The Line of Duty

by Nichole Severn

  “Right.” A minute passed, maybe two. The flight attendant’s voice from the front of the plane fought to keep her in the present, but Shea only had attention for him. The way his dark lashes rested on his cheeks, how a set of stitches from his fight with Grillo slashed down through one naturally arched eyebrow. She couldn’t help but memorize every detail, every imperfection, every ridge and valley of muscle exposed in the light of the plane’s dim lighting. All too easily, she envisioned the woman lucky enough to have him all to herself. He was a warrior and a hell of an investigator. He’d protect his life partner until his last breath, just as he’d protected her after the crash, and a knot of jealousy formed behind her sternum. What would it be like to be his? She followed the curve of his neck to the point where his tattoos climbed to the base of his skull.

  “You still want to touch them, don’t you?” he asked.

  How had he known? The pressure of his attention gave her pause, and a prickling sensation spread into her face. She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to explain the compulsion to touch him. Not the Blackhawk Security investigator he presented to the world but the man he’d been before that, the one he kept hidden under sarcastic remarks, secrets and banter. She wanted to touch the cop who’d almost died in a fire in the middle of a crime scene so he could find the truth.

  His seat protested over the high-pitched drone of the engines as he shifted forward, close, so close. Dark brown eyes steadied on her, and the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. “All right, Freckles, as soon as we’re safe, I’m all yours.”

  Chapter Ten

  He’d meant every word on the plane.

  Shouldering his duffel up the eight stairs off Herkimer Street, Vincent hit the four-digit code into the keypad beside the large black double doors leading into the safe house and motioned Shea inside. Instincts on alert, he scanned down both ends of the street. Her fresh scent chased back the smell of recycled air, diesel and humidity as she maneuvered past him, but he couldn’t pay it much attention now that they’d finally made it to New York. Grillo was dead, but that didn’t mean he and Shea hadn’t been flagged by the rest of his organization when they’d landed. The brownstone Blackhawk’s founder and CEO had secured them for the next two days had to have cost the firm well over Vincent’s yearly salary, but in this situation, no amount of money was too much to keep his partner safe.

  Windows positioned only at the front and the back of the property, military-grade security system installed by Blackhawk specialists, closed-circuit surveillance at the front and back doors recording every car that passed, every face that came within ten feet of the door. The place was located less than ten blocks from the safe house Anthony Harris and Bennett Spencer had secured for Shea’s son. He’d made her a promise, and Vincent didn’t intend to back down. He’d get her to Wells.

  She slid her backpack—the same one that’d saved their lives in the wilderness—from her shoulder, but still clutched the worn strap as she studied the house. The front entryway led into a massive living room with pale hardwood floors and an extravagant old fireplace repainted white, with the entire upper half of the wall made of worn red brick. Gold-and-white art had been hung on either side of the fireplace, attempting to bring the hundred-year-old building into this decade, but there was a physical history to these houses. Vincent heard it in the way the floor creaked as Shea moved toward the turquoise couch positioned at one end of the living room, saw the dust that’d built up on the higher rows of bricks along the wall. Sunlight pierced the floor-to-ceiling glass doors at the back of the house, just beyond the modern white kitchen, making the green of her eyes somehow brighter. In that moment, the bruises faded, the color in her cheeks returned, and shadows under her eyes disappeared. She made broken look beautiful, and he couldn’t look away. “This is a safe house?”

  He nodded toward the alarm panel set behind him off one side of the entry doors. “We did the security work for the owner a few months ago. When I briefed the team about the case, Sullivan reached out to see if he’d be willing to let us rent the house for a couple days. Guess they came to an arrangement.”

  “It’s beautiful.” She skimmed long fingers over the railing of the banister leading up to the second floor. Notching her chin over one shoulder, she refused to meet his gaze. “And the security system—”

  “We’ll be safe here.” He’d make sure of it. Vincent closed the small space between them, his boots echoing from the combination of hardwood flooring and the open concept architecture of the home. He dropped the duffel at his feet. Sliding his hand to her hips, he tugged her into his chest. Stress corded the tendons between her neck and shoulder as he traced his mouth along the outside of her ear, and she relaxed back into him. Ebbing pain spread from the bruises where he’d taken two to the chest, but he’d choose the discomfort over ending up six feet under. Pain had become his friend after the fire, his ally. It told him he wasn’t dead yet. “I gave you my word, Shea. I’m not going to let anything happen to you or your son. I’m going to end this.”

  “No.” She turned in his arms, her tired gaze locked on his. Dark hair fell in curls around her face, and he ached to run his hands through the strands to confirm they were as soft as he remembered. “We’re in this together, remember? A team. Survive together or die alone.”

  “This isn’t your fight.” Grillo and his men had nearly killed her. He couldn’t stand the thought of putting her life—her son’s life—at risk again because he hadn’t been careful enough, but letting her walk away, move on with her life... Vincent breathed in her sultry scent, held on to it, made it part of him, then let it go. He’d walk away to keep her safe, to help her get her life back. No matter what’d happened in the past or what that damn psych evaluation said, she deserved to be happy. With or without him. He spread his free hand over her arm, locking down the flood of desire rushing through him. “Elizabeth can get you and your son new identities. You could go anywhere you wanted, get as far away from this nightmare as possible. You’d be safe. They’d never be able to find you.”

  For her protection, neither would he.

  Shea lowered her chin, and his heart jerked in his chest. Would she take him up on his offer? Would she disappear from his life? Reaching out, she intertwined her fingers with his, then looked up at him through long dark lashes. She pulled him toward the stairs leading to the second floor, her hair falling in waves over her back. Nervous energy pulsed down his spine as they climbed each stair, then exploded as she led them into the first bedroom on the second floor. The same pale hardwood ran along the length of the room with another wall of deep red brick wrapping one wall. The fireplace, similarly painted as the one downstairs, demanded attention near the queen-size bed, but Vincent only had awareness for her, for the hesitation in her expression as she faced him in the center of the big room. Her lips parted, her tongue swiping between them, and his insides jumped. “I’m safe with you.”

  Angling her head up, she stepped into him, fingers fisted into his T-shirt as she rose on her toes to reach him. Her soft mouth smoothed over his slowly, unsure, but after a few moments worked to claim every part of him. Faster, deeper, desperate. Her fingernails bit into the back of his neck, searing his skin, as though she intended to make them one, but he didn’t pull away. Hints of mint toothpaste teased his senses, and goose bumps rose on the back of his neck. Hell, he couldn’t get enough of her. She tasted of strength, stubbornness and vulnerability, and she was hiking his blood pressure higher with each stroke of her tongue against his. The bullet wound in his shoulder protested as he leveraged his free hand under her rib cage and lifted her against him.

  She wrapped those powerful legs around his waist, easing the pressure in his arms, but he didn’t give a damn about the pain. There was only her. Threading her fingers through his hair, she broke the kiss as he pressed her back against the brick wall surrounding the ornate fireplace. Her unsteady exhale skidded across his neck as
she framed his jaw with one hand. Desire swirled in the jade-green depths of her eyes. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me, too.” He toed off his boots, still holding on to her as best he could. Because there was no way in hell he was letting her go. Not now. Not ever. Stitches pulled tight in his right thigh, but there wasn’t a damn thing that was going to stop him from memorizing every inch of her body. “Otherwise I might not be able to get this sling off myself.”

  “I can help with that.” The sensual promise in her voice hit him square in the gut. With a brilliant smile, she straightened her legs, sliding along the length of him until she hit the floor.

  She worked her fingers under the straps of his sling, and within seconds, he was hauling the material and his T-shirt over his head. Her eyes widened as she took in the damage from the two bullets he’d caught in the vest, the bloodied gauze taped to his shoulder. But before he had the chance to tell her it was okay, that they didn’t have to do this, her hands were on him. Heat tunneled down through his skin, into muscle, as she traced the patterns across his chest. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

  Even if it means she’s not in a position to love you back? Kate’s words echoed through his mind. The truth was, Shea could hurt him. Worse than any fire, any bullet and any piece of shrapnel, but for the first time since Sullivan Bishop had found him in that warehouse with second-and third-degree burns over 30 percent of his back, Vincent was willing to take the risk. He didn’t give a damn what some department shrink had written in her psych eval. They didn’t know Shea like he did. He caught her hand in his, brought the tips of her fingers to his mouth. The lie came easily enough. “You couldn’t ever hurt me, Freckles.”

  “What makes you so sure?” she asked.

  He slid his hand into the waterfall of hair above her ear. Hell, it was just as soft as before, maybe even more so, but he saw past that beauty to the steel underneath, to the woman who’d risked her life for a chance to save his, the woman who’d suffered so much, yet kept putting others’ needs ahead of her own. “Because you protect people. I know you’d never hurt anyone if you could help it. Not even me.”

  He offered her his hand, as she had downstairs, and maneuvered her through the bathroom door to their left. He hit the light, out of patience to notice anything other than the wall of glass housing a large open shower. In seconds, he twisted the rain shower head on and stripped them both bare as steam filled the space, being careful of her wound. Leading her beneath the spray, Vincent reveled in the feel of her skin against his. Hot water seared his skull and seeped into his wounds, but it was nothing compared to the sensations her hands generated as she traced the pattern of scars on his back. He claimed her mouth again, sweeping his tongue past the seam of her lips, memorizing her, making her part of him. Making them one.

  * * *

  SHE HADN’T BEEN intimate with anyone since her divorce. Not until Vincent.

  She could still smell him on her, the hint of soap and man that somehow had been driven deep into her pores. Shea shifted in the passenger seat of the rental SUV as the memories of those delirium-inducing hours played across her mind. After their shower, they’d managed to make it to the bed, and she’d lost herself in him, in pleasure, in escape, to the point she hadn’t been able to tell her fantasies from reality. There’d only been him. He’d been all male, full of power he barely contained as he’d pushed her entire body into overdrive. His touch had awakened feelings and sensations she’d lost to the darkness of her depression. Within just a few hours, everything had returned to full color.

  They’d talked, laughed, learned about each other. She’d listened as he recounted the night of the fire, how Blackhawk’s founder had found him barely breathing and gotten him the help he’d needed. How Sullivan Bishop had recruited him to the firm and promised to help Vincent find the people who’d lit the match. She’d opened up about her brother’s death, how she’d become a cop to keep the blood running blue in her family. How she’d crossed oceans for people her entire life who hadn’t ever considered crossing a bridge for her, people like her ex. She’d drifted off to sleep sometime in the afternoon, wrapped in his arms. Wrapped in safety. Shea cut her gaze to him in the driver’s seat, her breathing steady despite the pain in her side. She hadn’t felt that kind of peace in a long time.

  Now they were parked outside the warehouse where it’d all begun. The murder scene of IAB Officer Ashton Walter and the two technicians Vincent had lost the night of the fire remained eerily quiet, nothing but her rhythmic pulse soft at the base of her throat. Dim street lighting revealed graffiti painted across boarded windows and doors. A strip of yellow crime scene tape lifted from the pavement in front of one of the rolltop doors with the breeze. Burn patterns darkened the perimeter of the second-floor windows at one end of the warehouse, and her insides clenched. All too easily, she imagined Vincent at the center of an entire building threatening to come down on him at any moment, the flames closing in, the pain. All because he’d been doing his job. If it hadn’t been for the man who’d become his boss, would Vincent have made it out alive? She didn’t want to think about the answer.

  “No movement.” Nothing to suggest they were walking into an ambush, but they weren’t going to move into position until they were absolutely sure Grillo’s organization hadn’t been doing their own surveillance. Sliding her hand over his, she studied his hardened expression. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

  “I have to. It’s the only way to uncover the truth.” In her next breath, he reached into the back seat for the pair of bolt cutters and a borrowed forensic case and shouldered out of the SUV. He hit the pavement, and she followed close on his heels.

  Shea scanned both ends of the street lined with warehouses, parked cars and strobing fluorescent lighting from worn signage. The district played host to a variety of industries, mostly industrial with lots stretching as far back as the East River like this one. Easier access for deliveries from the docks. Jogging across the street, she followed him to the east side of the building and pressed her back against the cinder blocks while he cut through a padlock located beneath the warning sticker NYPD had sealed against the door. Her instincts told her they should’ve looped in local authorities, but then again, the men who’d attacked her and Vincent in the mountains had been local authorities. They couldn’t trust the police. And if she couldn’t trust the very people who were supposed to protect innocent lives, she didn’t know who to trust anymore. Except Vincent.

  “Got it.” The door hinged inward, nothing but darkness and the scent of burnt toast and gasoline on the other side. With a glance toward her, he nodded once before his mountainous outline disappeared inside.

  Shea retrieved the flashlight from her jacket and brought the beam to life before unholstering the weapon Vincent had given her back at the safe house. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end as she shuffled through debris, broken glass and puddles of rain water that’d come through the leaking roof. The small amount of research she’d done on that night reported it’d taken NYFD close to six hours to extinguish the fire. An accelerant had been used, officials narrowing it down to gasoline, which explained the slight burn in her nostrils. She tried breathing through her mouth, focusing on Vincent’s outline, and pushed ahead to a cleared section of ashes. Dread collected in the pit of her stomach. Every inch of the floor had been covered in debris, except for the two body-sized areas here. Was this where EMTs had found Vincent’s team?

  “Over here.” His voice echoed off what was left of the aluminum roofing, intense, isolated, and warning slid up her spine.

  She found him crouched over a similar cleared section of ash, her beam highlighting the tension in the muscles down his back. Winter in New York City wasn’t quite as frigid as Anchorage, but the cold still worked through her clothing and into her bones. Her breath solidified into crystalized puffs in front of her mouth as she redirected the flashlight beam to the floor—and
froze. “That’s a bullet casing.” Warped from the looks of it. At least old enough to blend into the landscape of ash, dried blood and dirt. She wouldn’t have recognized the casing for what it was unless she’d been looking in that exact spot for evidence. She scanned the area around the casing but couldn’t see more than a few feet in circumference. “Hard to believe the techs or the fire department managed to miss something like that after the fire. They would’ve had investigators all over this place.”

  “Without having access to my lab, my guess is the casing is about the same age as the fire. This one is nearly melted into the floor.” The sound of plastic over gravel shot her heart into her throat as he slid his forensic case closer and popped the lock. He snapped latex gloves over his hands and peeled an evidence bag from the roll in his kit. Carefully, he collected the casing from the floor and dropped it into the bag, and she couldn’t help but watch every move he made. This was what he’d been trained for. He was in his element here, intense, focused, alert, and she couldn’t help but admire his attention to detail. “But the casing over there is newer.” Vincent redirected his flashlight a few feet from where he crouched, highlighting the metallic shell. “Both were shot from a .38 Smith & Wesson. Same caliber the medical examiner recovered from Ashton Walter’s body.”

  Two casings. Two different time lines. “You think the people who killed that IAB officer might’ve kept using this location to carry out their executions?” On one hand, that theory made sense. FDNY and NYPD had condemned the building after the fire, making it impossible for another business to occupy the space, which gave an organization of corrupt cops the exact opportunity they needed to carry on with business as usual. On the other hand, using the same location where they’d committed their previous crimes could be considered careless. “I don’t see a man like Grillo leaving evidence behind for us to find.”