LITMIR.BIZ

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beer.”

      Once on the ground, they shed their helmets and locked their equipment in the back of the black S.W.A.T. van. Combing his fingers through the sweat-dampened spikes of his hair, Holden crossed down to the street to join Rafael Delgado and Joseph Jones, Jr.—Triple J or Trip, as he liked to be called.

      He held up his hand to urge the gathering crowd of curiosity-seekers off the street while the others guided the ambulance carrying Al Mabry through. Lieutenant Cutler followed right behind, signaling the EMTs when they were clear to take off. Cutler joined the team as they gathered at the van. The lieutenant congratulated them on a successful mission, reminded them to write their reports. Then he shook Holden’s hand and pulled him aside. “Nice shooting, Kincaid.”

      The October morning had enough bite in it to create a cloud between them when Holden released a long, weary breath. Winter was going to be damp and cold—and early—this year in Kansas City. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

      “We’ll get Mabry to the hospital to stitch up his hand and have him evaluated. But he’ll be all right.”

      Holden propped his hands at his hips and nodded toward the house. “Take his mother, too. You said she had a history of high blood pressure. Being taken hostage by her own son can’t be good for her health.”

      “Don’t worry. She’s on the ambulance, too. We’ll let her decompress, then take her statement at the hospital. I want you to do the same.”

      “Go to the hospital?” Other than being hungry as a bear and needing to take a whiz, Holden was in fine shape.

      “Decompress. You’re wound up tighter than a cork in a champagne bottle. You’ve been on duty twenty-four hours, standing watch while we tried to talk Mabry off the ceiling for the last eight.” Cutler pulled off his KCPD ball cap and smoothed his hand over his salt-and-pepper hair before tugging the cap back into place. “Your dad would be proud of you today. By wounding Al Mabry, you probably saved his life. And his mother’s. He was an innocent man, a sick man, but I know you were prepared to make a kill shot.”

      “Just doing my job, Lieutenant. I turn off thinking about anything,” he lied, “and take the shot you tell me to.”

      “Uh-huh.” There was something in Cutler’s sharp, dark eyes that saw more than Holden wanted. So he scuffed the steel toe of his boot on the pavement and looked down to watch a tiny pebble fly against the curb—until Cutler’s words demanded his attention. “Think about this, Kincaid. Before you report for your next shift, I want to hear that you got drunk, got laid or got checked out by the departmental psychologist. I know this has been a tough year for you, and this was a tough scene to work. Go home. Go out. Go to the doc. But take care of yourself.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Dominic materialized at Holden’s shoulder, his wiseass grin firmly in place. “Aren’t you gonna order me to go get some tail, too, sir?”

      “That’d just be feeding the fire.”

      Trip and Delgado joined the circle, laughing out loud at Cutler’s deadpan reply.

      “Ha. Ha.” Dom slapped Holden on the shoulder. “C’mon, big guy. We’ll check out the action at the Shamrock after we clean up and get a bite to eat. Drinks are on me.” He turned to Trip and Delgado. “You comin’ ?”

      “You’re gonna pry open that tight wallet of yours?” Trip’s lazy drawl mocked him with awestruck humor. “This I gotta see.”

      “Lieutenant?” Dom looked up at their commander. “You’re welcome to join us.”

      “I’ll pass this time. My son has a football game tonight. I’ll check in with you guys day after tomorrow. Don’t forget those reports.”

      A chorus of “yes, sir’s” quickly changed into a noisy conversation about the new lady bartender at the Shamrock and whether she had any sisters she’d like to introduce to them. Delgado climbed in behind the wheel and started the van while the rest of the team buckled themselves in. Holden had found the woman pretty enough the last time they’d gone to the Shamrock, but for some reason he was having a hard time remembering what she looked like.

      He must be off his game big time, to let his feelings about his father’s murder distract him from his work—and his play time—and to let them distract him enough that Lieutenant Cutler had noticed.

      He’d been through all the grief counseling, and had been cleared by the department’s psychologist to return to duty four months ago. He hadn’t lied to Cutler or the psychologist about his and his three brothers’ determination to see their father’s killer brought to justice. Even though they weren’t allowed to work the case because of a conflict of interest, Holden, Atticus, Sawyer and Edward had all found ways to keep tabs on the stalledout investigation.

      Atticus and his fiancée, Brooke Hansford, had uncovered evidence about a covert organization named Z Group that had operated in eastern Europe before the breakup of the Soviet Union. Before becoming a cop at KCPD, their father had worked with Brooke’s late parents in Z Group as a liaison from Army intelligence. Something that had happened to a double agent all those years ago in a foreign country had gotten John Kincaid killed.

      His brother Sawyer and his pregnant wife, Melissa, had dealt with an offshoot of Z Group soon after their father’s funeral. But one of the thugs hired by the group had had a personal vendetta against Melissa. He’d terrorized her and kidnapped their young son. Despite the opportunity to blow open the murder investigation, Sawyer had done what any husband would have—he protected his family. John Kincaid would have done the same—any of Holden’s brothers would have—so there was no blame there. Now, Melissa and their child were safe, but anyone who could tell them anything had been driven into hiding or killed.

      And yesterday morning, while Atticus had been reporting on the trip he and Brooke had taken to Sarajevo to visit her parents’ graves—only to discover that it wasn’t her mother’s body that had been buried in that casket nearly thirty years ago—Holden had run smack dab into Liza Parrish. A name he wasn’t supposed to know. A woman he wasn’t supposed to meet.

      The lone witness to his father’s murder.

      Yeah. He was a little distracted.

      A lot distracted.

      Liza Parrish could make the scattered pieces of this whole jigsaw puzzle fall into place. His father’s killer would be brought to trial and the Kincaid family could finally find peace.

      So why wasn’t she talking? Why wasn’t she telling the detectives assigned to the investigation everything she knew?

      And why the hell couldn’t he remember what the sexy bartender looked like, the one who’d slipped him her number at the Shamrock, when he had no trouble whatsoever picturing freckles and copper hair, a sweet, round bottom and an attitude that wouldn’t quit?

      As much as his father’s murder challenged his ability to focus on his work, little Miss Liza with the sass and curves—and answers—kept nagging at him like an itch he couldn’t scratch. If he couldn’t get his head together, he’d be a bigger danger to his team than the bad guys they were trained to neutralize.

      Cutler realized that.

      “Yo, big guy.” Dom smacked him on the shoulder, pulling Holden from his thoughts. “I said whoever got Josie’s number first would have to buy the second round of drinks tonight. You in?”

      Josie. Right. That was the bartender’s name. Yet it was hard to razz his buddies about the fact he already had her number, when he couldn’t even recall the color of her hair.

      But copper-red? Short—almost boyishly cropped and sexy as hell? That he could remember.

      He was so screwed. Faking a lightheartedness he didn’t feel, Holden fixed a grin on his face and turned to Dom. “You’re on.”

      It was a hollow victory. But right now he’d take whatever victory he could get.

      HOLDEN’S

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