by Laura Kaye
But there was more to it, and Rixey knew it. He continued to do these tats and apprentice toward a license he didn’t really want and had no intention of using in the long term because he was fucking floating through life. No purpose. No plan. No mission.
For a dozen years, all he’d worried about was completing the mission and getting everyone home safe. In Afghanistan, his team had done counterinsurgency work, counternarcotics work, which had often been the same thing, and local police force training. It had been challenging, dangerous, and sometimes frustratingly thankless work, but it had given him the sense of purpose in life he’d been lacking as a younger man.
Now? Wish in one hand, shit in the other. See which one fills up the fastest. He chucked the pad to the desk.
The Army had given him more than just a purpose. It had made him part of something much bigger than himself, placed him in the middle of a brotherhood who understood him implicitly. Nearly a year later, he still mourned the loss of the six good men gunned down in the ambush. Eric Zane, Carlos Escobal, Jake Harlow, Walker Axton, Marcus Rimes, Colin Kemmerer. Their memory was a weight on his shoulders he was privileged to carry. But in not doing more with his life, he wasn’t doing enough to honor their memory. His survival should’ve meant something, shouldn’t it?
You do have a mission, shithead. Keep Becca safe. Find her brother. Get whoever is harassing them to back the fuck off. Maybe that’s why you’re still here.
Fair enough. It was a worthy mission. And if it filled the void for a few days, all the better.
A kind of peace settled over his shoulders—well, as close as he freaking got to anything in the same zip code as peace. And it was enough. Really, it had to be, didn’t it? With a last glance at his soldier-fireman, Rixey pushed up from the chair and made for his bed.
What was on the other side of his soldier identity? Someday soon, he’d have to figure out the fubar of his career and find his own next mission. Wasn’t anybody going to drop that shit in his lap. But, damn, oh stupid thirty in the mothereffing morning was too early to put his brain cells to work on that particular conundrum.
Not even bothering to shed his jeans, Rixey sprawled facedown on the bed, wincing as his jacked-up back reminded him it no longer appreciated that position. He flopped to his side, tugged the sheet up over his hips, and punched the pillow.
Jesus, he was tired.
Knock, knock, knock.
He whipped his head up, alertness crashing through the haze of sleep. Light shone into the room. No way was it morning already. No. Fucking. Way. Felt like he’d fallen asleep about thirty-six seconds ago.
“Building better be on fire,” he groused.
Jeremy leaned into the room, looking a helluva lot more awake and together than Rixey felt. “Becca needs to be to work in forty-five minutes. Her car’s not here?”
Shit. No, it wasn’t. He’d wanted to clear it for any kind of tracking devices before she drove it again. “Okay. Gimme ten.”
“I wouldn’t mind taking her.”
“No,” he said. “I got it.” The door clicked shut behind Jeremy. Rixey pushed out of bed, his back raising hell and his cock hard as steel, and his brain went right to the events of the previous night. Kissing, touching, groping. Sonofabitch. Hopefully, they’d make some major headway on figuring out Becca and Charlie’s situations today. The sooner she was back at her own place and out of his life, the better for both of them.
In the meantime, he’d keep his hands and his dick to himself. It shouldn’t be that fucking hard.
“SORRY I DIDN’T think to ask about your schedule last night,” Nick said in a gravelly voice as he entered the kitchen and went right to the coffeepot. He poured a cup and turned to her, his butt leaning against the counter.
Becca swallowed a bite of cereal. Oh, man, he was as beautiful in the light of day as he was in the shadows of night. He’d clearly showered, and the dampness made his hair darker. His gray T-shirt clung to his skin, wet spots showing through here and there like he hadn’t dried all the way. The gun holster emphasized the bulk of his shoulders.
She cleared her throat, hoping things weren’t going to be awkward between them. They were adults, after all; they should be able to handle a kiss. Okay, a make-out. A really hot make-out. “It’s fine. We have a little time. And Jeremy was keeping me entertained with a description of his T-shirt collection.”
Jeremy grinned and nodded around a big dripping bite of Cocoa Puffs. The shirt he had on today was black with the words Orgasm Donor centered around a red cross. The guy was a flirt and a total smart-ass, and she kinda adored both about him.
Rixey shook his head. “I don’t think there’s a dirty shirt he doesn’t own.”
His brother sat his bowl in the sink with a clunk. “It’s my mission to make sure that’s true.”
Becca smiled. “Do you have any of the Big Johnson shirts from down at the shore?”
“Do I have . . . I’m wearing one tomorrow just for you.”
“Oh, God,” she said. “That was a dumb question, wasn’t it?” She slipped off the stool with her empty bowl.
“Told ya.” Rixey held out his hand. “Here, I’ll take it.”
“Thanks,” she said, meeting the light green of his eyes, like the sea glass she sometimes found at the beach. He held her gaze for a moment, silently asking if they were okay. She smiled, relief flooding through her. “I’ll be ready in five.” She dashed to the bathroom and brushed her teeth, then grabbed her purse and rejoined them in the kitchen.
Jeremy winked. “Adiós, muchacha.”
She winked back. “Hasta luego.”
“Oh, well played.”
She chuckled and followed Nick to the door.
“Later,” he called to Jeremy, guiding Becca out. “Remember the apartment code?” She nodded. “In case you need it, the exterior code is six-eight-zero-one-three.”
She repeated the number out loud, twice. “Got it.”
Outside, the morning air was cool and damp. Puddles settled here and there in the gravel, as if it had stopped raining not long before. They walked to his car in silence, and he followed her around to the passenger side, where he opened the door.
How he could be such a hard-ass and have such good manners, she didn’t know. Probably a military thing. Definitely a sexy thing.
A moment later, Rixey settled into the driver’s seat. “Where to?” he asked as he brought the engine to life on a low growl.
“University Medical Center. Greene and Lombard. I wish I didn’t even have to work today, but I’m covering for someone who couldn’t find anyone else. If I bail, they’ll be shorthanded. And Fridays are always crazy. But I’m going to arrange to take a leave until we find Charlie.”
“Well, I need to put some plans into place anyway. So you won’t miss anything.”
She nodded, and they made their way through the early morning traffic in silence.
“While you’re at work today,” he finally said, “if you’d be comfortable giving me your keys, I’d like to check your house and car out more thoroughly. If you’ll call a locksmith and let me know what time they’re coming, I’ll meet the guy and get your locks changed.”
“Are you still going to visit the private investigator?”
He nodded. “Yeah. He has the bug detection equipment I need, actually. And he’ll know the best way to organize the search.”
She frowned, hating that she had to do this last shift. “I wish I could go with you.”
“We can see him again when you’re free. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
Warm pressure filled her chest. “Thank you. I just want to know what’s going on.” She glanced out the window, worry for Charlie gripping her like quicksand.
“I don’t blame you one bit, Becca.”
The empathy in his voice drew her gaze. His expression was full of compassion. Man, she was lucky to have him helping her, though she felt bad derailing his whole day. “Are you really sure you want to do all this? I don
’t want to wreck your schedule.”
His eyes flashed toward her. “I wanna help. Let me. And, anyway, I can set my own work hours, so it’s no problem.”
“Oh. Tattooing?” Amazing to think he had an artistic side. She’d love to see him draw something sometime. Maybe after they found Charlie and all this was over. She refused to believe it would end any other way.
He frowned. “What?”
“You work tattooing?”
Nick gave a rueful laugh. “No. I meant it when I said I’m not really a tattoo artist. Most of the time I’m a process server.”
“Oh.” That job, she totally got for him. “Is it dangerous?” she asked.
“Not most of the time.”
She heard what he hadn’t said. “Hmm. But sometimes it is.” The thought that he put himself in harm’s way even now that he was back in the States made her stomach drop. And now he was putting himself in even more danger for her. “I want you to know I appreciate what you’re doing, Nick. No matter what.” She couldn’t finish the sentence. She wouldn’t.
“Hey.” His warm hand curled around hers. She squeezed back, so grateful for the show of support. “Try not to worry. I’m going to do everything I can.”
When her eyes pricked, she pretended to get real interested in the passing scenery again. “Okay.”
A moment later, she gave him another squeeze and eased her fingers out from under his, then retrieved her smartphone and opened the internet browser. Soon after, she was explaining to a locksmith what had happened at her house. Angling the phone away from her mouth, she whispered, “Two thirty okay?” He nodded, and she made the appointment. “All set,” she said when she hung up. It took a big worry off her mind to know he was doing this for her. “When this is done, do you think it’ll be safe for me to stay there again?”
“Probably. We’ll get you squared away. Don’t you worry about it.”
“Thank you. And I get off at three, so I’ll be able to help you later.” Despite the morning rush, they sailed crosstown on Lombard, arriving at the hospital in what seemed like no time at all. “Drop me off anywhere,” she said.
He pulled to the curb. “Pick you up at three, then?”
She blinked at him. “If you’re gonna be at my house this afternoon already, I’ll just take the bus home. It’s what I usually do anyway.”
Nick frowned, like he disapproved, but then nodded. “You sure?”
She gave him a small smile. “Yeah. I’ll be home by four at the latest.”
“Good. Let me see your phone.” He made quick work of adding his info to her contacts and calling his phone from hers so he had her number, too. “Call me if you need me before then.”
“Okay.” She handed him her keys, opened the door, and got out, then stuck her head back in. “Thanks for everything, Nick.” At least if she had to be at work, she could take comfort knowing he was out there working on Charlie’s behalf until she got off.
“Hey, Becca?” he called right before she closed the door. She leaned back in. “Be careful.”
“I will. Thanks.” She closed the door and threaded through the stream of pedestrians toward the hospital’s tall glass entrance. At the door, she glanced back. Nick sat in his car at the curb, watching her. And the fact that he was still there blew away some of the cobwebs of loneliness that hung here and there inside her. She wasn’t in this alone. She and Nick were in this together. Gratitude made her smile and wave. And then she pushed through the doors into the chaos of the emergency department.
Chapter 9
Rixey knocked softly on the doorjamb and leaned a shoulder against the wood.
Phone braced between his ear and his shoulder, Miguel Olivero looked up with a smile and waved him in, then lifted a finger in a just-a-minute gesture. His salt-and-pepper hair revealed his sixties-ish age, but he was so animated—his expressions, his gestures, his volume—that you never thought of him as an old man.
Dragging the chair to the left so his back wouldn’t be to the door, Rixey dropped his ass onto the pleather and scanned his gaze around the office space that probably hadn’t been fashionable when it was new in the 1980s. The dark wood paneling made it feel like the walls were closing in, bug carcasses collected in the rectangular fluorescent light fixtures above their heads, and the veneer of the particleboard office furniture had peeled off here and there, exposing the pressed yellow wood beneath. But Rixey still liked visiting here because of the man behind the desk.
Miguel slammed the receiver back in its cradle. “Look what the cat dragged in,” he boomed with his usual over-the-top joviality. “How the hell are ya, kid?”
Rixey couldn’t help but smile around the guy. “Same old, same old.”
“How’s work?” Miguel said, tugging the knot of his striped tie loose like it was strangling him.
“Keeping me busy.” Rixey had met Miguel through the man’s nephew, who was one of Jeremy’s regulars. As a former cop and private investigator, Olivero had a lot of contacts in the law enforcement world, and he’d hooked Rixey up with the process serving gig nearly a year ago. Now the man had become something of a friend.
“How’s the back?” he said, firing through his usual list of catching-up questions.
“About as good as it’s gonna get, probably. But fine.” It was close enough to the truth, and griping about it just reminded Nick he wasn’t the man he used to be.
Miguel’s bushy eyebrows slashed down. “Bah. Still doing PT? Don’t let them docs throw you out before you’re ready.”
Rixey gave a small smile. “Don’t worry. I’m taking care of myself.”
“Y’better. How’s your brother?”
“He’s good. Got a good head on his shoulders. What’s new with you?” Nick asked, hoping to shift the focus away from the soup sandwich his life had become.
Miguel leaned back in his chair and laced his hands over the swell of his stomach with a satisfied smile. “My son’s making me a grandfather again.”
Rixey sat forward. “Congratulations. That’s great news.” He ignored the small ache that planted itself in his chest. As twisted up inside as the last year had left him, he wasn’t sure he’d ever have that for himself. And, if by some act of God he did, he’d never be able to see his father’s pride in becoming a grandfather.
“Yeah. Number three. Nothing new with me, though. Insurance fraud, adultery, tracking down deadbeats. You know how it is. Eh.” He gave an exaggerated shrug. “So, what is it you need help with?”
“A friend of mine’s in trouble. Her brother is missing. Took off or taken, we don’t know yet. But his house was tossed. Then, last night, someone broke into her place, too. Seems like someone’s looking for something. But she’s got no clue.”
Olivero’s whole face frowned. “Police doing anything?”
Nick shrugged. “Reports filed. Nothing stolen that we can tell. Got any thoughts on where and how to start tracking him down?”
Miguel rubbed his jaw. “Wonder if the police pulled any prints. Hmm. I’ll call my guy and see if I can get a copy of whatever they’ve gathered so far. Beyond that, start at the scene and work out. Interview neighbors, take the brother’s picture around, go to any frequent hangouts, check his credit card statements. How time sensitive is all this?”
Similar approach as the skip tracing Rixey sometimes did to serve papers, though that was predicated on the idea that the person disappeared himself, rather than being taken against his will. Either option seemed viable here until ruled out, but Rixey hoped for Becca’s sake that Charlie had just gotten a scare and gone to ground. “Moderate to high. Becca’s pretty upset, as you can imagine.”
“Becca’s the friend, I take it?” Mischief danced in Miguel’s brown eyes.
Chuffing out a laugh, Rixey shook his head. “Yes, she’s the friend.” Although maybe that was too strong a word. Only circumstance and a dead man had brought them together, so it was doubtful they’d be hanging when they got this mess sorted out. A boulder of pressure set
tled itself on his chest, but Rixey refused to examine that sense of constriction too closely. It had started when she’d asked about returning to her house, then gotten heavier when he’d had to leave her at the hospital unprotected.
“Let me talk to my contact at BPD. That’ll probably give us the best starting point.”
Nick nodded. “Thanks. One other thing. I wondered if I could borrow some equipment to sweep her house for electronic surveillance devices. I’m meeting a locksmith over there in about an hour, so I could kill two birds with one stone if I could borrow it this afternoon.”
Miguel steepled his fingers. “Where does she live?”
“A block off Patterson Park.”
“I’ll do ya one better,” Miguel said, sitting up and placing his arms on top of the desk blotter. “I’ll come with ya. I could use some fresh air. Two pair of hands can sweep a house faster than one.”
It was just like him to offer. “I’m gonna take you up on that.”
Miguel slapped his hands on the desk. “Good. We’re gonna make a full-blown PI out of you before it’s all said and done.” He winked, and Nick gave a rueful smile. Miguel had been after him about this for a few months, but he couldn’t help feeling like it was something else he’d fall into, rather than choosing it for himself.
Forty-five minutes later, Rixey pulled onto Becca’s street, Miguel following behind in his nondescript dark sedan—affectionately known as the stakeoutmobile. They parked, and Rixey met Miguel at his trunk.
Three pieces of equipment sat within. A briefcase-sized plastic box held a non linear junction detector, which looked a lot like the metal detectors people used at the beach and could sense radio signals or transmitters inside walls, baseboards, and ceilings. A smaller case held an electronic field detector, a handheld device that identified audio and video signals. The third kit held a thermal imager that could read heat signatures thrown off by electronics hidden in walls and ceilings. Olivero had other pieces for cases specifically focused on countersurveillance, but he thought these would likely do the job. And Rixey trusted his judgment.
