* * *
“LOOKS LIKE WE’VE got a new case.” A heavily muscled man seated at the head of the table stood. “Sullivan Bishop. I run the place.” He closed in on them, hand extended.
Shaking his hand, Declan noticed the guy moved with measured strength, and if Declan had to guess, the founder of Blackhawk Security was former military. The dirt under Sullivan’s nails said this definitely wasn’t a man who sat behind the desk while his team ran cases he wasn’t willing to get his hands dirty with first.
“You’ve already met Anthony.” Sullivan acknowledged the silent and armed weapons expert standing against one wall. “Elizabeth Dawson is our network security analyst.”
A dark-haired woman with a heart-shaped face and leather jacket nodded.
“Vincent Kalani runs forensics.” Pointing to the massive wall of muscle on the other side of Kate, Sullivan took his seat. Long black hair brushed across the guy’s shoulders, an overgrown beard hiding his expression. “And Elliot Dunham here is the one who discovered you’re still alive.”
“Welcome back to the land of the living.” Elliot extended two fingers in a wave, one foot stacked over the opposite knee. Storm-gray eyes zeroed in on Declan, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. The guy was studying him. Every move. Every word out of his mouth. Looking for secrets? Something to use? Declan checked his expression. Not happening.
“Kate’s already given us a briefing on your death,” Sullivan said. “Why don’t you fill us in on the rest, so we can find the bastard who took a shot at my profiler tonight, Mr. Monroe?”
Declan took a seat at the large conference table with one hand positioned over the bullet hole in his side. A vast view of the Chugach mountain range was visible through the span of windows behind Sullivan Bishop. Funny how Declan could name each peak along the range but couldn’t remember his own damn name, where he’d worked before waking up in the hospital or the fact he’d been married. His senses automatically settled on the woman sitting beside him. His wife. Hell, were they even still married since he’d been declared dead?
He studied the rest of the team, the weight of their attention settling on him. “What do you want to know?”
“Where’d you go after you left Providence Alaska Medical Center?” Elizabeth leaned forward in her chair, her chocolate-brown gaze flickering to Kate for a moment before she refocused on him. The laptop in front of her highlighted the dark circles beneath her eyes, the softness around her middle exaggerated by a too-large maternity shirt. New mother.
“Brother Francis Shelter.” He pressed his back into his chair, stretching the brand-new stitches in his side, and braced against the table. “It’s not much, but I get a hot meal every night, a place to sleep, and they don’t ask questions I can’t answer.”
There was a soft gasp from Kate as she massaged the thin skin of her left temple.
“Anyone ever follow you, or you get the feeling you were being watched?” This one from the one Sullivan had called Vincent. Based on his line of questioning, Declan pegged him as former law enforcement. A cop? Federal agent? The tattoos climbing up the guy’s neck had already started showing their age. All done at the same time. Declan guessed four, five years max, but Blackhawk was fairly new, and no cop would be able to get away with ink like that unless it’d been part of a cover identity. Undercover work then.
About two months after regaining consciousness, Declan had started picking up on those kinds of details. Small things at first. The small amount of mud on the shoes of one of the shelter’s other residents. The way the same man had disappeared when Anchorage PD had cleared out Buffer Park for the night. Almost as if Declan had been drawn to the guy’s activities. But there’d never been a point where he’d picked up on being watched. Nobody had followed him to that house tonight, either. He was sure of it. “No. Never.”
“What about your consulting case, Kate?” Sullivan landed an assessing gaze on his profiler, fingers tapping on the gleaming surface of the table. “Or any of your other cases where someone might’ve left unhappy?”
“Anchorage PD and the FBI only brought me in this morning to run a profile for a serial murder case. There hasn’t been time for me to make any conclusions or to connect me with the investigation.” There was little inflection in Kate’s voice, as though she were a woman dictating her grocery list into her phone instead of a woman who’d nearly been shot a couple hours ago. Shifting in her seat, she cast her gaze to the paperwork set before her. “Given the fact I resemble all three of the case’s victims, a connection isn’t impossible, but the killer’s MO includes an arrow and crossbow. No guns.”
Every cell in Declan’s body caught fire. She was the possible target of a serial killer? He set his teeth against the rising flood of possession. This was her job, and from what he’d gathered from her notes back at the house, she was damn good at it. Despite the fact they’d been married, he was sitting next to a stranger thanks to some dramatic event he couldn’t remember. He had no claim on her safety, but he would find the bastard who’d tried to hurt her. With or without Blackhawk Security’s help.
“Is Michaels still behind bars?” Sullivan asked. “He’s already proven this kind of thing is right up his alley.”
“Yes, as far as I know.” Kate’s hand constricted around the arm of her chair, her knuckles white against the coffee-colored leather.
“Liz, let’s follow up with Corrections,” Sullivan said. “Michaels has family, friends. One of them might not have been too happy about the way his case was handled.”
“On it.” Elizabeth made a note on the small notepad beside her. “Shouldn’t take too long.”
An automatic response had Declan interlacing his fingers between Kate’s. Some part of him deep down considered her well-being more important than his own. Or was his body’s response an attempt to recover even just a sliver of the memories he’d lost by physically connecting with the one person it recognized the most? A war had already erupted inside of him. Between his irrational urge to protect the wife he’d left behind, the compulsion to make her shooter pay and the need to uncover his past, Declan had to make a choice. “What about me? Could there be a threat from the time before I woke up in the hospital? Something to do with my job or family member?
Kate pulled her hand back, setting it in her lap.
Surprise infiltrated through the wall of certainty he’d built.
“Now there’s where things get interesting,” Elliot said. “I mean, aside from the fact your surgeon apparently tried to pass off a body in the hospital morgue as you to avoid having to answer for his patient suddenly missing from his hospital bed.” He slid a file folder across the table. “Which I have him admitting to on audio, by the way. That guy isn’t going to be cutting anyone open anytime soon.”
Declan caught the folder before it dove off the edge, his name clearly on the tab’s label. He’d run from the hospital so fast, he hadn’t thought to read the patient chart in his room. For the past year, he’d assumed a different name, guessed at his age and birth date and had been searching records every week for a lead. His first instinct had been to run. He didn’t know why. Only remembered the need to get as far from the hospital as possible. But this file... He had the answers he’d been looking for right in his hand.
Flipping open the cover, he skimmed the first page. “I worked with the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit for eight years. In their serial crime division. Special Agent Declan Monroe.” A copy of his federal ID was right there in full color.
He studied Kate’s expression, but she’d shut him out, intent on the design etched into the massive conference table. A profiler and a special agent who hunted criminals. Was it their work that had brought them together in the first place?
He scanned the list of his recent cases, but nothing stood out or jump-started another memory. “I don’t recognize any of these old cases.”
�
��But the perps might recognize you,” Sullivan said. “Liz, get an update on Special Agent Monroe’s past cases with the FBI, too. See if one of the suspects has been holding on to a grudge, and we’ll work from there. The sooner the better.”
“You got it.” Elizabeth nodded, then stood, taking her laptop with her.
She wouldn’t be the only one going through those cases. Declan’s grip tightened on the stack of papers inside his file. Elliot had dug up the past, but this was Declan’s job. His marriage. His life. He’d do whatever it took to get it back.
“Vincent, go back to Kate’s house and dig as many bullets out of those walls as it takes to see if we can get a print, a ballistics match or anything to identify the shooter.” Sullivan rounded the table as the forensics expert stood and followed Elizabeth out the door. “Anthony, tag along with Vincent in case the shooter gets an itch to finish the job. Elliot, you’re on Kate’s cases. I want to know if any of our current or past clients have had a problem with her since she came back from leave.”
Came back from leave? Confusion rippled through Declan, which was common these days. He hauled himself to his feet as the meeting had obviously concluded. There had to be someone—other agents he’d worked with, a boss, a partner—who’d help him get his hands on his old case files.
“I admire you, Kate.” Elliot straightened, nodding with a closemouthed smile. He rolled back his shoulder as though his muscles had stiffened up. “Took you two full weeks to get someone to start shooting at you. That’s longer than I’ve gone.”
“Thanks, Elliot. My client files are in my office.” Kate stood, expression guarded. She pushed her chair back into the table without a single glance in Declan’s direction. She nodded. “I need to start my profile on the FBI’s serial case and check in with Special Agent Dominic.”
Declan scrubbed his hand down his face. Name didn’t ring a bell. Although, if Special Agent Dominic was working out of the Anchorage field office, he might’ve been one of Declan’s peers before he “died.” Dominic could have information relevant to tonight’s shooting.
The oak doors swung open, and Elizabeth was there with her laptop balanced on her forearm. Chocolate-brown eyes wide, she shifted her attention from Declan to Kate, then onto her boss. “You wanted me to see if a family member or friend of Michaels might be holding a grudge. Well, I didn’t get that far.”
The network security analyst turned her laptop toward them, the photo of an older man, Caucasian with graying hair and puffy cheeks, on the screen. “Michaels was released from Holding three weeks ago due to overcrowding.”
Chapter Three
Aware of the sweat that had broken out along her spine, Kate tried to swallow the sour taste of fear. She gripped the edge of her desk as hard as she could, supplying physical input to her muscles in an attempt to wrap her head around the news.
She’d taken refuge in her office. A few minutes to herself, that was all she needed, to get back the small bit of control she’d held on to these last couple weeks. She shook her head with a burst of disbelief. Control. Just a figment of her imagination.
Brian Michaels, her former patient who’d grown obsessed with having her for himself, had been released from prison. It wasn’t supposed to be this way. He’d taken everything from her, and he was supposed to suffer for it.
“Michaels is never going to hurt you again, Kate.” Declan slipped into her peripheral vision without warning. Soundless. He the predator, her the prey. The single lesson that’d been hammered into her brain over and over throughout her profiling years: behavior reflected personality. Declan’s new behavior—the aggressive, sarcastic, seemingly unfazed kind—reflected a far different personality than the one she’d known.
His tone dipped into dangerous territory, raising the hairs on the back of her neck. “Or he’ll die trying.”
Overlaying her fear was a deep, deep anger. Anger at Michaels. For his release. For the shooter who’d put a bullet in Declan’s side tonight. For the fact that no matter how hard she’d tried to blind herself from the truth the last few hours, the nagging feeling in her gut wouldn’t disappear.
Kate raised her gaze to his, the bones in her fingers screaming for release. The man standing in front of her wasn’t her husband. Same features, same body, same color hair. But the hardness in those brilliant blue eyes when he looked at her revealed Declan—her Declan—had died that night a year ago.
She forced her fingers to release the desk. “What’s your name?”
“The federal ID in my file says Declan Monroe.” That damn smile attempted to cool the burn blazing through her as he shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “But I have the feeling you already knew that.”
A humorless laugh escaped her throat as she closed Michaels’s file and pushed it to the side of her desk. She wouldn’t show weakness. Not now. Not ever. As far as anyone knew, she was emotionless, and she’d keep it that way. It’d been the most effective buffer for pain thus far. “I meant the name you’ve been using. What do you want me to call you?”
“I adopted a name after I left the hospital.” His expression softened. “But Declan is fine. That’s who I am, right? Gotta get used to it.”
“Right.” She nodded. Reaching across the desk, she gathered her client files to hand over to Elliot. Investigating her clients wouldn’t do Blackhawk’s private investigator any good. With Michaels’s release, Kate had a pretty good idea where to look to find the shooter. After all, it was like Sullivan had said in the conference room: Michaels, who’d turned her life upside down once, had already shown a preference for guns.
She would help her team and Anchorage PD find the shooter. Then she’d get Declan the help he needed to move on with his life. Without her.
“I’ve already done the background check on Michaels,” she said. “His sister is the only family he has left. He’s probably hiding out at her property.”
“Kate.” Declan set his hand on top of hers holding the file, and an unfamiliar electric surge bolted up her arm.
Kate pushed away from the desk, knocking into her chair as oxygen left her lungs. The chair’s wheels protested against the hard plastic beneath it, and she shot one hand behind her to catch herself from hitting the floor. Her throat swelled in an instant as she struggled to keep her balance. “Don’t.” She forced herself to take a deep, calming breath. “Please, don’t.”
“I’m sorry.” Palms raised in surrender, he backed away from the desk. “I didn’t mean to hurt you—”
“You didn’t.” She struggled to keep her expression neutral. She’d overreacted, but just as she’d discovered in the conference room when he’d reached for her hand, when he touched her, she hurt.
More than the bullet wounds. More than the grief burrowing a hole through her entire being. She’d prayed for nothing over the last year but to have her husband back, but the reality of it was he hadn’t come back. He might be standing in front of her, but he didn’t know her, didn’t remember their marriage, didn’t know the green cargo jacket she wore every day actually belonged to him. Or that she’d finally had the guts to take off her wedding ring when she came back to work two weeks ago. Giving in to those innocent touches, of letting hope that he’d remember everything between them drown out the pain, was a risk she wasn’t willing to take.
Swiping a stray hair out of her face, she collected Michaels’s file once again. She cleared her throat. “The shelter probably isn’t safe anymore. Is there anywhere else you can go tonight?”
“I’m not leaving you.” Declan came around the desk. His hand rose, but he didn’t touch her. He was too close, but she fought the urge to pull away again. To prove he didn’t affect her—nothing did. “Tell me what the hell just happened.”
She was suddenly far too aware of his proximity, and her breath came a bit faster. His clean, masculine scent worked deep in her lungs, and her stomach twisted.
She
gave in to her instinctual urge and tugged away, needing space between them. A lot of it. She lifted her chin. No point in keeping the truth from him. Didn’t matter if he was the man she’d married or not. They’d be working this investigation together. “You’re not him.”
Saying the words made them real, made the ache behind her rib cage hurt a bit more.
“Your husband.” Declan backed off, taking his body heat with him. A coldness ran through her as he seemed to sink in on himself. He scrubbed a hand over his five o’clock shadow, the bristling loud in her ears. “And here I thought getting shot in the gut was the worst that could happen to me today. If I’m not him, then who am I?”
“No.” She blinked to clear her head, palms pressed together in front of her as she closed the distance between them. “I mean, you are him. You have his eyes. You have the same scar on your hand he got falling off his bike when he was ten and the dimple on the right side of your mouth. But you’re—”
“Different?” Declan studied her office, but she got the sense it was more out of distraction than pure curiosity over how she’d decorated the space. “I read that could happen. Personality changes. Guess I didn’t think much of it since I can’t remember who I was from before.”
The realization sat in her stomach like a rock. The small bit of air she’d been holding on to burned as it escaped up her throat. How could she have been so careless? He’d been through hell, too, if not worse. At least she’d been able to hold on to the memories of him. He...he had nothing. She had to remember that. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean... None of this is your fault. I—”
Commotion—yelling—reached her ears from outside her office.
“Kate!” a male voice yelled.
Caught in the Crossfire Page 3