by Norris, Kris
“I didn’t do anything with the knife.”
“It’s what I imagined you might do. All of it possible, by the way.” She blew a few stray strands of hair out of her face. “Wayward Souls?”
“Thought you’d be happy I took your advice.”
“I am. I just didn’t think you’d name your company after something I said.”
“Guess you’re a hard lady to forget.”
A light blush crept along her cheeks then down her neck, and he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d look like that after a night of tumbling in the sheets.
Jericho chuckled. “Anyway, thanks, again, for the coffee.”
“I had a promise to keep.”
She inhaled, holding it for a few moments before slowly exhaling. “Careful, Cannon. You might just change my opinion of men.”
“God forbid.” He took a step closer, leaning into her. “You sure you’ll be okay partnering up with Faraday? Collins is right. Even I can tell something’s off about him, and I just met him.”
Jericho sighed, glancing over at Dave. “He and his wife separated six months ago. I’m sure it’s just the fallout from that.”
“Doesn’t matter what it is, if it puts your safety in jeopardy.”
“I’m not in danger. Promise. But…” She held up her hand to stop him from interrupting. “I’ll call him on it if it happens, again.”
“You might not be alive to do anything if he leaves you hanging, again.”
“What’s wrong? Gonna miss me?”
“I don’t buy coffee for just anyone, sweetheart.” He looked at Faraday, noting the slight tremble in his hands, the beads of sweat on his forehead. Call him crazy, but Cannon swore it was more than just some stress from a relationship gone wrong. And, while he’d compared it to the guy coming down off a high, he might not be far off.
He held out his hand. “Your phone.”
“Excuse me?”
“Can I please have your phone? Unlocked?”
She pursed her lips, looking incredibly sexy and unsure all at the same time, before reaching into her pocket and retrieving her cell. She unlocked the main screen then handed it to him. “Don’t tell me. You have a shitty service plan so you want to borrow mine to make a long-distance call.”
He snorted, opening her contact list then inputting his information before handing it back to her. “That’s my personal cell. The one I pretty much never give out. Promise me you’ll call if you find yourself in a dangerous situation, again. Doesn’t matter what time. Where you are. What’s going down. Just call.”
She stared at her cell then slowly drew her gaze up to him. “That’s… Thank you. And I will.”
“Promise me.”
“Scout’s honor.” She glanced over his shoulder when Faraday called her name. “Gotta go, but…how about coffee tomorrow morning? That same café. Say around seven? Even if I’m on guard duty, I should be able to make it before my shift starts.”
“I’ll see you there.”
“Great.” She turned then looked back at him. “And thanks. For the number.”
“My pleasure. See you tomorrow, Jericho.”
She smiled then headed for her desk, talking with a couple of other marshals who gathered around her. Cannon gave her one last sweeping gaze then turned, walking out the door and back to his truck. He made a mental note to call in a few favors—have his buddies dig up whatever they could find on David Faraday. Not that he didn’t believe Jericho. It’s just…
Cannon was good at seeing beyond the surface. And everything about Dave Faraday suggested there was something darker going on. Something more dangerous than a rocky marriage. The kind of secret that got people killed. And, with Jericho in the crosshairs… Cannon couldn’t afford to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. Not with her safety on the line.
He cursed under his breath. He’d just given her his cell number. Not any of the burners he kept—the ones he normally used for contacts, in case he wanted to lose the person, later. His personal number. The one only a few of his brothers knew existed. And he hadn’t thought twice about it.
She was quickly becoming an itch he couldn’t seem to scratch enough. He just wasn’t sure if it was temporary, or the kind of trouble that lasted a lifetime. That he’d managed to avoid, until now. Until…her.
Chapter Four
He was late.
Jericho glanced at her cell for what felt like the fiftieth time since she’d arrived at the restaurant, waiting for a text she wasn’t sure would come. It had been a month since Dave had left her hanging at the bar, and she’d been hesitant to trust him other than during regular hours. But he’d asked to meet her for dinner—said he’d explain everything. That he wanted to make it up to her. And she’d stubbornly agreed.
Now, she was sitting at some obscure table, watching people come and go as time just ticked past. A waiter walked by, refilled her water, waited to see if she was going to order, only to sigh and say—yet, again—that he’d come back in ten.
She’d be in her Jeep driving home in ten, unless Dave called. Or showed up.
God, she was gullible. Trusting. Which was ironic considering she rarely trusted anyone. But Dave was her partner of sorts. They’d been watching each other’s back on assignments since she’d joined the Marshal Service eight years ago. It was an unspoken chain of trust, wasn’t it? A default that came with the badge and title. Partners trusted each other. Period.
She scrubbed a hand down her face. Obviously, she was a terrible judge of people—except where Cannon was concerned. He’d never let her down. Had always showed up on time for their coffee dates—which had been nearly every morning since they’d met at the bar—and he’d never once given her a reason to think he wouldn’t drop everything and ride to the rescue if she needed it. Of course, he’d made a point of telling her that every time they met—casually slipping it into the conversation that she had his number. Could call anytime. Day or night. He didn’t care if it got him arrested. Hell, got him killed. He’d be there.
Which was precisely why she hadn’t called him. Chances were, he’d just ping her location and show up—guns blazing. Knife cutting a swath through whoever was in the place. She’d done a bit of researching. Okay, so she’d casually asked her uncle—Admiral John Hastings, or Jack to his family. The closest thing she’d had to a father since her own had been killed on a mission overseas. And she’d been floored by what Jack had told her.
Purple Heart. Silver Star. Medals with titles she couldn’t remember. Cannon had them all. A shoebox full of them. And those were the ones on record. That were public knowledge. She knew he had more—for missions even the President didn’t know about.
Cannon was one of the last true warriors out there. And one of the few good guys left.
So, she’d avoided calling him, keeping any communication to either texts or in-person meetings—which were getting more frequent. She’d wanted to call. Pretty much every night since he’d given her his number. Just to hear his voice. To feel that gravelly tone wash over her—make her feel…
Safe. Hot. Some weird combination of both. It was like being aroused and soothed all at the same time. And she didn’t know whether she wanted to pounce on him or close her eyes and sleep.
Who was she kidding? She wanted him. In every way possible. She wanted to gaze over her coffee mug and see his face. Watch how it changed whenever he smiled—which seemed to be whenever he looked at her. Listen to how his business was coming along—which buddies had jumped at the chance to come work for him. How many felons he’d collared this week. Fall into bed at night wrapped in his arms—his large firm muscles above her. Driving her into the bed. Then, wake the next morning, still entwined. Do it all over, again.
Another reason she hadn’t called. While he’d given her clear signs he was interested, he hadn’t—once—made a physical play. Hadn’t tried to kiss her. Push her against a wall. Strip her down. It was just coffee and talk and…
Crap. Why hadn’t she realiz
ed it before? She was stuck pushing thirty in the friend zone. She didn’t want the friend zone. Didn’t want calm and collected. She wanted crazy. Wanted insane speeds and huge leaps of faith. Wanted her chest tight, breath held, muscles primed—balancing on the edge, never knowing if they’d make it or just fall.
And she wanted it with Cannon. Rick Sloan. Ex-Delta Force soldier and the guy haunting her dreams. Waking and otherwise.
Her phone chirped, and she looked down.
Sorry, Jer. Shauna showed up, and we’re actually talking. But, I’ll be there. Just hold out a bit longer. An hour, tops. I want to make this right.
Damn it!
How was she supposed to reply to that and not come across as a bitch? Become the asshole in their unofficial partnership?
Jericho tapped a token reply. She’d give him one hour. Exactly. Then, she’d leave—kick his ass in the morning if he didn’t show up. Or, better, let Cannon do it. The guy was itching to—had it in his head that Dave was putting her safety at risk. Which, honestly, maybe he was—a bit. He was definitely distracted. Brooding. Lacking in any real form of communication. But…she owed him the benefit of the doubt, didn’t she? Wasn’t that what partners did for each other? Had their backs when shit went sideways? Gave them a chance at redemption?
Endless chances where Dave was concerned.
I want to make this right.
That’s why she’d stay. Loyalty. On the chance he really did want to talk—confide in her. She knew, firsthand, how hard that was. Making yourself vulnerable. So, she’d order a drink—wait it out. Then, at least she could say that she’d given it her best shot.
She glanced at her phone, wondering if Cannon was back in town, yet. He’d been away for the past three days—had it only been three? If felt as if she hadn’t seen him in weeks. Years. Maybe it was like being in some alternate reality where time passed differently. Cannon space. Either way, he’d been helping some buddies in Montana or something. Brothers, he’d said. But he’d planned on being back tonight.
She could text him. Or call. No, not call. Not going there. She’d already decided that. Not unless it was an emergency. Life or death. Even if she wanted to call. Listen to the way he said her name—god, it shouldn’t turn her on that much.
Alcohol. That’s what she needed. A stiff drink to take her mind off of waiting. Off of needing to call Cannon—see if he could stop by for a nightcap. Give him a chance to make a move. She really wanted him to make a move.
The waiter stopped at her table, again, refilling her water. She thanked him then grabbed her purse. An hour’s worth of water and pop required her attention. Especially if she was going to be waiting another hour. And she knew Dave would take the full hour, if he showed, at all. It was a given. The same way she knew Cannon would bust down the door if she needed him to. Knowledge that went soul deep.
She headed for the restrooms, thankful that it was a private room and not some multi-stall bathroom. She appreciated the solitude—a chance to splash some water on her face. Get her head on straight. Ever since she’d met Cannon, she’d been floundering. Distracted. As if there was a part of her always trying to tune into his frequency. Hear it above the white noise. A romantic version of a dog whistle only she could detect.
Which sounded crazy. But fitting since the man made her feel exactly that. As if her skin didn’t quite fit without him touching it. No matter how innocently. She’d be sitting there at coffee, feeling edgy, one foot tapping the floor until he’d put a hand on her arm. Or shoulder. Or simply brush his fingers against hers. And everything would settle. Like bringing an image into focus.
Maybe Dave wasn’t the problem. Maybe it was her. Maybe she was the one who was putting both their safety at risk. Not that she had any idea how to fix it. What she felt for Cannon—she doubted it would ease any time soon.
She hung her head, breathing slowly in and out, when shouts arose beyond the door. Something clattered to the floor, glass breaking in the distance. She placed her purse on the sink then grabbed her gun, badge and phone. She slipped her phone into her back pocket, clipped her star and holster on her belt, then headed for the door, gun drawn but at her side. She dropped her purse against the wall behind the door, so it wouldn’t be visible if someone checked the area after she was gone. More shouts sounded from the dining area, followed by footsteps down the hallway outside the restroom—the one she knew led to the kitchen area and the rear entrance.
Which only increased the twitchy feeling in her gut. She’d been involved in enough takedowns to recognize the makings of a bad situation. Either the cops or the feds were raiding the joint, or something else was going down.
Jericho cracked open the door—slowly, so the hinges wouldn’t creak—then took a quick peek out. The hallway was dark. Deserted, despite the fact she knew there had been two lights on when she’d entered the restroom. Voices echoed from the dining room. Male. Harsh. What sounded like threats.
A hint of movement flashed in her peripheral vision, and she inched back in, ducking behind the door. Gun poised at her shoulder. Back pressed into the wall. Footsteps outside, then the handle rattled. Twisted. The door opened, not quite touching her as it stopped at a forty-five. Heavy breathing sounded on the other side, some guy muttering a few words she couldn’t make out.
She didn’t move, breath held, finger inside the trigger guard, until the door closed, someone shouting, “Clear.”
More steps away, then the din of a man talking loudly in the background. God, she hated being right. But she needed more intel before she called for backup. Before turning this into a hostage situation if it wasn’t already heading that way.
The door didn’t make a sound as she opened it, checking the hallway then slipping out. The dining area was ahead of her, on the other side of a short wall. She made her way to the archway, using the reflections in the glass to evaluate the situation. A number of men were spaced out amidst the patrons, arms crossed—handguns shoved down the front of their pants. They hadn’t drawn, but she had no doubts they would, if given a reason.
“Is that everyone?”
Damn. She recognized the voice. The southern drawl mixed with more nasal than was pleasant. She shifted sideways, getting a glimpse of the man in the mirror behind the bar area. Patrick Wilson. The guy was a known arms dealer, drug runner, and was suspected in over a dozen murders, including two officers. But he’d been picked up on a petty breaking-and-entering charge. Had either bought or threatened his way into a fairly low bail then simply ditched his court date. Some new evidence had upped the charges against him to manslaughter, aggravated assault, and grand larceny. He was one of the few felons on the U.S. Marshal’s Most Wanted list. She’d nearly caught his ass two months ago, but he’d disappeared.
Until now.
Jericho surveyed the dining room. Two families were shoved into a couple of booths over by the kitchen entrance, with a handful of couples scattered around the floor. Maybe twenty people, and way too many for her liking. No way she could take a stand and not risk anyone getting hurt.
Patrick grabbed one of the waiters and shoved him against the bar. “I said, are you sure this is everyone?”
The man gulped then nodded.
“My colleague said he saw another woman in here.”
“N-n-n-no. No one, else.”
“Then, why is there a glass of water at that table?”
Crap. If the server admitted she’d been there, they’d scour the place. Maybe start shooting people until she stepped out.
The waiter shook his head. “She left. Got stood-up by her date. I saw her grab her purse.”
She focused on Patrick. On the way his hands fisted at his sides and how his head kept twitching to the left—ready to do whatever was necessary if he decided to open fire. She could clip at least four or five of them before the rest finished drawing. Which still left more than enough men to kill everyone in the place.
Patrick sneered. “Left, huh? You’d better not be lying.”
> The waiter shook his head, crumpling to the floor when Patrick punched him.
“I have some business to attend to. If everyone just sits quietly, this’ll all be over soon. But, if I get even an inkling that you’ve called the cops. If I see any lights. A uniform. So much as a big black van pull up either in front or out back, I’ll kill everyone in the room.”
He waved a gun around then disappeared through a door. Office, maybe.
Jericho made her way back to the restroom, clearing inside then removing her phone. She hit Dave’s number, cursing when it went directly to voicemail. She left him a detailed message then called Art.
The man answered on the second ring. “A bit late for a social call, isn’t it, Jericho?”
“I’m at Malone’s. Between ten and twelve armed men. Patrick Wilson’s in the back. Says he’ll kill everyone if he even thinks he sees a cop or a SWAT truck. He’s not bluffing. I saw his face.”
The man mumbled something in the background as a chair scraped out. She heard boots against a wood floor, a door creak. “Where are you positioned?”
“Ladies’ room. They came in while I was washing my hands. I’ve got two families and another dozen people. Looks like the front door’s been locked. Lights heading to the rear entrance are out. I’m betting he has men stationed in the alley. Maybe on the roof or across the street out front. Alert him if anyone remotely officer-like even breathes on this place. I’m alone.”
“Well, shit.” Was that a car door chime? “They know you’re there?”
“Not yet. Hoping to keep it that way.”
“Sit tight. I’ll rally SOG. But it’ll be a good twenty minutes before we get there.”
SOG. The Marshal Service’s Special Operations Group. A unit of highly trained and disciplined officers. The kind that didn’t back down.
“First off, those boys are exactly what he’ll be looking for. Second, I don’t think we have twenty minutes. I won’t engage, but if he looks like he’s going to start shooting…”
“Don’t do anything rash. You hear me?”
