“He was found murdered last night by local law enforcement in his home. Police have locked down his office and are searching his files for clues as to who the perpetrator could be. They currently have one suspect.”
The anchor rounded the last corner and strode to an office at the end of the hall, cordoned off with more bright yellow police tape. The fire ants returned with a vengeance, lighting her on fire from the inside out. But on the outside she was ice-cold.
A fat policeman, his lapels soaked in sweat, crowded the entrance, the poster model for a walking heart attack. He coughed, wiped his face with a dingy stained cloth, and adjusted the utility belt that was barely holding up beneath the weight of his bulging belly.
“Sir, can you tell us what happened?” The news anchor shoved her mic into the cop’s face.
The cop hiked his belt up and shuffled his shoulders back. “I'm sorry, miss, but I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
“Get your hands off me, you filthy pig!” The video camera swung around to the left and zoomed in on another cop dragging Professor Rhoden from her office. Her hands were cuffed behind her back and her spiky hair in disarray. “This is sexual harassment. You can't treat me like this.”
The steely-eyed policeman shook her once and propelled her in front of him. “Keep moving.”
“Nazi! This is abuse. I have my rights.” Rhoden's boots clunked down the hall in a forced stumble.
As they came closer, Hayden instinctively cringed. The professor's normally cold, calculating gaze was wild. Her dark red lipstick was slightly smeared.
“My lawyer will be all over you!”
Professor Rhoden's gaze slammed into the camera. Hayden sucked in a breath. There wasn't any spite or hatred in the woman’s gaze this time. The overwhelming emotion on Rhoden's face was fear.
The anchor kicked into action, shoving her mic in Rhoden’s face and chasing her down the hall. “Ma’am, were you with Professor Latham at the time of the attack? Are you a suspect? Can you tell us what happened?”
Rhoden snarled and bared her teeth like a rabid dog and the anchor lady snapped back. The camera followed the pair as the policeman shoved Rhoden down the hall and outside —a circus spectacle for a crowd of students who mostly despised her. Hayden heard a smattering of applause break out from the crowd, in small waves at first and then growing in force like a tsunami.
A tsunami that threatened to crush Hayden. Her cell phone rang from the bedroom and Hayden jumped up and ran to get it. Malik’s number appeared on the screen. Hayden answered the call, her heart racing out of control.
She could feel his despair before he spoke. “Hayden?”
She stumbled back down the hall and collapsed on the couch as Hank Jr. continued to play, oblivious to his aunt’s world imploding.
“I just turned on the news,” Hayden said.
“Me, too. The professor is dead.”
“Dead?” The world tilted. This can't be happening.
“The police found him last night around midnight. He was murdered.”
The living room contracted around her and she couldn't catch her breath. Midnight...midnight...she'd been at the frat party. She'd been enjoying herself...
And Professor Latham had been suffering. Had been dying.
Another thought hit her and she fell back against the couch for support. He'd been on a date with Rhoden and the cops had just towed her ass away like she was the wrong half of Bonnie and Clyde.
“Why did she do that?” It came out in a rough, hoarse voice.
“I honestly don't think she did.”
“Are we talking about the same woman? The one that likes to flunk students just for fun? Did you not hear her? She just called that cop a Nazi pig!”
“She was frightened. Did you not see her face?”
Malik just pissed her off. “You were there,” she insisted. “You heard Latham say he had a date with her last night. Maybe she held a grudge against him because all the students liked him and not her.”
Malik sighed and she could picture him rubbing a tan hand through his dark hair. “I don't think Rhoden is the type of woman to care about that. And I think she genuinely cared about Latham.”
Professor Latham, who had been like a grandfather to her. Urging her to go out and have fun. And the moment she started to have fun...
“He insisted that we go out last night,” Hayden choked out. “We should've been doing research with him. Maybe if we had been there...”
“Don't you dare think like that. The professor didn't want us to spend all our time drowning in research. Alone. You know that. Besides, he was looking forward to a night out himself.”
Tears threatened again, and she blinked rapidly to keep them at bay. “But—”
“It's not your fault.”
Then why did she feel so guilty? “I can't believe he's gone.”
She heard Malik sniff and then cough and she realized he had to be hurting just as bad. “Malik, I'm so sorry.”
Chapter 13
Hoyt kept his eyes shut and fumbled for the nightstand, knowing the dim lamp light would pierce his throbbing skull like an icepick. He felt for a bottle of water with a shaking hand, inadvertently knocking something heavy to the ground. He grabbed the glass bottle and cradled it to his chest. Shit. He'd have to sit up and open his eyes.
Slowly unbending his arms and body, he pushed up. As soon as he got vertical, he cracked a lid. The whole room pulled a one-eighty and he fell to his knees. Nausea rolled around in his gut, his throat burned.
Fuck, he must have hit his head harder than he’d thought in the accident.
Hoyt palmed the floor, sliding his hands out past shoulder width to brace his weight. He dragged a breath into his lungs and eased his eyes open.
An empty fifth of Crown lay at an angle next to his right hand. He didn't remember drinking... Hoyt propped an elbow on the mattress and then used his whole arm to ratchet himself up to his knees. His bed stand was cluttered with crumpled paper.
His gut rolled. He crawled to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet in time to puke.
Last night edged back into his consciousness. He had come home after finding the dead body, but that hadn’t really bothered him. He’d seen hundreds of dead bodies in his life—after about the tenth one he'd gone numb to sightless eyes and stiff limbs.
No, the professor's death hadn’t even pricked much emotion.
It was the party that had dug its nails into him. The sight of Hayden with those guys. The way that girl had taken one look at him before running for the hills. And how goddamn golden boy, almost a replica of Hoyt’s younger self, had emerged from the crowd, ready to slay the beast.
Hoyt gave a harsh laugh. He wasn't living in a Disney fairytale. Hayden wasn't Belle, and he sure as hell didn't have an enchanted rose to restore his good looks.
Or to remove the black mark on his soul.
And then he’d been forced into close quarters with Hayden and it had taken every ounce of his control not to take her into his arms.
When he was fairly certain the puking session was over, Hoyt climbed to his feet and stumbled to the sink to splash cold water on his face. He stood and faced the slightly darker light tan oval on the wall. There used to be a mirror there. His brother had removed all of the mirrors in the house while he was at the VA, either in an attempt to help Hoyt get over his reflection or to subvert another suicide attempt.
Either way, the blank spaces where the mirrors used to be had become a glaring reminder of his stint in rehab.
He'd learned to get comfortable with himself and the fact that he was broken. But broken things could still do damage. The counselors had told him it would help if he found something to live for.
He knew his reason to live—it was a cold hard fact. His team needed him.
And he needed Hayden. Why couldn't he stop obsessing over her? Shit, they'd only dated a few months before his time on Crowe Mountain. But those months had been pure heaven.
>
He remembered what it had felt like to have Hayden pressed against him. Her soft skin, soft hair, soft lips. Everything about her had countered him, completed him.
But that was back when he still could be completed. Now he was a puzzle with missing pieces, its edges sliced out of alignment.
She deserved better. She was better.
Maybe he needed a change of scenery. Jared and Sparrow didn’t need him here with them. If nothing else, he could bunk at the command center, in one of the cots in the back. The place suited him better…Cold, hard, empty.
What mattered most was for him to keep his shit together long enough to take out Mr. J and his minions. The thought of sleeper cells in Mercy left a bad taste in his mouth. At least he and Merc had downed some of them last night.
Hoyt found a half-drank bottle of water and downed it in one gulp. The liquid splashed in his empty stomach and immediately rushed back to the surface. He was praying to the porcelain god a second later.
“Dammit. Are you stupid?”
Hoyt let his body work through another heave before answering his brother, who'd apparently let himself into Hoyt's bedroom. “Yes.”
He could practically feel Jared shaking his head behind him. “You'll be off the team if anybody finds out, and they'll plop your ass straight into the VA Hospital…Again. Colonel Grey has been watching you closer than the NSA. One trip up, and that’s it. You're gone.”
Anger sliced through him and he rose unsteadily to his feet. “Shut up.”
“You can lie to everyone else. Hell, you've actually gotten pretty damn good at it. But you can't lie to me, I’m your brother, I practically raised you. I know when you’re lying. And brother, you've been lying since the day you got home from Tennessee.” Jared advanced, his huge body dominating the bathroom.
The familiar claws of panic dug into him. Chest tight, heart punching his sternum, no oxygen.
Jared's nostrils flared in recognition and Hoyt used that moment of silence to dart around his brother into the bedroom. Hoyt faced the corner where the full-length mirror used to be, hands fisted at his sides. Come on asshole, count to ten. Even the fucking dope heads in group therapy could do it. Hoyt was a highly trained special forces operative, capable of taking out a target at over fifteen hundred yards. He could get his racing heart under control.
“You need to stay away from alcohol.” Jared said from behind him. “You keep doing this, you’re going to find yourself back on pills. Fast way to ruin your life.”
“My life is already ruined!”
“No, it's not. But if you don't change, it will be.”
“You’ve seen the way people react to me. I can't even go out in public without giving kids nightmares. What kind of life is that?”
“People only look at you that way if you let them.” Jared's quiet voice sliced through a nerve.
“And what would you have me do? Go around glaring at every person in Mercy?” Hoyt said.
“No. I’d have you walk down main street with your head held fucking high because that's exactly what you deserve. Very few men can survive the kind of torture you did—and those who survive physically usually don’t recover mentally. Is that what you want to be, just another statistic?”
Hoyt could only look at him.
“Me and you, we’ve already lived through hell. You came out smiling. Are you really going to let them win now? Are you going to let a few little cuts bleed you dry?”
“If it’s just a few little cuts, why’d you take the mirrors down?” Hoyt gestured to the empty wall spaces in the room.
Jared dropped his head and shoved his hands in his jeans. “Because you’re my little brother and I want to protect you, like I did when we were kids. I thought it would be easier on your recovery.”
Hoyt’s throat clogged up.
“It’s not. It reminds me every damn day of my weakness,” he choked out.
His brother nodded. “You’re right. I’ll put them back.”
“And you’ll stop looking at me like you’re waiting on me to crack?”
“Yes, if you stop acting like you didn’t survive the attack.” Jared crossed to Hoyt and held out his hand. His brother never showed his emotions. He’d always locked it down and kept moving forward, but right now, burning pain lingered in his midnight gaze.
Hoyt swallowed and grabbed Jared’s hand, and yanked him into a hug. His flesh tightened instantly, but he took a breath and worked through his shit for his brother. Just like Jared had always done for him.
Jared pounded him on the back and stepped away, covering a cough with a fist over his mouth. “I guess I should tell you the other team arrived last night.”
“Yeah, I saw them parked at headquarters last night when I got back.” Hoyt shoved his hands in his pockets, the tide of emotion had receded and left him feeling awkward, yet somewhat healed. He hadn’t really realized how much he’d been hurting his brother.
“Want to head over there? Colonel Grey wants us to meet up with the new team and make plans. Plus, I think Ethan may have found a new lead on that guy you and Merc pegged last night.”
“Malik?”
“Yeah, he’s been digging and digging but the guys record is locked up tighter than a virgin’s knees. But, he confirmed the link between the uncle and ISA.”
“Shit, he was with Hayden last night, they acted like they were friends.” Or more.
“Looks like Al Seriq had recruited Malik’s uncle back in the eighties, before he started ISA. The guy turned radical fast. Took out a whole crowd of people at the local market with a suicide bomb.”
That bastard had laid his hands on Hayden. He’d kissed the back of her hand. Bile rolled hot up his stomach. That would be the last time Malik got near her, Hoyt would make sure of it.
“Let me change. Does Hunter know?” He needed to keep Hayden extra close.
“Nah, Hunter’s been puking his guts up.”
“He needs to make sure he keeps Hayden at home.” Hoyt went to his dresser and yanked out a change of clothes.
“Why don’t you get dressed and we can go tell him right now?”
Hoyt caught a movement outside his bedroom window. Hank pulled down the drive, the camper hitched to the back of his truck. “I don’t need to tell Hunter, Hank’s home.”
Hoyt yanked on a new shirt. Hayden’s father was the most overprotective man Hoyt knew. He’d keep her under lock and key.
Chapter 14
Hayden stared at the burnt black cookies as smoke poured out of the open oven door. She’d gotten Hank Jr. down for a nap and immediately gone to cooking, needing something, anything, to distract her from the pain.
The smoke alarm overhead gave a quick blip and cut off, as if in warning, and Hayden grabbed a nearby dish towel and started fanning the smoke away. It wasn’t a lot, but she didn’t want to risk waking every other James in the household.
When she was fairly certain the alarm wouldn’t blast off, she eased over to the kitchen door and propped it open. Then she went to the oven, pulled the cookies out, put them on the stove top and shut the door.
Using her last amount of energy, she sank into a chair at the glossy wood table and dropped her head into her hands. All she wanted to do was go home, curl up in her bed and have a cathartic long cry.
A sob wrenched through her and she rubbed the heels of her palms against her eyes, trying to block out the news.
Professor Latham was gone, dead, not coming back.
She felt like she'd lost a family member, and she had precious few of them. After her junkie mother left her on the steps of the church at six years old, she’d bounced through the foster system. She’d been so hopeful at first, imagining that she’d be taken in by some miracle family with a mother who loved her children and an over-protective father to wipe her tears. A Beaver-Cleaver-type family.
Instead she'd ping-ponged from a rat-infested dump to a two-bedroom house with ten kids. And the loneliness lining the walls of her chest spread until it encompa
ssed her like metal-plated skin, neglected and hardened into her own coat of armor.
And then everything had changed. She’d been sent to live with a foster father, Hank James, and he’d protected her and loved her and introduced her to her two brothers, Hunter and Ranger. In the end she had gotten her wish for an over-protective father. Times three.
But Hank's parents were long dead, and her blood relatives were a mystery to her. She had no freaking clue if her mom was even alive.
Professor Latham had filled a void for her.
A fresh wave of tears fell, the pain bending her forward over her arms. Her mother had left her. Hoyt had left her. And now Professor Latham had left her too.
Who was next?
“What happened?” Hoyt walked through the open door and she jumped, slamming back against her seat as her heart catapulted into her throat.
She could see his expression of concern. The sunlight cast brilliant light on his cerulean blue eyes, bright with worry, and he looked at her like he really did care for her.
But he didn't.
A fresh onslaught of tears stung her eyes and blurred her vision.
“Christ.” Hoyt pulled her from the chair, wrapping her in his embrace. A rush of pure euphoria warmed her from the inside out, and weakling that she was, Hayden embraced the feeling, latching on to the relief it gave her from this heart-rending grief.
“Professor Latham was killed last night. He was my…my…I was his research assistant.”
“I'm sorry, honey.” His rough voice sent a chill straight down her spine. Her reaction to his simple touch and deep husky voice was a million times stronger than anything Chance or Malik had made her feel. It urged her to forget the pain he'd caused her.
But she couldn’t. If she did, it might just happen all over again, and she was certain that would destroy her.
Hayden drew in a breath and used every ounce of strength in her depleted system to shove away from him. “Let go.”
The sympathetic tilt to his mouth was enough to rip her sadness into shreds, letting anger rush to the surface. “Don't you dare act like you care.”
Men of Mercy: The Complete Story Page 84