Loyalty Under Fire (Operation: Hot Spot Book 3)

by Trish McCallan

  “You’re mistaken if you think you have a choice.” When she still didn’t move, he infused steel into his voice. “You’d rather I arrest you, cuff you, and drag you to my car?”

  Rather than dissolving into tears or a screaming tantrum, she squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye.

  “Fine.” Her voice remained level. She put her wrists together and raised them. “Go ahead. Cuff me. Arrest me. I’m sure the city will be thrilled with the wrongful arrest suit I’ll file against you.”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake.

  He blew out an irritated breath and raised his palms in a you-got-me gesture. “Look…” He dropped his voice and stepped closer. “Certain issues have come to light regarding your mom’s case. Issues that can’t be discussed in public. All I’m asking for is a few minutes of your time.”

  Her gaze skittered away from his, but at least she seemed to be thinking his words over. “A few minutes… in your car.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  He frowned. “The doors will be unlocked. You can leave whenever you want.”

  Was that her issue? Being alone in the vehicle with him? Hell, he could remember plenty of times in the past when she couldn’t wait to climb into his car. And just like that, memories flashed.

  Smooth, supple skin beneath his palms… the quake and shiver of flesh against his lips… fingernails biting into his back…

  He jerked, casting the memories aside, hoping she hadn’t noticed the sudden hard spike to his pulse or swelling in his crotch.

  “Okay, since you asked so nicely.” The very lack of inflection in her voice made the sarcasm more biting. But at least she started moving.

  Rio matched his steps to hers. She was walking stiffly, more shuffle than stride. He fought back the rising concern. “What’s wrong?”

  “My knees are sore.” She shrugged. “Nothing a hot bath won’t cure.”

  He glanced down, for the first time noticing the scuffed knees of her gray slacks. Judging by the condition of her palms and pants, she must have landed on the sidewalk on her hands and knees. He reduced his stride.

  She slowed as well, offering him an appreciative smile. “Thanks.”

  The weirdest feeling swept over him, the same one that had hit him when he’d watched her through the one-way glass at the station. A familiar unfamiliarity. She was… yet wasn’t… the girl he’d loved twelve years ago.

  Her reactions simply didn’t fit with his memories. His Becca would have been playing for his sympathy. Not ignoring, even downplaying her wounds.

  Looking back, he’d often wondered why he’d fallen for her so fast and hard. What was it about her that had drawn him? Yeah, her physical attributes had been stellar. But one didn’t fall in love with beauty—or at least he never had. So what was it about her that had dug in and held fast?

  Hell, she’d been a walking disaster. The sweetest, most loving girl one moment and a screaming shrew the next. He frowned slightly; maybe that was it. When Becca had been happy, she’d shed that happiness like an aura, lighting up everyone around her. Problem was, she hadn’t been happy that often, so the sweet, loving Becca had been submerged for the most part. Maybe that’s why he’d stuck it out so long. He’d been waiting for the good Becca to emerge… Maybe he’d latched onto the girl he’d wanted her to be, not the girl she’d been.

  When they reached his vehicle, he opened the passenger door and waited for her to climb inside, then closed it behind her and walked around the hood.

  She waited for him to settle behind the wheel—barely—before firing her first question. “What’s going on? You said the ultrasound wasn’t enough to reopen Mom’s case.” She paused, studying his face. “You found out she was pregnant, didn’t you?”

  “No. I don’t have additional details. I have questions.”

  “Really?” She drew back, her eyebrows rising. “If you don’t have more information on Mom’s death, why are you asking questions? What turned it back into a case?”

  Fuck. He cast about for a red herring that would ring true enough to satisfy her. It was her scraped palms that gave him the excuse he was looking for.

  “The fact someone tried to run you over.”

  Maybe the shock of hearing someone had tried to kill her would interfere with her common sense. If she mulled it over rationally, she’d know his assertion was pure bullshit.

  She frowned at his claim. But then she cocked her head, her face going still, her eyes distant. She was thinking it over.

  Damn.

  “Noooo…” She drew the word out slowly, cautiously, as though she were testing it. But the eyes that met his were clear and certain. “You can’t know for certain the driver was after me. He could have been drunk. He could have fallen asleep at the wheel.” She paused to scan his face. “There’s more to your sudden interest than what happened here.”

  When he didn’t respond, she shrugged, her hand going to the door handle. “Fine. It doesn’t matter. Detective Wilbanks will find out what you’re hiding.”

  Wilbanks? Fuuuck.

  Rio grimaced and shoved his fingers through his hair. “Sherman Wilbanks?”

  He swore beneath his breath at her nod. Wilbanks was hands down the best private eye in the state, hell—maybe even the country. He’d been legendary back when he’d been lead detective in SDPD’s violent crimes division.

  Wilbanks would find out about the missing evidence. Hell, he probably had more contacts in the department than Rio had. As Wilbanks’s client, Becca was bound to find out about the missing case files and autopsy report.

  Blowing out an annoyed breath, he pinned her with a forbidding stare.

  “This needs to stay between us, got it?”

  She lifted an eyebrow and stared back.

  After another annoyed breath, he forced the admission out. “I looked into your mom’s case, but there’s not much to go on, which means I need to do some leg work to verify if she was pregnant.”

  A frown wrinkled her forehead. “An autopsy was done, correct? Wouldn’t that tell you whether she was pregnant.”

  Dammit. She was Johnny on the fucking spot. He framed his response with care. “I wasn’t able to locate the autopsy report.”

  Leaning against the backrest of her seat, she scratched at her hairline. “And you don’t find that suspicious?”

  He did, as a matter of fact. Damn suspicious. But he kept the admission to himself.

  After a few seconds, she gave a small nod. “What do you want to know?”

  Well, look at that. They were finally making progress. He grabbed his notepad and pen from the console between them. “Did your mom have any family? Sisters? Brothers? Parents?”

  They hadn’t talked about family in those short, intense weeks. Or at least not about the family on her mother’s side. There had been plenty of bitching about her half-siblings and stepmom.

  She shook her head, looking pensive. “She was an only child, from a long line of only children. Her parents died before I was born.”

  Well, that avenue was a dead end. “What about friends? Anyone she was close to? Someone she might have confided in if she was pregnant?”

  Becca nodded, her face thoughtful. “There were a couple of women from church she was tight with. Annie Lebronc and Martha Hugley. Father Garcia would know if they’re still alive.”

  Good to know. Rio jotted the names down on his notepad. “Which church did Father Garcia serve?”

  “Our Lady of the Rosary, out on Columbia Street.” Becca turned her head, gazing out the window. “Mother was a regular there.”

  “Was that how your father and mother met? Through church?”

  Aaron Hart had been a church regular too. But he’d gone to Saint Joseph’s, same as Rio’s grandmother.

  “No. They met through Harold.” Becca turned back to face him.

  That made sense. Harold Hopewell had been known for his generosity. As the mayor of San Diego, Aaron had been constantly looking for donations to a wide variety
of causes. The two men must have crossed paths often.

  “How about coworkers? Was there anyone at Harold’s estate she might have confided in?”

  Becca squinted slightly and cocked her head, a distant look in her eyes. “Maybe Hilde Birkeland? She was the groundskeeper’s wife. Mom used to spend a lot of time with her.” She paused to shake her head. “She was ancient even back then. I’m not sure she’s still alive.”

  “How do you spell that?” Rio jotted the name down as Becca spelled it out.

  He hesitated over the next question. But it needed to be asked and answered. “Who found your mom’s body?”

  She twitched before going still. The life leached from her eyes until they were blank as glass. Empty as death.

  “I did. But I don’t remember much from that day.”

  Rio froze. Becca had found her mother’s body? Walked in on it hanging in the middle of the foyer. Jesus… she’d been what? Thirteen? Fourteen? Christ, that must have hit her like a bomb blast—traumatizing for sure.

  Nobody… not Adam, not his grandmother, not even Becca herself, had mentioned that she’d been the one to find her mother’s body. Why hadn’t anyone told him?

  His chest tightened. Ached like a motherfucker.

  Jesus.

  “Okay.” His voice was quiet, gentle. “Who else was there?”

  While he needed a visual of the suicide scene, he sure as hell didn’t need to drag her through that memory again. He’d track down the first responders as soon as he got back to the station, but it would be helpful to have a description of the scene prior to the emergency services arriving. Although sixteen years was a hell of a long time when it came to remembering details.

  “Hilde and Mathias came,” Becca said vaguely, her voice so dull it sounded robotic.

  “Mathias?” Rio fought the impulse to reach across the console and gather her in his arms.

  “Birkeland. The groundskeeper. Hilde’s husband.”

  “Right.” Rio added the last name to his list and snapped the notebook shut. He hesitated, but the question wouldn’t be held back. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were the one who found your mother?”

  A raw, haunted look slipped through the blankness of her eyes. She opened her mouth, leaning toward him slightly, only to pull back. He could almost see the walls come crashing down. Her face went flat again, her eyes empty.

  “Because there was nothing to tell. I don’t remember anything.” Her hand flew to the door handle and tightened.

  Yeah… right.

  But he let it go. The time for such questions had come and gone years ago.

  He raised his voice as she opened the car door. “I wasn’t kidding about that truck. There’s a good chance it was aiming for you.”

  She frowned. “There’s no possible way you can know that for sure.”

  “The skid marks will tell us whether the driver was accelerating.” He shrugged at the questioning look on her face. “A distracted driver doesn’t accelerate and target, neither does someone who falls asleep at the wheel.” He studied her face. That blank, empty expression was gone.

  Thank Christ.

  “You need to think about hiring a bodyguard.” If she could afford to hire Wilbanks, who was far from cheap, she could afford a bodyguard. “At least until we get the results back from the skid marks.”

  She grimaced, chewing at her bottom lip, clearly not thrilled with the suggestion. “How long will it take for the results to come back on the tire tracks?”

  “A couple of days.” If he rode the crime scene guys’ asses morning and night. “I have some buddies on leave. They owe me a favor. They’ll keep you safe until we know what’s going on.”

  “On leave,” Becca repeated, her expression cooling. “They’re friends from your old SEAL team?”

  “Yeah,” he said slowly, watching her expression chill even further. What the fuck was she reacting to now? “From ST7. They’re trained for this kind of situation.”

  “No, thank you.” Her tone was polite, but the shove she gave the door to open it carried far too much force.

  “This isn’t a damn game.” His voice sharpened with frustration.

  “I’m aware.” She swung her right leg out and turned her head to look at him. “I’m not ignoring your advice. I’ll talk to Detective Wilbanks. If he agrees with your assessment, I’m sure he’ll have someone he can recommend.”

  Rio’s lips tightened. She didn’t trust his recommendations? What the fuck was that about? As she climbed out of the car, he remembered the ultrasound she’d found in her mother’s journal. It was a long shot, but maybe he could track down the clinic associated with the film. If he had the file number, the patient record would tell them whether Rachel Blaine had been pregnant.

  “Becca.” He leaned across the console and looked up, trying to catch her attention. She ducked her head and shoulders back into the passenger seat space and sent him a questioning look.

  Crack.

  The passenger window behind Rio shattered, spewing glass everywhere. Dozens of stinging needles descended on him.

  With a startled scream, Becca ducked, covering her head with her arms.

  Shot. Up high. On the right.

  Adrenaline surged. Sharpened his senses. His heart and respiration took off in unison.

  Fuck… someone had shot at them.

  Crack.

  Another shot.

  Fuck… fuck… fuck.

  He lunged across the passenger seat and latched onto Becca’s arm. With a hard yank, he jerked her back into the car.

  “Keep down. Legs inside. Grab the door,” he snapped, his voice cool and crisp, his heart galloping like a wild mustang beneath a helicopter.

  He slammed the gearshift into reverse, twisted the wheel, checked his rearview mirror, and hit the accelerator, rocketing backward. The shooter was in front, up high. He needed to put some distance between the bastard and Becca.

  Crack… crack.

  The passenger window next to Becca shattered.

  Rio’s heart shot into his throat.

  “Becca?” he roared, chancing a quick glance in her direction.

  “I’m okay,” she yelled back, her voice shaky and weak. She was hunkered down in her seat, well below the dashboard. She’d pulled her legs inside, but the door still stood wide open.

  “Grab the door,” he ordered again. The shooter was too far in front now to target her through the open door, but the last thing they needed was her tumbling out into the street.

  He roared past Herrera and Simmons, who were driving the sidewalk stragglers to safety. As the officers followed their charges into an overhanging archway and took position on either side of the entry, Rio hit the all-channels button on the radio mounted to the dashboard—sending his broadcast to every radio in the precinct.

  “Shots fired. Officers under fire. Eight thousand block, Aero Drive,” he said into the radio, still accelerating bat-fuck-crazy backward.

  A second of silence, followed by a flurry of staticky questions. Herrera’s calm voice joined in, updating the dispatcher.

  A car turned onto the street behind him.

  “Hang on to your seat,” he said grimly as he slammed on the brakes and cranked the wheel. The Crown Vic spun in a one-eighty. He hit the accelerator again.

  He needed to contact Fuentes. Update him about this new development. But first order of business was getting his charge to safety and a couple of watchdogs to babysit her.

  Because there was no doubt about it now. Someone was trying to kill her.

  Chapter Six

  Becca choked back a scream, her stomach heaving as Rio slammed on the brakes and swung the car into a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree spin.

  The momentum of the turn slammed the passenger door into her right side, where it bounced off her shoulder. She gritted her teeth, forcing back another scream as pain ricocheted out from the impact point—jolting across her shoulder and down her arm in incandescent spikes of agony.

&n
bsp; “Grab the door,” Rio said in a calm voice, his gaze flickering toward her.

  “Sure.” Becca grimaced at the faintness of her voice, wishing she sounded as calm and casual as he did.

  But then he was probably used to being shot at, first as a Navy SEAL, then a police officer, and now a detective. His career choices practically begged for late-afternoon shoot-outs, followed by cruising speeds of a hundred miles an hour.

  “Becca!” He shot another quick glance at the yawning abyss along her right side.

  “I know. I know. The door.” She blew out an aggravated breath.

  She anchored herself in place by grabbing the edge of the seat. Without looking down at the endless ribbon of black whistling below her, she leaned outside the cruiser far enough to grab the door handle. The agony pulsing across her shoulder escalated to knife jabs and volcanic lava as she struggled to pull the door toward her. When it finally clicked into place, she groaned in relief and collapsed into her seat.

  Sweaty and shaky, she looked down at her right shoulder. Why did it hurt so bad? Had the door’s impact broken a bone?

  Queasy joined sweaty and shaky when she caught sight of the moist, red fabric of her blouse. Fabric that used to be white. Her gaze dropped to her right hand and the crimson beads that dripped steadily to the floor.

  A broken shoulder or arm wouldn’t bleed. Would they?

  She scanned her right side again. Nothing looked bent or broken or out of whack. It just looked bloody. Maybe the edge of the door had sliced her skin… but she didn’t see a rip in the fabric of her blouse.

  High on her shoulder though, just below the fleshy curve, she found a blood-soaked, frayed hole in the fabric. A bullet-sized hole.

  Bullet wounds bled like the dickens. She knew that from the movies.

  Her brain went dark and fuzzy, buzzing with shock. Someone had shot her! Which certainly explained the blood and pain. Except… she hadn’t felt the bullet hit. Would she have been so oblivious to something so traumatic? In the movies, shooting victims realized they’d been shot immediately. Maybe adrenaline had masked the impact? Was that even possible?