Strike (Tortured Heroes Book 4)

by Jayne Blue

  Strike

  A Tortured Heroes Novel

  Jayne Blue

  Nokay Press, LLC

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  A Note from Jayne Blue

  Books by Jayne Blue

  Copyright © 2017 by Jayne Blue

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author or publisher, except where permitted by law or for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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  Chapter One

  Ben

  “You feeling this, Killian?” Lieutenant Tim Bates’s voice hummed low in my ear. I tapped my mic twice for yes. He’d asked me this three times already and I could practically feel his nerves through the damn wire.

  “Sniper unit ready?” Bates called over the comm.

  “Good to go,” Dan Wimmer answered from his position across the street on a neighbor’s roof. If it got to the point we needed him today, it would mean someone had seriously fucked up. Me, today, this team, that wasn’t going to happen. Still, it was nice to know Dan had eyes on us.

  “Second unit in place?” Bates asked. We had them positioned on either side of the red-brick ranch shithole I currently stood in front of. I jerked my chin at Brett Davis. He stood on the other side of the white front door with his weapon drawn just like mine.

  “Okay, quick and easy,” Bates called out from the communications van parked one street over. I could hear his breath over the radio. He was more hyped than I was. Bates was one of the good ones. We came up through the police academy together and served on vice when we were too young to know better. He took the command officer’s test five years ago after he got married and fucked up a disk in his neck. It made his wife feel a hell of a lot better to have him tucked safely away from the action in the van, but I knew it chafed at him. Hell, it was downright driving him nuts. But he was good at this. He let me do my damn job without getting in my way or trying to be a glory hound.

  “Killian’s got eyes,” he said. “You hear me, Ben?” I tapped my mic one more time and smiled at Brett and rolled my eyes. Bates’s nerves were starting to get to me.

  “Okay,” Bates said. “I don’t want to hear any cross-chatter. If it comes from Killian or Davis, it’s gospel. Nobody else. Go when you’re ready.”

  Oh, I was ready. I looked back at Brett and made a circle with my index finger. Officers Jefferson and Rackham stood ready a few feet back with the battering ram. The lead detectives hung back in the van with Bates. My job was to breach this door, secure the residence and round up one of the worst meth dealers in the city.

  This was where the fun started.

  I gave them a quick nod and Rackham and Jefferson smashed the door in with one great heave. We were in but the element of surprise was gone now. I like to call this controlled chaos. Anything could happen on the other side of that door but we’d mapped this out a dozen times before we made move one. I took a breath and charged in, dropping low and heading to my right. We could see the kitchen from the living room and a short hallway with just three bedrooms down to the left. I motioned to Jefferson and Rackham to head that way while Davis and I went through the kitchen. The worst of this was going to be the basement. For two weeks we’d watched the place. Our bad guy cooked at night and he slept down there. Flash bangs were out of the question.

  My breath came quick and tension made my back rigid. I took the lead, hugging the wall as I jiggled the basement door handle. Something crashed behind the door and I gave a signal to Davis.

  “Police! Hands on your head, asshole!” Davis shouted. “Step away from the basement door.”

  The cheap wood paneling exploded above my head and I dropped to my knees. My world shrank to the two-foot-wide space of that basement door. My heart jumped and heat flooded through me as the best part hit.

  I called it The Rush. My body, my blood, my fingers, and my weapon. It all became one fluid piece. Nothing could touch me, even though common sense should have told me it could. It wouldn’t matter. I wouldn’t feel it. I craved it like a drug.

  “Shots fired!” I shouted.

  “Mother fucker!” Davis kicked the basement door. The cheap wood splintered at the hinges and it swung inward. A light bulb swung at the bottom of the stairs. Davis and I didn’t have to talk. We knew the steps to this dance and how to partner it. I went first, dropping to my knees on the top step while Davis gave the all clear at the bottom of the steps.

  I waited for a flash, a hint of movement. One quick step and I’d fire, leveling anything trying to come up those basement stairs to get to Brett. My senses sharpened and the thrill of adrenaline made the gun in my hand light and natural, like it was a part of me.

  I heard the second unit file in the house and get behind us. From the corner of my eye I saw Rackham and Jefferson round the corner. Rackham had a dirty, skinny kid in cuffs, pushing him toward the front door.

  “Clear down the hall!” he shouted.

  I gave him a nod as Davis and I headed further into the basement.

  “On your damn knees, Billy!” I called out. Billy Rayburn weighed about a buck twenty because he spent too much time sampling his own product. He had wild, greasy black hair that stuck out in spikes. He was crying and waving a 9mm above his head. He’d dropped to his knees just left of the basement steps. I aimed right at his chest, a kill shot that would drop him in an instant if he held that piece a fraction of a second longer.

  You don’t wait. You don’t ask nicely. When you see a gun, it’s either him or you or your partner. There is no second chance. I saw it happen. Rayburn flinched, his finger twitched. I squeezed the trigger and a flash of fire brought him down. I’d keep firing until his chance of shooting back went to zero.

  Rayburn never took that chance though.

  “No no no!” Rayburn yelled as he dropped the gun. I kept my eyes on its arcing trajectory and lunged for it while Davis body slammed Rayburn and pinned him to the ground. Four other guys from the second unit piled on while Rayburn cried for his mother. Davis got him in cuffs while I secured his weapon and knelt in front of him.

  Blood roared in my ears and my voice came back to me from what seemed a great distance. I was here and not here. The Rush filled my veins with fire and a force so strong I thought I could bend the barrel of Rayburn’s gun with just my hands.

  “What the fuck were you thinking, Billy? Huh?”

  Billy tried to answer but with his face pressed against the brown shag carpet, I c
ouldn’t make much of it out. Davis hauled him to his feet while I started rattling off his Miranda rights. At least, I think that was me. My voice still didn’t sound altogether like mine.

  “You’re lucky you didn’t kill anybody, Billy,” I said. “That would have put me in a fucking bad mood.”

  “You got nothing on me, man,” Billy said as the other officers shoved him toward the stairs.

  Rolling my eyes, I smiled at Brett Davis as we headed up the stairs together. Brett looked green. As we got to the front door, he raised his index finger and ran out. He barfed into the hedges on the side of the house. He always did that while I felt like I could fucking take flight.

  A cheer went up as I stepped outside. The neighbors had gathered on the other side of the street and a damn news van pulled up and started shooting footage as we hauled Rayburn and the skinny kid into patrol cars.

  Blessedly, Tim Bates had pulled around in the communications van. The door slid open and the van hadn’t even stopped moving before Bates spilled out and headed for the reporter. Dammit, I wanted out of there. Adrenaline still coursed through me and I’d need a release soon. With my shift nearly over, that meant either a trip around the track or to the bar.

  “You’re gonna have to clear back,” he said. Bates shot a furious glance toward the detectives as they followed him out of the van. It must have been a slow news day and somebody tipped them off. The way this town worked, all it took was one person telling his wife or husband and the shit spread. Everybody knew everybody in Lincolnshire, Ohio. And everybody knew Billy Rayburn.

  This shit officially stopped being my circus as the patrol cars sped off with Rayburn. Let the drug task force guys take it from here, I thought. I wanted no part of any of the rest of this. A quick look from Bates and I motioned toward Davis. He’d just righted himself and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  “Come on,” I said. “Let’s get the hell out of here. You look like you could use a beer.” A run might be more constructive, but fuck it, it was Friday night.

  Brett nodded. “I was just thinking the same, Ben. Let me call Brenda and tell her I’m going to be late.”

  I slapped Brett on the back. He’d gotten married just three months ago. Brenda was his third wife and nobody had the heart to tell Brett she probably wouldn’t stick around any longer than the other two. While I’d trust Brett Davis with my life, I sure as shit wouldn’t trust him with my sister if I had one. Though I suppose he’d say the same about me.

  I gave a nod to Lieutenant Bates as we passed by him. He narrowed his eyes at me over the shoulder of the reporter. She shoved a microphone into his face and Tim was doing his best not to say anything stupid. I knew this was the part of being in command he hated. Better him than me. I pointed to my watch and made a circular gesture. He shrugged. Tim would have the bulk of the paperwork to do before he could clock out tonight. His wife also kept a tighter leash on him than Brett’s did. Still, it would be nice to have him join the rest of us at Flannigan’s downtown.

  Friday night, nine o’clock, and you couldn’t throw a wet cat without hitting a dozen cops at Flannigan’s Bar. At ninety-six, Jimmy Flannigan knew everyone and everything that happened in Lincolnshire. He ran a clean business teaming with local charm in the “Irish Ghetto” section of downtown. You had The Shires on one corner, Jimmy’s place on the other. Though The Shires had cheaper booze, Jimmy specialized in edible food and clean silverware.

  Brett and I picked a corner table. Nick Jefferson, Ed Rackham, a few of the guys from vice, and two of the Common Pleas Court bailiffs filled our table. Brett ordered three pitchers of Bud Light draft and we were on our way.

  “You think this shit’ll stick on Rayburn this time?” Rackham asked me. I’d moved around the table and held a fistful of darts. My fingers still shook. Two hours after the end of my shift and I was still wired. I took aim and let a dart sail. It hit just left of center. Rackham whistled low and took a sip of his beer.

  “Who fucking knows,” I said. “We got a pussy for a prosecutor and you know it.”

  “Yeah.” Rackham took a shot. It went wild and bounced off the board. “Sheeit.” He shook his head and went to retrieve his dart.

  “I thought you were gonna have to drop his ass this time,” Brett said. He slapped me on the shoulder just as I was about to take another shot. I flipped him off and took aim again.

  “Sure as shit would have made things easier,” I said. “I was just telling Ed if they can’t grow some balls down in the PA’s office this won’t be the last time we toss that asshole’s house.”

  I took my next shot and pegged it dead center. Somebody dropped an F-bomb behind me and a few of the guys slapped some bills on the table.

  “You bet against me?” I said, raising a brow.

  Brett laughed and grabbed his beer off the table. He shook his head. “No, I think they were figuring you’d throw the next one at the table near the kitchen.”

  I narrowed my eyes and looked in the direction Brett pointed. “Shit,” I said. “Who the fuck invited that asshole?”

  “That asshole” was Sam Silverhorn. World’s biggest douchebag defense attorney. What the hell he was doing in a cop bar escaped me. He sat with his back against the wall and a sly smile on his face. Then it dawned on me exactly what he was doing. Billy Rayburn had probably already called him for representation.

  I shot a look to the guys at the table and gestured toward Silverhorn’s table with my chin. Not that any of us made a habit out of talking shop outside the station, but it was better we steered the conversation away from Rayburn.

  “Fuck this,” I said, handing my last dart to Brett. “I need something stronger.”

  I headed to the bar and whistled to get Young Jimmy’s attention. Young Jimmy was old man Flannigan’s grandson. He handled the day-to-day operations. “Jack?” he said.

  I smiled. Young Jimmy knew me well. I nodded and took a seat on the nearest stool. He put the shot glass in front of me. My fingers trembled as I reached for it. Jimmy raised a brow. I shook him off.

  “Well, I know that ain’t nerves,” Young Jimmy said. “I just saw you sink that last dart.”

  I gave him a smile and downed the bourbon. It was smooth and hard all at once. The flare of warmth it gave me matched my mood. I should have gone for that run before hitting the bar. It was gonna take more than alcohol to take the edge off this afternoon’s rush.

  When Jimmy offered me another shot, I smiled. As I raised the glass to my lips, I turned and looked back at Silverhorn. Though I couldn’t do it in real life without cause, it helped to visualize smashing his smug, fleshy face into the copper-top bar where he sat. He met every scumbag defense lawyer cliché on the books down to his cheap suit, bad hairpiece, and nose-hair-melting aftershave.

  I slammed the shot glass down as I tracked Silverhorn’s movements. He slid onto a stool at the end of the bar and leaned in close to the woman who’d just stepped up to give Jimmy her order. The heat of the bourbon hit me when she lifted her eyes.

  God. She was stunning. Chocolate-brown hair that fell halfway down her back. She had smooth, pale skin and wide eyes that narrowed as Silverhorn snaked an arm around her shoulder. He tried to pull her back and offered her the stool next to his. She shook her head and dropped her shoulder, trying to shake Silverhorn’s touch. The fucker was too drunk or too stupid to pick up on her cues.

  My blood boiled and my nostrils flared as my breath caught. I moved closer. Her fake laugh hit me first. Her voice had a deep, smoky quality to it as she told him no. Silverhorn shot a look to Jimmy, ignoring the girl’s answer. He held up two fingers and tried to buy her another drink.

  She looked back, maybe trying to find help from whoever she came here with. Because she couldn’t be alone. Not someone like her. As I got closer, I saw her gunmetal-gray eyes flash with fire as Silverhorn pressed his lips against her ear.

  “You’ve had enough,” she said.

  Silverhorn laughed. “Don’t be a tease. I s
aw you looking at me from your table over there. You come here with those accounting dickwads?”

  “Back off, Sam,” I said. My voice dropped a threatening octave. My fingers twitched at my side, searching for the gun that wasn’t there. I curled my fists. Take a swing at me, asshole. Please.

  Sam reared his head back. His eyes glassed over as he looked me up and down, shocked to see me. Well, that eliminated the threat that he’d heard any shop talk that mattered from my group. But it also meant he might be on the verge of real stupidity.

  “Is he a friend of yours?” the girl asked. God, her husky voice skittered down my spine, raising the hairs on the back of my neck. She wore a brown halter top that showed off her toned arms. It came to a triangle just below her leather belt. Her jeans hugged her ass in all the right places and I followed the curve of her leg all the way down. She had on blue suede cowboy boots, real shit-kickers. I figured if I wasn’t here to help out, she’d get some use out of those if Sam here didn’t take the hint and beat it.

  “I wouldn’t say friends,” I answered. “Let’s just say I’ve seen his act enough to know how it plays out.”

  Even in his near-stupor, Sam must have seen enough in my cold, dark eyes to realize this wasn’t a battle he wanted to fight. As he slid his arm off the girl, a part of me wished he hadn’t. If the alcohol didn’t work to settle me, bashing Sam’s face in just might.

  “Later, Ben,” he said. He trailed his fingers over the girl’s bare back, making her stiffen and recoil.

  She smiled at me, revealing a deep dimple in her right cheek. She tucked a hank of hair behind her ear and cocked her head to the side. Damn. She was hot. I didn’t want to be as obvious as Sam, but I couldn’t help but notice the way her nipples puckered beneath that top. Backless as it was, she wasn’t wearing a bra. I wanted to be a gentleman here, but the more I stared at her, the harder that and I got.

  “Thanks,” she said, pointing the neck of her beer bottle toward me.