looked at him.

  “I’m going as fast as I can.” Philip stopped typing and scowled up at him, the light glinting off his thick glasses. “Maybe I should get my lawyer in here.”

  There’d been a time when people had thought him charming. BJ. Before Josephine.

  “If you want a lawyer, feel free. But selling stolen property in this country will get you jail time. So why don’t you work a little bit harder on getting me that name and I’ll work hard at remembering you cooperated?”

  Philip averted his gaze and began printing out documents.

  Marsh’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his suit pocket, moved toward the floor-to-ceiling glass frontage that faced West Broadway.

  “Hayes,” he answered.

  “I’m being followed.” Josephine’s voice sounded clipped and breathless.

  “What the hell do you mean you’re being followed? You were supposed to go into protective custody with Walker and Nicholl.”

  “Yeah,” she said, “about that…”

  Sweat broke out along his brow. He could hear her footsteps echoing off the sidewalk, her breath raspy.

  “I changed my mind,” she said, like that was a sane option with a serial killer on her tail. Shit, she’d done the same thing with the mob after her so he should have been prepared.

  “Lied your ass off more like.” Deliberately Marsh bumped his forehead on the enormous windowpane and absorbed the reverberation through his brain. “Where are you now?” Don’t let it be somewhere deserted and quiet. I don’t want to listen while some bastard cuts you up—

  “The middle of Washington Square.”

  Okay. “See any cops around?” He waved at Dancer, tried to get his attention, but the agent was handing Gloria coffee and patting her shoulder.

  “No,” Josephine laughed, “for once, no cops.” Beneath the laugh there was a whisper of fear that dug into his sternum.

  “Go sit on a bench near the fountain, and stay on the line. I’m on my way.” He held his hand over the phone, shouted to his coworker. “Dancer, Josephine’s slipped her FBI leash and now she thinks she’s being followed.”

  Dancer shook his head as he came toward him. “That woman has a death wish.”

  Marsh closed his eyes.

  “Sorry, boss, probably not what you wanted to hear.” Dancer tugged his ear.

  She was in a crowded area. He doubted a predator as savvy as the Blade Hunter would risk such a high profile murder location. Not when the thrill was in inflicting pain.

  The Total Mastery Gallery was situated between Prince and Houston St., SoHo. Only a few blocks from Washington Square.

  Marsh looked over at Philip Faraday, who’d swiveled to face them, shamelessly eavesdropping on their conversation.

  Turning his back, Marsh lowered his voice for Dancer alone. “Arrange warrants for the bank and phone records and find out where the hell the Faradays got that painting. If they don’t give us a name by noon, take them downtown and charge them both with possession of stolen property. That’ll do for starters.”

  With his cell to his ear, he strode out through the huge
glass doors and onto the street. “Keep talking to me, Josephine.”

  “What do you want me to say?” Josephine’s voice was calmer now. “You were right, I was wrong?”

  Taking one look at the bumper to bumper traffic, he jogged north on foot, dodging pedestrians. “Sounds like a good place to start.”

  She laughed, just enough to take the edge off his skyrocketing nerves. Then he cursed his colleagues at BAU. What the hell were Walker and Nicholl thinking?

  “How did you know about the scars?” she asked suddenly.

  Now there was a question he’d been waiting for and didn’t want to answer.

  “You checked me out that night you drugged me in Boston, didn’t you?” Her voice sounded distant as if she’d disconnected from him. That night he’d saved her from a mob hit and then drugged her so he could implant the transmitter and set up his plans without having to watch her every single moment. But if Josephine thought seeing her skin was an invasion of privacy he was pretty sure she’d flip if she knew about the microchip.

  “I put you to bed, remember? I started to undress you, but then I saw the scars…” Damn. At least that lie was better than admitting the truth, even though he sounded like a pervert. “After I saw them I figured you’d rather I left your clothes on.” This wasn’t a conversation to have over the phone.

  The silence drew out. He didn’t like the sensation of her pulling away.

  Dead leaves gathered in gutters, black and soaked from last night’s rain. The sky was overcast and heavy moisture damp in the air. A siren screamed going fast in the opposite direction. It was only eleven a.m., but Marsh hoped the park was packed full of people enjoying an early lunch.

  “Josephine? You there?” Fear soared at the silence and his heart punched against his ribs. “Josephine!”

  It took him less than two minutes flat out running. His leg muscles burned, hot air fired his lungs, but he was right there, heading for the centre of Washington Square, frantically searching the area for the blonde termagant who’d taken over his life.

  And there she was.

  Relief surged through him like a hot wave as he spotted her dressed in the same olive-drab jacket from yesterday. She was sitting hunched over on a bench, phone to her ear, one arm folded over her chest, legs tightly crossed, glaring at some guy who wore a banner proclaiming, ‘Are You Going to Heaven? Take a test.’

  She was safe. Pissed as usual, but safe. And not going to Heaven if he could help it—not today anyway.

  The trees were almost bare, a few orange sycamore leaves clinging tenaciously to survival. It was more than a little ironic they were standing on an old burial ground. He took a moment to regain his breath. Searched the area for possible threats, all the time keeping Josephine in his peripheral vision.

  There was one guy, sitting on a nearby concrete bench, The NY News spread over his knees as he munched on a sandwich. Mid fifties, jeans, thick rust-colored sweater, balding head with a compensatory beard. He looked like a university professor.

  Marsh watched him glance and squint over at Josephine. Then the guy turned the page of the newspaper, fighting with a brisk breeze that whistled through the streets, flattened the page against his knee. He glanced up again. Then Marsh realized the guy was looking at the photograph of him and Josephine in the newspaper.

  People didn’t forget a face like that.

  Marsh dismissed him. On the far side of the park, behind the Arch, Marsh spotted Walker and Nicholl in a Lincoln town car parked along The Row. Narrowing his eyes, he shook his head, placing his hands on his hips. They were staking her out to see if she led them anywhere. She was a freaking suspect. Or bait…

  Suddenly she was beside him, holding out a can of cola. Accepting the drink, he pulled the tab and swallowed deeply, letting the sweet lick of sugar calm his blood.

  Handing back the can, he slanted her a look that dared her to share. Josephine didn’t like to share anything. She was more closed off than Fort Knox. But she took a sip anyway, which gave him a juvenile thrill. He’d once again regressed to high school.

  Avoiding his gaze, she reclaimed her spot on the bench. The pallor of her skin reminded him she hadn’t had much sleep last night and this was her second time going head-to-head with the killer. She wasn’t a rookie. The first time had scarred her for life—literally and figuratively. Who knew what yesterday’s encounter had done.

  Taking out his wallet, he hunted for Agent Walker’s card and dialed his number.

  “Walker.” The man answered on the first ring.

  “This your idea of protective custody?” His voice was cold and clipped.

  “Ms. Maxwell wouldn’t accept protective custody, sir.” Walker’s tone made Marsh stare hard at the Lincoln.

  “So what are you going to do? Wait until he cuts her up before you nail him?”

  “I don’t need you to tell me how to do my job.” Walker’s voice rose and Marsh heard Nicholl in the background telling his partner to back off.

  But maybe the guy was right. Josephine wasn’t exactly known for her cooperation. Marsh rubbed his forehead. Walker was a good agent with several commendations in his file and Marsh was screwing with the investigation because he was personally involved and because he could.

  Shit. He’d always detested people who abused power and yet look how tempting it was. He took a deep breath. Then another. The one thing Marsh believed in was the law. He needed to let the bureau do their job, while he protected Josephine.

  “You’re right,” and though it cost him, “I’m sorry.”

  The tension eased a little on the end of the line.

  “Did you get the evidence from the old case?” he asked. “Because I can go over to Queens right now and pick it up—”

  “No, sir, that won’t be necessary…”

  “You got it?” Marsh heard evasion in his voice. The guy wasn’t telling him everything.

  “No, sir.” Walker paused as if debating what to tell him. “The evidence disappeared. About a month ago a beat cop was murdered, his uniform stolen and someone used it to sign out the evidence on Ms. Maxwell’s old case. It was never returned.”

  “What?” Marsh fisted his hand in his short hair, pulling at his scalp. This UNSUB was bold and not missing a trick. “Did you get anything from the station cameras or the log?”

  Walker hesitated again, and Marsh was starting to get seriously pissed.

  “The only thing we got was your name, sir.”

  What the…? “I told you I examined the files six months ago,” Marsh frowned. Had he told them?

  “Yes, sir, but the UNSUB signed your name when he took the file.”

  Why the hell would he do that? Marsh gritted his teeth on a curse. “Maybe he checked the log to see who else checked out the evidence…”

  “Maybe.” But Walker replied too quickly.

  “Do I need an alibi for last night, Special Agent Walker? Because I’m pretty sure I can provide one.” Marsh didn’t have time for this shit. Turning his back on the black Lincoln, he sat on the bench next to Josephine, aware of her scent, her interested blue eyes.

  “I have over two hundred people, plus my partner, plus a date, who can place me at the Total Mastery NY Gallery on West Broadway for most of last evening.”

  Josephine raised a single eyebrow, but he didn’t know if it was the fact he was supplying an alibi or the fact he’d had a date that surprised her.

  “Why’d you sign out the evidence six months ago?” Walker redirected his questions.

  No way was Marsh exposing Elizabeth Ward, his former agent and Josephine’s best friend, to this investigation. Not when Elizabeth had sacrificed everything and finally got her life back.

  “Josephine’s father was worried about her.” Marsh felt her stiffen beside him, but refused to look in her direction.

  “Walter Maxwell?” Walker probed.

  Marsh let his head drop back, his neck stretching as he gazed up at the thin veil of gray sky through half-naked branches. “
That’s right,” Marsh replied, hearing the unspoken question, Walter Maxwell who turned up dead twenty-four hours later?

  “I think we need to get a statement from you, sir.”

  He was a ballsy bastard, Marsh gave him that.

  “You clear it with Director Lovine and I’ll be happy to tell you everything I know.” Like hell.

  Marsh usually resented the power and influence that came with his family name and fortune, but right now it saved him from dealing with a ton of bullshit that would not help solve this case. Director Brett Lovine and he had grown up together in the best schools. Though he rarely used his personal connections for his own benefit he wasn’t going to get embroiled in some screwed-up conspiracy theory while the real killer murdered more women.

  Josephine tapped her fingers against a wooden slat of the bench, scraping at the flaky paint. There were no rings on her fingers; her nails were scrubbed clean and short. Wanting to calm her agitation, he placed his hand over hers and was shocked by the coldness of her flesh.

  “Maybe in the meantime you could actually start looking for the UNSUB?” Marsh cut the connection and reached over to take Josephine’s other hand from where it clasped the strap of her bag. Electricity bounced crazily in his stomach from the contact. She resisted for a moment, but then she seemed to give up. She sagged against his shoulder as he rubbed her fingers between his palms until they started to warm.

  Her skin was smooth as silk and despite the drugs she’d spiked him with that night six months ago, he remembered other parts were even softer. Desire shot through him. An answering awareness lit her eyes, but there were tears there too. Her eyes shone with a cauldron of emotions. Physical awareness, yes, but sadness and grief also. Elizabeth Ward’s disappearance had led to both her father and Marion Harper, the woman who’d raised her, being murdered by mobsters trying to track them down. He squeezed her fingers. No wonder she was messed up.

  “My, my, what do we have here?” A deep Southern drawl rasped off Pru Duvall’s lips.