Private S.W.A.T. Takeover

by Julie Miller

  “I’m not supposed to like you, Kincaid,” she whispered against his collar. “I’m not supposed to even know you.”

  “I know.”

  Liza’s fresh, angelic face, momentarily free of attitude or suspicion, was smiling.

  Those peachy lips were parted in anticipation, and, like a hungry man, Holden couldn’t resist. He leaned in, brushed his lips against hers. Her taste was sweeter than he’d imagined.

  The scrape of metal on metal jarred Holden from the unexpected pleasure of that kiss, reminding him that nothing could come of it—that he was only guaranteeing trouble for them both if something did….

  JULIE MILLER

  PRIVATE

  S.W.A.T.

  TAKEOVER

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  For the Greyhound Museum in Atchison, Kansas.

  What a pleasure to meet “The Talented Mr. Ripley,” a retired

  champion greyhound, and his two female companions, who

  greeted us at the door, kept us company as we toured the facility

  and insisted that we pet them.

  Thanks to the friendly docents and dog owners who made the visit

  an unexpected yet marvelous addition to last summer’s vacation.

  And thank you to every person with a kind heart and a conscience

  who rescues unwanted, discarded and neglected animals

  and gives them a loving home.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms. Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

  Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at P.O. Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162.

  Books by Julie Miller

  HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

  841—POLICE BUSINESS*

  880—FORBIDDEN CAPTOR

  898—SEARCH AND SEIZURE*

  947—BABY JANE DOE*

  966—BEAST IN THE TOWER

  1009—UP AGAINST THE WALL**

  1015—NINE-MONTH PROTECTOR**

  1070—PROTECTIVE INSTINCTS†

  1073—ARMED AND DEVASTATING†

  1090—PRIVATE S.W.A.T. TAKEOVER†

  Contents

  Cast of Characters

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  CAST OF CHARACTERS

  Holden Kincaid —The youngest Kincaid brother, he’s a S.W.A.T. sharpshooter with an eye for whatever he lines up in his sights—including an obstinate redhead who can identify his father’s killer. As her self-proclaimed protector, surviving close proximity with the quirky beauty may be as tough as surviving, period.

  Liza Parrish —This spunky redheaded veterinary student seems to get along better with the animals she rescues than with most people. She’s willing to come forward and help KCPD find a cop killer. But a glitch in her memory—and a ruthless hit man who wants her dead—stand in the way of justice.

  Mr. Smith —Code name for an assassin who won’t tolerate loose ends.

  William Caldwell —Mourning for his best friend has brought him closer to that best friend’s widow.

  Detective Kevin Grove —The investigator assigned to the Kincaid murder.

  Dr. Trent Jameson —Psychologist specializing in hypnotherapy.

  Bruiser, Cruiser & Yukon —Three survivors.

  Z Group —A covert organization disbanded at the end of the Cold War. Its former operatives are being silenced one by one.

  Deputy Commissioner John Kincaid —His unsolved murder haunts his four sons.

  Prologue

  April

  “…’Tis I’ll be here in sunlight or in shadow. Oh Danny Boy, Oh Danny Boy…”

  Officer Holden Kincaid had learned three things from his father—how to sing like an Irish tenor, how to shoot straight and how to be a man.

  He’d never learned how he was supposed to deal with losing the father he idolized to two bullets. He’d never learned how he was supposed to help his mother stop weeping those silent tears that twisted him inside out. He’d never learned why good men had to die while bastards like the ones who’d kidnapped, beaten and murdered Deputy Commissioner John Kincaid could cozy up someplace safe and warm while Holden buried his father in the cold, hard ground.

  The lyrics flowed, surprisingly rich and full from his throat and chest, while he sought out his fractured family. Thank God his brother, Atticus, was here to sit with their mother and hold her up throughout this long, arduous day. Though he was the hardest one to shake of all the Kincaids, Atticus was hurting, too. Holden noted the way his unflappable older brother sat, with his hand over his badge and heart, revealing a chink in his stoic armor.

  He looked farther back and spotted Sawyer standing just outside the tent, getting soaked. The tallest of all the Kincaid brothers, Sawyer might be hanging back so as not to block anyone’s view of the graveside ceremony. Judging by the way he kept shifting from foot to foot, though, it was more likely he was scanning the crowd of mourners, sizing everyone up as a potential suspect. Holden could understand that. He was about to crawl out of his own skin because he was so antsy to do something about the injustice of their father’s murder.

  But Susan Kincaid had asked him to sing. Had asked him to honor his father with John Kincaid’s favorite song. He’d suck up his own grief and anger, and do whatever he had to do to bring their mother some measure of peace and comfort.

  Speaking of comfort, where the hell was Edward? Holden’s oldest brother should be here, too, no matter what the reclusive master detective was dealing with. Yeah, he knew that there were a couple of heartwrenching reasons why Mount Washington Cemetery was the last place Edward might want to be. But after losing the husband she’d loved for more than thirty-seven years, all her sons gathered around her might be the one thing that could bring a smile back to their mother’s face. For her sake, if not his own, Edward Kincaid needed to be with the family.

  Holden finished the song, as quietly as a prayer, and blinking away his own tears as he pulled his KCPD hat from beneath his arm and placed it over his light brown hair, he turned to the flag-draped casket to salute his father. The steady drumbeat of rain on the green awning over the burial site punctuated the ensuing silence like a death knell. Holden didn’t even remember moving, but next thing he knew, he was seated beside his mother, warming her chilled fingers in his grasp. The Commissioner of Police completed the eulogy and the twenty-one gun salute resonated through every bone in his body.

  And then it was done.

  Or was it all just beginning?

  “Holden?” Atticus asked him to take his place at their mother’s side. Instead of telling him the reason, he nodded toward a copse of trees about thirty yards up the sloping hill.

  Son of a
gun. Edward had shown up, after all. He wasn’t wearing his KCPD dress uniform like the rest of them, but even from this distance Holden could tell he’d cleaned up, and, hopefully, sobered up to pay his respects to their father.

  Holden was twenty-eight years old and he still had the urge to charge up that hill and swallow Edward up in a bear hug. But he’d let wiser heads prevail. Namely, Atticus. Charging and hugging would probably send Ed running in the opposite direction just as fast as his cane and gimpy leg would allow.

  With his extensive training in Special Weapons and Tactics, Holden understood that teamwork usually got the job done better than any one man’s heroic gesture. Tamping down his own desire to take action, Holden slid into the role required of him on this particular mission. He drew his mother’s hand into the crook of his arm. “I’ll stick with her.”

  As Atticus picked up an umbrella and went to talk with Edward, Susan Kincaid’s grip shifted. “You did a beautiful job, sweetie.”

  “Glad to do it, Mom. I know Dad loved that song. He taught it to me on one of our camping trips. Scared all the fish away with our singing. All the brothers, too.”

  He heard a bit of a laugh. Good. Maybe not.

  He easily supported her weight as she wrapped her arm more tightly through his and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. As he looked down at the crown of her dark brown hair, he noticed gray sprinkled through the rich sable color. Hell. He hadn’t noticed those before. He’d bet good money the sudden sign of aging hadn’t been there a week ago when he’d stopped over for a family dinner—while his father had still been alive.

  An unexpected rage at the collateral damage the senseless murder had spawned exploded through every cell in his body. John Kincaid’s killer hadn’t just stolen his life. The killer had left a big hole in the leadership of the Kansas City Police Department, and an even bigger hole in the hearts of the Kincaid family.

  Somebody had to pay for all that.

  But with the same kind of deep breath that iced his nerves before he pulled the trigger to shoot, Holden buried his anger. Instead of lashing out, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the crown of Susan’s hair. “I love you, Mom.”

  She hugged the triangular folded flag tight to her chest and nodded, rubbing her cheek against his sleeve. The sniffle he heard was the only indicator of sadness she revealed. Her brown eyes were bright and shining when she looked up at him and shared a serene smile. “I love you, too, sweetie.” Then she settled in at his side, holding her chin up at a proud angle his father would have admired. “Walk me to the car?”

  “You bet.”

  They were all the way down to the road when a man in an expensive black suit stopped them. “Su?”

  “Bill.”

  Holden adjusted the umbrella to keep his mother covered as William Caldwell, his father’s best friend since their fraternity days at college, bent down to exchange a hug. The laugh lines alongside his mouth had deepened into grooves, emphasizing his silvering hair and indicating another casualty of John Kincaid’s death.

  “Holden.” As Bill pulled away, he reached for Holden’s hand. “I can’t tell either of you how sad, and how angry, this makes me.” Releasing them both, he straightened his own black umbrella over his head. “I’m making a sizable donation to the KCPD Benevolence Fund in John’s name, but if there’s anything more personal I can do…anything…ever….”

  Bill Caldwell ran his multinational technology company as smoothly as he’d told B.S. stories around the campfire on the many hunting and fishing trips he’d taken with the Kincaids over the years. But today he seemed to be at a loss for words.

  Susan squeezed his hand, rescuing him from his overwhelming emotions. “Come to the house, Bill. We’re having an informal potluck dinner. Nothing fancy. I just want to be surrounded by everyone who loved John. I want to celebrate what a good, wonderful man he was.”

  Bill squeezed back and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I’ll be there.”

  Holden settled his mother into the back of the black limousine they’d ridden in to the cemetery. After tucking a blanket over her damp legs and finding a box of tissues to set beside her, he closed the door and circled the long vehicle to greet Atticus as he walked up the asphalt road. Alone.

  Holden’s temper flared again. “Where the hell is Edward?” His long strides took him away from the limo. “You went to talk to him. What did he say?”

  As usual, Atticus didn’t ruffle. “I talked to him. As tough as this is on us, you have to know it’s probably harder for him to be here. His wife and daughter aren’t that far from where—”

  “I know he’s hurting,” Holden snapped. “But Mom wants to see him. He can’t be such a selfish son of a bitch that he’d cause her pain, can he?”

  “Get off your high horse. Sawyer’s with him—bringing him around to avoid the crowd. Ed won’t let Mom down.”

  “You don’t have to defend me, Atticus.” Edward and Sawyer walked out of the woods to the limo. “Got your boxers in a knot, baby brother?”

  The rain whipped his face as Holden spun around. Edward’s dark hair and beard had been trimmed short—a vast improvement over the shaggy caveman look he’d sported a couple of weeks ago the last time Holden had dropped by his place to try to annoy him out of his drunken grief. Yet there was something dark and sad about his pale gray eyes that wiped away Holden’s temper.

  He noted the scar cutting through Edward’s beard, and the way he seemed to lean heavily on his cane as he approached. Edward had been through more than any man should have to endure, and Holden was immediately contrite about any doubts he’d had about his oldest brother’s loyalty to the family.

  “Hell.” It wasn’t much to offer in the way of sympathy, but Holden walked the distance between them and wrapped Edward up in a tight hug. “I miss you.”

  At first, Edward’s shoulders stiffened at the contact. Then one arm closed around Holden’s back and squeezed with a familiar strength. But just as quickly as the bond was affirmed, Ed was pushing him away. “Get off me, kid.” He inclined his head toward the limo. “Is Mom inside?”

  “Yeah.”

  Edward swiped the rain from his face and looked at Holden, then beyond to Sawyer and Atticus. The four brothers hadn’t been united like this for a long time. But the unspoken sentiment between them felt as strong as ever. “This ain’t right.”

  After Edward climbed into the backseat for a few minutes alone with their mother, Holden closed the door and straightened, standing guard to ensure their privacy. Sawyer rested his forearms on the roof of the limo on the opposite side, looking first to Atticus beside him, and then across the top to Holden. “We’re gonna get whoever did this, right?”

  “Right,” Atticus said before turning away to scan the departing crowd and keep everyone else away from the private family meeting.

  Holden took the same vow. “Amen.”

  Chapter One

  October

  Oh God. In her sleep, Liza Parrish rolled over and tried to wake herself up. It was happening again. And she couldn’t stop it.

  “Shh, baby. Shush.”

  Liza closed her hand around the dog’s muzzle and hunched down closer beside him in his hiding spot in the shadowy alley. The fact that he didn’t protest the silencing touch was evidence of just how close to starvation this furry bag of skin and bones was.

  He was lucky she’d come here after classes and work tonight, following up on a call to the shelter about an emaciated stray wandering the dock area that neither the county’s Animal Control Unit nor the Humane Society had been able to catch. She’d get him back to the vet’s office where she was interning—feed him a little bit of food and water, run some tests to make sure he wasn’t infected with heartworm or some other debilitating disease, give him some love and a bath, and maybe just save his life.

  But who was going to save her?

  She hoped the dog was the only one who could hear her heart thumping over the whoosh of the Missouri River, surging past on
ly a few yards away.

  Trying to calm herself so the dog wouldn’t panic and give away their position, Liza blinked the dampness of the foggy night from her eyelashes. If only she could blink away the stench of wet dog and old garbage just as easily. If only she could blink herself to safety.

  Her leg muscles were beginning to cramp in protest against just how long she’d been curled up with the knee-high terrier mix, hiding behind the trash cans and plastic bags that smelled as if they could have been left in this alley off the river docks ever since the warehouses on either side had closed. She was tired, aching, chilled to the bone—and scared out of her mind.

  But she wasn’t about to move.

  Hearing two gun shots from the other side of the brick wall she huddled against did that to a woman.

  Watching the two men waiting in the black car parked only ten, maybe twenty feet from her hiding space also kept her rooted to the spot. Her jeans were soaking up whatever oily grime filled the puddle where she crouched. The only warmth she could generate were the hot tears stinging her eyes and trickling down her cheeks.

  Was this what it had been like for her parents and for Shasta? Endlessly waiting for death to find her. Fighting back the terror that churned her stomach into an acid bath. Driving herself crazy trying to decide whether, if she was discovered, it was smarter to fight or run for her life.

  She felt her parents’ terror. Felt her pet’s confusion as he valiantly tried to protect them. Felt their senseless loss all over again.

  Two gunshots.

  Death.

  And she had a ringside seat.

  The dog squirmed in her arms and Liza absently began to stroke his belly, feeling each and every rib. “Shh, baby.” She mouthed the words. She wasn’t the only witness to this crime.