Last Man Standing

by Julie Miller

  “Cole! Stop.”

  Her auburn brows angled downward into a frown—half indignant, half indulgent. If the look in those green eyes hadn’t shut him up, then the gentle touch of her hand would. Folding the lapels of his suit, smoothing the stained wool flat across his heart—petting him again, soothing him—raising wary hackles that were proving useless against this woman’s potent combination of stubbornness and vulnerability.

  Tori’s deep sigh vibrated through his bones. “You need me.”

  His body lurched at all the ways he could interpret that stark declaration. But his mind knew exactly what she was talking about.

  “You still need a courier. You explained very clearly to me that you’ve taken an equally dangerous risk by selling Meade secrets to the police. If you’re arrested and that information leak suddenly stops up, aren’t the Meades smart enough to put two and two together? You’ll be a marked man. And you know as well as I do that being locked in a jail cell is no deterrent to a hit.”

  “No.” This was his fault. His impulsive mistake. It was one thing to get a thief tangled up in this mess. But to blackmail a federal agent? He didn’t think he could handle the death of another cop. He knew he couldn’t handle another innocent woman being hurt on his watch. “I mean, yes, they might figure it out. It was a stupid idea to involve you in the first place.”

  “But you did. Now quit being such a good guy and think about your own skin.”

  Cole bristled up to all of his six feet four inches of height. Good guy? Man, did she have her wires crossed. What part of blackmail and shameless manipulation of her interest in him made him good? He gave it one last try.

  “How do you know I won’t rat you out to save that skin?”

  He watched the careful consideration in her eyes, felt the soft, mindless stroking of her fingertips against his chest. When everything about her finally stilled, he braced for her answer.

  “Because you’re going to give me your word.”

  She thought his word was actually worth something? The chafing at his wrists was nowhere near as constricting as the heavy weight of hope and regret that twisted around his soul.

  “My word is good enough for you? Why?”

  “Because you used to be a cop. And your rescuing me when you thought I was in danger makes me believe you still think like one. Even now, you’re trying to save me from Lancelot and Jericho and whatever other dangers lie in that house. As far as allies go, I could do worse.”

  Not much. “The statue means that much to you?”

  She gave a gentle push and he finally backed away.

  “It’s more than a statue to me.”

  Cole filed away the enigmatic comment to explore later. Right now he had to think about life and death and the power of a man’s word.

  He studied the mud that dulled the shine of his shoes, the tiny ding in the paint behind the wheel-well of the car. He drank in the striking contrast of Tori’s fiery hair against her moonlit skin. He inhaled the cooling night air and the essence of her and tried to make his conscience go away.

  Victoria Westin was handing him everything he needed on a silver platter. A connection to A. J. Rodriguez and the DA’s office. A solid cover story. A second set of eyes and ears in the house. Professional backup. Maybe even a few Bureau connections.

  She was also giving him something to care about. Her job. Her life. Her.

  His doubts wouldn’t go away. But something new, something he was reluctant to even give a name to, tried to find a place inside him as well.

  Ever in motion, she methodically removed the bullets from each of his guns and dropped the loaded magazines into her fanny pack. She slipped behind him again, and with a click, a tug and a couple of twists, he was a free man.

  With the handcuffs gone, Cole rolled the tension from his shoulders and rubbed the soreness at his wrists. She stood in front of him once more, tall and tough and willing to risk everything. He wished like hell there was enough of that cop left inside him to make this all come out right in the end for her.

  Tori held out the two empty guns like a down payment of her trust. “Your word?”

  He took his guns, holstered one inside his jacket and tucked the other into his belt. “I’ll meet you back at the house.”

  It was the only promise he felt qualified to make.

  THE SHATTERING OF GLASS woke Sid Taylor from a sound sleep. The fact that he’d actually dozed off in the recliner in front of the television surprised him as much as did the invasive sound from downstairs. A rain delay had lengthened the ball game long past his normal bedtime. But that wasn’t the surprise.

  He’d done more dozing than sleeping lately, ever since his wife had been mugged in the grocery store parking lot. He’d gotten by on catnaps, watching over her with the same vigilance with which she’d protected him during his recovery from bypass surgery two years ago.

  But he’d been so deeply out of it just now, he hadn’t even seen the end score. Some protector.

  Shaking off the groggy effects of his unnatural sleep, he sat upright, grabbed the remote and turned off the post-game show.

  Muffled voices and the trample of footsteps warned him that someone had broken into his butcher shop, located on the first floor beneath the renovated condo where he and Martha lived.

  Then, silence.

  Alarm shot through him. In better shape in his sixties than he’d been in his fifties, Sid ran to the front door and checked the dead bolt and knob lock.

  Secure.

  Thank God. He breathed a little easier and went to the gun cabinet to unlock one of his hunting rifles. A shuffling noise from across the darkened room diverted his attention to the tall woman in the bedroom doorway.

  “Sid, what’s wrong? It’s three in the morning.” She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “This headache woke me up.”

  His healing heart thumped hard in his chest. Silhouetted as she was by the light from the bedside lamp, Martha Taylor wore an expression that was a shadowy mask as she shoved silver bangs from her eyes. But those eyes he knew to be blue would be wide with concern.

  He’d married her forty-two years ago when he had nothing. Now he owned a whole building and his own business in the heart of K.C.’s City Market District. Together, they’d raised seven good children. They were working on spoiling grandkids now. But the need to take care of what was his was as powerful this night as it had been all those years before, when he’d scraped and saved just to put food on the table and keep a roof over their heads.

  “Call 9-1-1, Martha.” He’d never been about big romantic gestures and tender reassurances. He did what needed to be done. “We’ve got a break-in downstairs.”

  He felt pride as she hurried to the phone and made the call without questions or hysteria. Sid opened a box of shells and put two into the rifle. A vehicle door slammed outside. Tires squealed against the pavement. Husband and wife met at the window in time to see twin red taillights disappearing around the corner into the night.

  “Could you make out the license?” Martha asked.

  Sid shook his head, already moving toward the door. “It had to be a truck or SUV, though, judging by the height of those taillights.”

  Martha sniffed behind him. “Do you smell that?”

  He paused. Inhaled. Crinkled his nose at the acrid scent of rotten eggs. His protective fears transformed into something closer to anger. No wonder he’d been out cold.

  Gas.

  “Open the windows.” But Martha was already a step ahead of him. “The appliances up here are all electric,” she shouted over the banging of locks and swish of windows sliding open. The air that rushed in was warm and humid, but fresh and reviving. “The furnace downstairs must be leaking.”

  Or something much more deliberate. He’d turned off the heater in April when the balmy spring weather hit. It was nearly the first day of summer now.

  “Stay put,” he ordered, sliding aside the dead bolt and opening the front door. The light at th
e top of the stairs came on when he hit the switch. But the stairs descended into a sightless black hole near the street entrance at the base of the stairs. He’d changed that bulb less than a month ago.

  Sid slipped his finger inside the trigger guard and clutched the rifle in both hands.

  “Here’s the flashlight.”

  Sid jumped at the brush of a hand against his back, catching himself just before he squeezed the trigger. “Dammit, Martha. I want you to stay safe.”

  She wore nothing but her knee-length nightgown and slippers and a familiar expression that warned him he wasn’t going to do this alone.

  “Up here with the gas is safe?” She turned on the flashlight and shone it down to the base of the stairs. “I’m not sending you down in the dark with a gun and an intruder all by yourself, Sidney Cole Taylor.”

  Sid knew that stubborn set to her chin and conceded the argument. Pressing a quick kiss to her cheek, he nodded. “Then you’re with me.”

  “Always.”

  She latched on to the back of his belt and followed him down the stairs, staying just behind his left shoulder until he nudged open the connecting door to the shop. Even with the stronger odor of gas permeating the air, after forty years in the business he recognized the smells of raw meat and freezer coils even before Martha’s light swept across the destruction of his shop.

  “Oh my God. Sid.”

  The place was deserted. But someone had been very busy.

  Clutching Martha’s hand in his, Sid stepped around the slabs of raw pork ribs that had been dumped in the middle of the floor and hacked and pummeled to a bloody pulp. In the back room, he shut off the furnace valve, which had been opened wide without benefit of a pilot light to convert it into heat.

  They located the breaker box and found every connection to the shop turned off. Sid didn’t touch it, knowing the police would want to dust it for fingerprints. Instead, he opened his toolbox and pulled out a second flashlight. Then they separated to inspect the rest of the damage.

  The lock on his walk-in freezer had been pried off, the door propped open with a broom handle. Inside, every rack had been overturned, every box thrown to the floor.

  Neither the cash register nor the safe had been touched. But in a display of gruesome artistry, most of his equipment had been tampered with—saw blades were stuck into a side of beef like birthday candles, plastic wrap had been wound mummy-style around light fixtures. Most of his inventory would have to be destroyed because of health codes. Meats were thawing, juices running into the drain.

  “Is this some kind of gang initiation?” Martha speculated out loud, her shock and disgust rivaling Sid’s. She laughed once, but it lacked her usual good humor. “A vegetarian protest?”

  Sid raised his light to the “Taylor Meats” banner on the wall behind the counter. “I don’t think so.”

  He’d found his knives. Every size and shape he owned had been imbedded through the plastic into the wall behind it, as if the Taylor name had been used for target practice.

  “Sid!” Martha gasped.

  He rushed to her side and wrapped his arm around her shoulders. Dammit, she was trembling. And it took a hell of a lot to rattle his girl.

  “It’s from my wallet. The one that was stolen.”

  Slowly turning, he followed the beam of her light and swore.

  Centered over the entrance, a three-inch paring knife skewered a wrinkled, faded, twenty-five year-old photograph of Martha and himself surrounded by all their children. From toddler Josh, climbing his mother’s lap, up to teenager Mitch, standing tall and aloof behind Sid.

  “I don’t understand why.” She shook her head. “Why?”

  Sid squeezed her tight. He could hear the police siren and fire engine now, see the swirls of red, white and blue lights bouncing off the buildings outside. Help was coming.

  “Run upstairs and get your robe on.” His voice sounded remarkably calm, considering the volatile feelings churning inside him. “We’ll wait for the police unit outside.”

  While she hurried to do his bidding, Sid moved closer to the door, silently damning the cowardly, unnamed threat to his family. He’d been in business long enough to absorb the monetary loss of such vandalism. But this felt like something else, something insidiously personal—like attacking a woman in broad daylight to steal her memories instead of her money.

  Sid studied the jagged remnants of the shattered pane beside the lock. He pushed opened the door and his shoe crunched over a pile of broken glass. Outside on the sidewalk.

  The vandals hadn’t broken in to trash the place. They’d smashed the glass on their way out. To make enough noise to awaken the couple upstairs, to alert them to the destruction and violation going on right under their feet.

  To make sure Sid and Martha came downstairs to feel the terror of being victimized. Again.

  “I know that look.” Martha was tying her blue terry robe around her waist as she joined him out front.

  Sid had unloaded his rifle and draped the broken barrel over the crook of his elbow.

  “You just got some bad news and you’re not sure how to tell me. Out with it.”

  Sid tucked her under his arm again, needing her strength, offering his own. “I don’t think this is aimed at us.”

  “Isn’t this your shop? Isn’t this our home? Somebody wants our attention.”

  “Not ours.” He took a deep breath and looked into her eyes. “If you wanted to hurt one of our sons, what would be the most effective way to do it?”

  It was an odd question, but Martha was a sharp gal—she had been from their first meeting forty-three years ago, when he nearly ran her down on the sidewalk, jumping off the bus on his way home from boot camp. She fingered the buttons of his shirt. The debate in her eyes had vanished. She understood. And she was just as worried as he was now.

  “You’d go after his family. Hurt someone he loves.”

  Sid nodded. “I think one of our boys is in serious trouble.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Hey, Cole.” Paul Meredith folded up the section of newspaper he was reading and handed it across the breakfast table. “These relatives of yours?”

  Tori looked over the rim of her coffee cup and watched the steely control of muscles keep any reaction beyond polite curiosity from showing on Cole’s face.

  He read the column’s headline out loud: “Taylor Meat Company Vandalized.” His eyes were the only thing that moved as he scanned the article. He nodded and tossed the paper back to Paulie. “I’ve heard of them. It’s a common enough name.”

  “Looks like a total write-off.” Paulie shook his head in sympathy. “I hope they’re insured.”

  Because of medical tests he’d be taking, Jericho hadn’t joined them for breakfast this morning. But Chad sat in his place at the head of the table, chewing his eggs with thoughtful distraction as he tuned in to the conversation. “Aren’t they located up by the river in the City Market? One of those restoration projects. They used to supply the Garibaldi Steakhouse chain, didn’t they?”

  “Mmm, a Garibaldi filet mignon done medium rare.” Lana looked up from her stock report, apparently savoring a delicious memory. And showing off her business awareness. “As I recall, Garibaldi’s bought out their supplier. That must have made a tidy profit for Taylor Meats. Sounds like someone was savvy enough to retain the name for local business.”

  Cole adjusted the knot of his yellow silk tie. He was clean-shaven this morning; every long, dark hair was pulled back into place behind his starched white collar. “I wouldn’t know.”

  Paulie quizzed Cole further. “I thought you said you grew up in the Market District. If this is a family problem, we can help you handle it.”

  Tori ran a quick mental list of all the possibilities Meade help might entail, from dropping big money to pay for repairs to finding the perpetrators of the crime and punishing them, Meade-style.

  But Cole wasn’t interested in the offer. “Like I said, Taylor’s a common name.” />
  Was his lack of any reaction a cover to hide a more emotional response inside? Last night he’d hinted at deep pride in his brothers and sister. Or did he really not know the family who’d been victimized and who, coincidentally, shared his last name?

  Aaron Polakis materialized in the dining room archway, wearing his usual scowl. His beady brown eyes made contact with everyone at the table. They lingered an extra moment on Lana, though his expression never changed. But he spoke only to Cole. “Car’s ready.”

  Polakis retreated into the hallway, disappearing as quickly as he’d come. Cole tossed his napkin onto the table and stood, buttoning the front of his navy-blue suit on his way out. Tori took note of the deep wrinkles in his napkin, as if the linen had been crushed into a tight ball inside Cole’s fist. Something about that article had rattled him.

  “Excuse me.” Tori jumped up from the table, impulsively grabbed his napkin and dabbed her lips with it, then carried it with her as she hurried after him. She wasn’t sure if she was removing the clue before anyone else noticed his distress or carrying evidence to confront him with. “Cole?”

  The hall was deserted. She quickly looked both ways and spotted him closing the front door behind him.

  “Cole!” She dashed after him, swung the door open and caught him by the arm before he stepped down from the porch.

  He turned and faced her. “Jericho’s waiting,” were the only words that made it past the tight compression of his lips.

  “What was that about?” Tori whispered, conscious of the occupants of the long black limo parked in the circular brick driveway at the base of the concrete steps. She tried to find an answer in Cole’s fathomless blue eyes. “Are you okay? Are we okay? Is there something going on I should know about before I make a mistake and blab something I shouldn’t?”

  “Which question do you want me to answer first?”

  “Cut the sarcasm, Taylor.” A flurry of concerns welled up inside her. “You haven’t said boo to me since last night. Are you still going to protect my cover? What do I tell Rodriguez? Where are all your hidden cameras?”