by C. A. Szarek
He should just kill himself…no, couldn’t do that to his mom. Or Beth. They might be divorced, but his ex’s father had committed suicide when she was a teen. He couldn’t put her through it again, let alone their daughters.
“Fuck.”
Jeremy squared his shoulders and attached the suppressor to the end of the Beretta. His FBI-issued Glock stayed holstered at his waist as he silently made his way down the hall.
The extra effort wouldn’t totally erase the bang of the weapon, contrary to what Hollywood tried to convince the world, but hopefully no neighbours would dial 9-1-1 until he was ready.
God, let my plan work.
He needed to kill the woman, ditch the Beretta and make it look like a break-in. There were no cameras in the duplex Evan and the witness were staying in. Another point in Jeremy’s favour.
I won’t get caught. I’m being smart about this. Jeremy chanted all the way down the long, narrow hallway, and into the living room.
She sat at the dining room table, her back to him, laptop in front of her. Absorbed in her work, the tap-tap of her fingers flying over the keys was the only sound that greeted his ears.
The witness was in real estate, and Evan had told her she could work from the safe house as long as she didn’t disclose her location or tell anyone what was going on.
Jeremy held his breath as he raised the gun. Pretended his hands weren’t shaking and there wasn’t sweat soaking his brow, dripping down his temple.
He flexed his fingers on the grip of the unfamiliar weapon.
Pulled the trigger.
Even muffled, the sound of the gunshot bounced around the walls of the open floor plan.
Miranda Parker slumped over her laptop. The machine screamed a beeping protest from all the keys the weight of her head had depressed.
The bullet had torn through the back of her neck. Blood darkened her fair locks and was splattered all over the wall and glass table top. All over her white shirt. A pool was starting to gather beneath her, and one of her arms had slipped from under her, dangling like the dead weight it now was. Blood ran down and dripped from her fingertips to the floor.
A paper bag rattled and something thumped to the hardwood floor in the foyer. The scent of fast food tickled his nose.
“Jer.” Evan’s voice was even, calm. “Drop the gun and turn around, slowly.”
Jeremy crushed his eyes shut.
“C’mon, partner. Don’t do this the hard way, please.”
He whirled around, whipping his arm up, aiming the Beretta straight at Evan’s chest. His partner’s Glock was pointed right back at Jeremy.
“Jer. Buddy. What’ve you done?” Evan’s voice dropped, but his arms were steady. A promise that his partner would do what he had to, as much as Jeremy would.
“I didn’t want to.” The words flew out of his mouth. Unplanned. The confession unwanted.
Evan nodded. “I know. I know. But it’s gonna be okay. Put the gun down, and we’ll sort it all out. I promise.”
A bitter laugh exited his mouth and he shook his head. “I’m fucked. I’m fucked, Ev. Just fucked.”
“No. Jer, it’ll be okay. Stop now, and it’ll be okay. We’ll work it out. Talk to Barnes, get you a good lawyer.”
Jeremy paced and waved his Beretta around. “No.”
“Jeremy. Put the gun down. I don’t want to shoot you.” There was an edge to his partner’s voice now, and he zoned in on the man’s face.
Blue eyes widened. Implored. But the Glock remained trained on him.
Evan Roberts. His partner of four years. The one and only partner he’d had since transferring from white collar crime to human trafficking. His friend. His best friend. Been beside him through a nasty divorce. Through the gambling. Cleaned him up after drunken nights. Forced him to get help.
“I’m sorry.” The words caught in his throat.
Jeremy closed his eyes and pulled the trigger.
* * * *
Lee thrashed in bed, ripping the thin sheet from her body. She’d pushed the comforter off already—it hung, hovering above the floor. Hot.
She groaned and stretched as she came around from the vivid dream. Her body burned, throbbing.
After blowing out a breath, she popped up, yanking the white ribbed tank top straight.
In bed. Alone.
Only a dream.
She looked around, frowning as unfamiliar surroundings greeted her groggy morning mind.
Right.
She wasn’t at her own place.
Nate.
Sighing, Lee slipped out of the borrowed bed and arched her back, spreading her arms and shaking her body loose. She yawned.
Her side smarted and she glared down at the patch of gauze. She lifted her shirt, slowly peeling the bandage away, hissing when she ran her fingers over the line of stitches. Still too tender. But they were dry and tight, the skin no longer angry and puffy. If she’d taken time to heal, Lee probably could’ve had them out already. Would most likely end up ripping them out anyway.
Sex wouldn’t help her healing wound, but she could’ve been waking up next to him. Down the hall in the master suite of the apartment. In his arms. Her body under his. Her tongue entwined with his as they moved together.
A tremor shivered its way down her back and legs.
Knock it off.
Lee curled her toes into the plush, tan carpet and clenched her fists at her sides. She needed to get her attorney out of her head. Scratch that—she needed to get away from him. Stay away from him. He’s not your attorney.
Her partner had damn well better show up as he’d promised the night before. Clint hadn’t been able to determine if they’d been followed, but he’d assured her he’d check in with Roberts and Stewart and get back to her. He’d see at least one of them at briefing in the office that morning.
Lee had run from Nate by the pool the previous night.
Fled for the second time.
She’d declined the offer to swim with him, even though her body had wanted nothing more. But if she’d shed her clothes and got in the warm water with him, they would’ve finished what they’d started in the living room.
Lee couldn’t do that again. Already felt too much for him. If she let him back into her body, he’d end up even closer to her heart.
When the case was over, he was going back to Texas and she’d lose him. Again. She could never go back to Dallas.
So she’d barked at him to get his things and get back to the apartment. He hadn’t argued, but Nate hadn’t rushed right back, either. He’d shown her he couldn’t be ordered around. As much as it made her anger boil that he hadn’t followed immediately, she admired his balls. He wouldn’t let her push him.
When he’d entered their temporary home a good twenty minutes later, he’d gone straight into the master bedroom without a word.
He hadn’t slammed the door, but Lee had felt shut out.
Nate hadn’t come out of the room for the remainder of the evening, and staring at the door had failed to will it open. Failed to bring him to her side.
Jesus. You rejected him, but you’re hurt?
Get over yourself.
Lee growled and slipped out of her black bikini panties. She ripped the tank off and tossed it to the carpet. A glance at the clock told her it was early—just after seven. She had time to hit the shower and mentally regroup. She needed to before she had to face him again.
After a long, hot shower that did nothing to calm her, Lee dressed quickly in jeans and a blue, long-sleeved button-down. She strapped both her guns on and stuck an extra mag in her in-the-waistband magazine carrier.
She checked both her weapons, even though she knew they were both loaded with one in the chamber.
OCD much?
When she made it into the bright, welcoming kitchen, he was already sitting at the table, a computer tablet in front of him, propped on a multifunctional folding case. Fresh coffee and food mixed with the clean masculine scent that was just Nate tickled
her nose.
“Morning.” He smiled and Lee’s stomach flipped.
“Morning.” She made her mouth form the word, but she had to clear her throat.
“Sleep well?”
“Yes, you?”
Nate nodded. “I made coffee and breakfast—yours is in the microwave keeping warm. I didn’t know how long you’d sleep.”
“Thanks.”
The small talk about killed her. Lee had never felt so distanced from him, sitting four feet away. She shoved scrambled eggs into her mouth, but she couldn’t taste them. The bacon was crunchy, but her usual favourite breakfast item was also tasteless as it passed her lips and she forced herself to chew.
“Hey, um…” Lee started.
His hazel eyes met hers, and Lee fought the urge to squirm.
“Yeah?” Nate prompted when words deserted her.
“I… I’m sorry about last night.” Heat rushed her cheeks. Lee broke their eye contact and rubbed the back of her neck.
“You were right,” Nate said.
“I was?” She shivered. Prayed he wouldn’t notice.
He nodded. “I should’ve respected you, not pushed you.” His warm hand settled over hers and squeezed. “I’m sorry.”
No, you were right. I want you. I need you more than I need to breathe.
She couldn’t say it. Wouldn’t. Lee bit her bottom lip and made her eyes stay locked onto his. “I-i-it’s okay.”
He flashed a smile that kicked her heart into overdrive. “At any rate, I wanted to start over with you this morning. Truce?”
Lee nodded, but numbness rolled over her and she tried not to quiver in the chair. Did this mean he’d back off? Stop showing her they weren’t done like he’d promised at the hotel?
No.
Wait. That’s what you want. Right?
His fingers slipped away from hers, and Nate’s gaze was intense on the screen of his iPad.
Lee swallowed against the lump in her throat. The food was like a brick in her stomach. “What are you doing?”
Normal. Just be normal.
He glanced up. “Reading the news.”
“Ah. Be careful if you’re planning on emails.”
“I will. I know how to be tight-lipped. But I’d like to call my brother later.”
“Sure. Might not be a bad idea for me to get a hold of Lucas at some point, too. Maybe he’ll recognise the shooter, since neither Downs nor myself were able to.”
“What about the rest of your team?”
Lee nodded. “Good point. Unit briefing is this morning. I’ll see what Downs says, he should be here afterward.”
“Ah.”
She didn’t get a chance to answer him.
A gunshot shattered their morning. The front door split in two as it crashed open, half still attached to the doorframe and hanging at an angle. Wires from the electronic lock sizzled and smoked.
Chapter Ten
“Get down, now!” Lee’s shout made Nate flinch, but he did what she’d ordered.
She returned fire and said a few choice words.
Two big guns fired back. One had to be a larger calibre than the other, because he heard bang and pop. His ears rang as the sound reverberated off the walls of the apartment.
Lee’s gun was louder because she stood closest to him, and he fought the sense of surreality threatening to envelope him.
This is happening. Someone’s shooting at us.
He crouched behind his chair, looking around frantically. They were up shit creek in the kitchen. There was no cover, no protection other than a flimsy wooden table.
Lee’s breakfast and plate went flying as she knocked the table to its side in front of them. She fired her weapon two more times before lowering her body beside him.
“We need to get to the living room,” Nate said.
“Just stay down.” She peeked over the edge but didn’t stay up long.
The kitchen window shattered over their heads and Nate grabbed Lee, shielding her from the flying glass.
“Let me go! I’m the one with the gun!”
Nate shook himself and released her. She was right, damn his protective instinct. Holding Lee down could get them both killed.
Bullets kept flying, until one of the shooters cursed. He wanted to look over the table to see who was hit and where, but Lee kept him blocked with her body. Amusing, considering she was half the size of Nate.
And she isn’t wearing a vest.
He held panic at bay that she’d get hurt protecting him. It might be her job, but he’d never get over it if she was harmed because of him.
“Federal Agent! Drop your weapons!”
The shout jarred him, but Lee jolted forward as if it had shocked her, too. The male voice was deep and unfamiliar. Wasn’t her partner.
True to the scum they dealt with, the gunfire increased instead of ceased.
When there was finally a pause, Lee stood and held her Glock high, but didn’t fire. She was probably checking for the location of her fellow FBI guy.
The sickening thud of a body hitting the ground sounded and she threw him a look. “Stay here.”
“You’re not wearing a vest,” Nate said.
“Neither are you. Stay put. You’re the important one.”
“Wrong.” But she was already gone.
At least the gunshots had stopped.
Grunts and the shuffling of booted feet suggested there was a physical scuffle ensuing and Nate cursed. He’d kill whatever bastard had the nerve to put their hands on Lee.
He wanted to go to her, help her and the mystery agent, but he couldn’t see anything from his position. Hated to admit it, but she was in control and he’d have to respect her orders. She would keep him in one piece.
Nate trusted Lee completely.
Staying covered is smart.
“Dammit.” He made a fist and shook his head. He had a concealed handgun licence in Texas, but New York didn’t recognise it. And he hadn’t brought his SIG with him anyway. Nate wished for it now.
A pool of blood was visible at the edge of the room, stopping at the threshold of where carpet met linoleum floor of the kitchen. The body wasn’t in sight, but couldn’t be far, not with all that dark red on tan.
“Son of a bitch!” Lee’s shout accompanied a gun shot that racked Nate to his core. It was closer, louder, than the others.
He popped to his feet, ignoring the stinging in his legs and hopped over the table. Nate almost tripped over a pair of legs clad in black, but he was able to jump over the injured or dead shooter without falling on his face.
Lee had her Glock trained on two men who were wrestling over a single gun. She couldn’t get a clear shot. There was a semi-automatic handgun lying on the carpet about ten feet from them. Nate rushed forward and kicked it farther away. He knew better than to touch it.
He retreated behind Lee. She was still trying to get a clear shot, but the bigger guy cold-cocked the other man, and he tumbled to the carpet. The man on the floor had gained control of the weapon.
“Stewart, shoot him,” Lee shouted.
The assailant backed towards the bare doorway, pointing at the male agent. “You. Are. Dead.” Then he whirled and fled the apartment.
“Fuck!” Lee darted out behind him.
The other FBI guy—Stewart—made it to his feet. He looked at Nate. “Stay here. Call 9-1-1.” Then he was gone, pursuing Lee and the bad guy.
Nate’s whole body shook.
Lee was gone. Out the door. Without a vest. After some unknown, Italian-looking-thug.
It didn’t matter that it was her job or that she did it every day.
She could get hurt. Shot. Dead.
Shit.
He shook his head and looked around. The guy on the ground was big, probably even taller than Nate’s six feet three inches, and his skin was pale, drawn. Shoulders broad, frame packed with muscle. Couldn’t tell where the man was hit, but his shirt and jacket—covering his whole chest—were soaked in blood. Looked I
talian as well.
Did Caselli do an ethnic background check before he hired on? Or were they all born into the organisation? Nate had heard the gangster’s father had been in ‘the business’ for years before him.
Nate felt for a pulse, but failed to find one. His knees knocked together as he gained his feet. He locked his legs so he wouldn’t fall over. “Right. 9-1-1.”
He hurried into the kitchen and made a grab for the cordless on the wall. His hand shook as he dialled the three numbers.
Reaching for all his inner strength, he calmly explained to the dispatcher what had happened, and that he was with two FBI agents. Both of whom were in foot pursuit of the remaining shooter. Told the woman there was a man down, no pulse. No, he didn’t want to stay on the line until the police arrived.
He hung up, the click and dial tone making his ears ring all over again. As loud as the gunshots had been.
Nate dragged his hand down his face and blew out a breath. In all the years he’d been a prosecutor, all the pictures of crime scenes he’d had to show juries, nothing was like seeing a body first-hand.
Blood. Torn skin. The stench of released bodily fluids, the pallid tone of bloodless flesh.
At least this was a thug he didn’t know, not a long-time friend. He wouldn’t have been able to withstand losing two people he cared about, and witnessing it. Angelo was enough.
Nate had received a few death threats at the DA’s office for cases he’d won or lost, but it’d never been so close to home. Not like this. Not two guys bursting into an apartment where he was supposed to be in protective custody. With the FBI covering his ass.
Bile rose and he swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. His stomach threatened to toss his breakfast.
Get it together. Now.
What the hell had happened? How’d Caselli find out where he was? And what about the other witness? Was she okay or had he found her, too?
The jumble of questions with no immediate answers came to a halt as Lee came back into the apartment. Curse words spewed from her mouth that would make any trucker proud. The other agent was on her heels. Both wore expressions of fury.