Pace quick, she mounted the stairs into the house. Brushing past the open door, she strode over the threshold into the laundry room. Washer and dryer to her left, baskets full of unfolded clothes sitting on the countertop to her right. She pursed her lips, but ignored the mess—per usual. A nasty habit. One her cleaning lady scolded her for once a week, but . . .
Ah, well. Who was she kidding? She enjoyed untidy sometimes. Liked that her home felt lived in, comfortable, a little chaotic even. Her father would have a nervous breakdown if he ever visited. Why? Her place wasn’t perfect. Mismatched furniture dotted the living room. She handpicked each piece herself: the sleek sofa with teak armrests, a trio of club chairs—two done up in pinstripes and dark-purple upholstery, the third in soothing chartreuse—the mirror-clad end tables, the colorful swath of silk curtains, and the pièce de résistance, a river rock fireplace between the pair of French doors leading into the backyard.
The gorgeous mix warmed her as she walked past.
All right, so the design combo was unusual. Eclectic and eye catching. Beautiful, sophisticated, and soothing. Hope’s mouth curved. And just the tiniest bit bossy. She eyed the lopsided stack of magazines sitting on the Lucite coffee table. One hundred percent her style. Nothing like the stuffy, regimented household she’d grown up in.
“Take that, Dad,” she murmured, running her hand along the back of the couch as she strode past. Gray suit fabric caressed her fingertips, bringing a sad sort of satisfaction. It was sick, really. Even from three thousand miles away, she tried to one-up her father. Always. Forever. A childish sort of game.
Particularly since he didn’t give a damn about her anymore.
The thought made her heart hurt. She shoved the pain away. It didn’t matter right now. She couldn’t change it if he refused to answer her calls. Hardwood floors underfoot, she walked into the kitchen. Built in an open plan, her gourmet kitchen faced off with the living room. Light-gray cabinets with white end gables and Carrara marble countertops grounded the space, balancing color with style. Moving past the large island with tall stools, she veered right and headed for the vestibule.
The doorbell rang.
The sharp sound rippled, seeping through the quiet.
Hope upped the pace, jogging across heated floor tiles and onto the Turkish area rug. She slid to a stop in front of the antique cedar door. One hand curled around the handle, she popped onto her tiptoes and leaned right. Knowledge, after all, was power. An excellent thing to possess considering it was dark as hell, just shy of ten o’clock at night. With a quick flick, she flipped on the porch light. Squinting, she looked through the peephole and—
“Oh my God,” she whispered, unable to believe her eyes. She blinked to clear her vision. It couldn’t be. Just couldn’t. Was completely impossible and yet . . .
She stared anyway, trying to figure out if it was a trick of the light. Maybe she was imagining things. Maybe squaring off with the heavy bag had knocked a few screws loose. Maybe stress had finally done its job and corroded her mind. No way was she seeing what she was—
“Open the door, Hope,” a deep voice growled from the other side of the thick cedar. The rough edge in his voice sent shivers down her spine. “We don’t have all fucking night.”
Recognition slammed through her.
Her mouth fell open even as her body moved to obey.
Fingers trembling, Hope turned the dead bolt. She cranked the handle and pulled. The door opened with a creak. Porch light bled into the vestibule from outside. She stepped back, heart thumping, mind whirling, incredulity rising, and stared. An aquamarine gaze narrowed on her. She shook her head, her voice failing her as she looked up into the eyes of a man the SPD declared missing four months ago.
And was now presumed dead.
A death grip on the door edge, Hope struggled to get a handle on the situation. Cool air and the salty smell of the Sound drifted up the porch steps and into the vestibule. The chill nipped at her damp skin. She barely noticed. The goose bumps didn’t matter. Neither did the open door. She needed her brain to work. Right now. Clear thinking. Deductive reasoning. The ability to focus. She required every bit of her considerable IQ working on the problem. This instant, before the whole thing got away from her. Too bad mental acuity was already gone, galloping off to some far-flung destination.
She blinked to clear away the shock.
It didn’t work.
And he didn’t help.
Big boots planted on her doorstep, he stared down at her, waiting like a sharp-toothed predator for her to make a move. She probably should. Moving—talking, easing into conversation—was an excellent strategy. Right up there with self-preservation, and yet, she didn’t do a thing. She gaped at him instead, trying to find her voice. The traitor had gone packing—was now missing in action, just like he was supposed to be.
He’d been blown through a plate glass window. Gone missing from the hospital after the violent assault on police headquarters. Presumed dead by the SPD months ago.
Not one word of it was true.
She shouldn’t be surprised. Really, she shouldn’t. The SPD rarely told her everything, but . . . holy balls in a banana sack. After working with the cops for years—helping profile violent criminals and prepping witnesses for the DA—she hadn’t suspected a thing. Not a single thing. She’d simply accepted the explanation, mourned the loss of her friends, and carried on. Heart beating double time, Hope shook her head. The magnitude of the cover-up floored her. It was huge. Bigger than gigantic. Particularly since Detective Ian MacCord, all around hard-ass, stood three feet away, looking far too alive and not nearly ghoulish enough to be a ghost.
The realization swept surprise away, grounding her in the truth.
Hope drew a shaky breath. “You’re not dead.”
Mac huffed. “Brilliant observation, Doc.”
His tone—along with the heaping scoop of sarcasm—should’ve pissed her off. Under normal circumstances, it would have. Tonight, however, didn’t qualify as normal. It fell under extraordinary. Alive. Mac was alive. Which pointed to an insurmountable fact. If he’d made it out in one piece, so had Angela. No other conclusion to draw. Colleagues, best friends, and partners, the pair stuck together. Some whispered behind their backs, hinting at a romantic connection. Hope knew better. Despite the rumor mill, Mac and Angela treated each other like siblings, brother and sister to the end. The duo worked as a team, watching each other’s backs, and sometimes hers as well.
Tears stung the corners of her eyes.
Ending the standoff, Hope reached for him. Her hand landed on his forearm, fisting in the sleeve of his motorcycle jacket. Butter-soft leather balled against her palm and—
Static electricity sparked from her fingertips.
Heat ghosted over the back of her hand and up her arm.
Mac jumped as though she’d hit him with a thousand volts. With a muttered “motherfuck,” he flexed his knuckles. Something sparked in his eyes, a something she couldn’t identify before he hid it behind an intense expression. One she’d come to associate with him. The sight of it hamstrung her heart. Her chest went tight. Real . . . he was one hundred percent real.
“Thank God. Thank God,” she whispered, her voice so thin it barely registered. “Where’s Ange?”
Angela stepped out from behind her partner. Auburn hair cut pixie short, her friend twirled a key ring around her middle finger. Metal jangled as she swung the set until it struck the center of her palm. “Hey, Hope.”
“Bonehead. You’re such a jerk,” she said, so happy to see her friend she didn’t know what to do first: punch her for faking her own death. Or hug her so hard her ribs cracked. Planting her hand in the center of Mac’s chest, Hope shoved him out of the way and stepped over the threshold. Her feet touched down on the wide-planked porch floor.
Angela opened her arms.
Hope didn’t hesitate, opting to hug her friend instead of hitting her. “Thank God you’re all right. I’m so happy to see you.�
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Angela laughed and hugged her back. “Good to see you too.”
“Hell.” Gaze glued to them, Mac crossed his arms. His lips twitched. “What am I—chopped liver?”
“Shut up,” she and Angela said at the same time, voices overlapping as they turned to glare at Mac.
Hope gave her friend one last squeeze, then let her go. “Sorry. I’m a little sticky.”
“Kickboxing?” Reaching out, Angela flicked the end of Hope’s ponytail. Strawberry blond hair flashed in her periphery, before swinging back to brush the nape of her neck.
“Yeah. I hit the heavy bag tonight.”
Mac frowned. “You been doing that a lot lately?”
Hope glanced his way and got nailed by aquamarine eyes. She tensed. He ran his gaze over her, stripping her with a look, making her realize she stood barefoot in workout tights and a too-thin T-shirt, nothing but a towel looped around her neck for protection. She stayed still, resisting the urge to squirm, refusing to give him the upper hand. Mac always made her uncomfortable. Not that he’d ever been inappropriate. He wasn’t interested in her that way. No sexual chemistry to speak of, and yet when he turned his razor-sharp focus on her, she understood what trouble meant. He was too intense. Too intuitive. Too alpha in a Navy-man-SEAL-Team-6 kind of way for her to relax around him. Baggage from her past, she knew. Anything military—shades of her father—put her on guard, shields up, edge a whole lot sharper.
Not that Mac noticed.
Or maybe he did and simply didn’t care. The guy enjoyed pushing people’s buttons, for kicks and giggles, the fun of seeing the fallout. So no surprise, he just kept poking at her.
“You’re thinner than before.” The concern in his voice nicked her, sharpening her edge to a fine gleam. She didn’t like it. He saw too much, too fast. Maybe he knew about her brother and the crappy month called February. Maybe he didn’t, but the underlying worry in his words meant something. Especially when matched with the assessing look in his eyes. “Are you taking care of yourself? Have you been eating right?”
Did chocolate-covered almonds count? She’d been eating a helluva lot of those lately.
“Leave her alone, Mac.” Angela warned her partner off with a look meant to maim. “We all have our ways of coping.”
“Mine’s sex.” He sighed as though remembering a particularly happy session. One in which the woman in question screamed his name. “Ever try that, Doc? Great cardio. The best stress relief around, and you look like you could use a good fuck. You’re wound way too tight.”
“Screw off, Mac,” she said without heat. No need to take offense. Mac liked to tease, but only those he considered friends. A much safer place to be in than the category he labeled enemy. Her gaze narrowed on him, then swung in Angela’s direction. “What the hell, guys? What’s going on?” Initial shock fading, her brain came back online. Questions streamed into view, taking the available real estate inside her head. “The last I heard you were both MIA. The attack on the precinct. The explosion at the rail yard. Cops up in arms. Is Captain Hobbs in on it? Why the cover-up? What—”
“Hey, hey—slow down, Doc,” Mac said, holding both hands up as though she pointed a gun at him.
“We’ll get to that. I’ll explain everything, I promise.” Angela gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “But first—can we come in? We need to talk and I don’t want to do it out here.”
Hope turned toward the door and waved her friends inside.
Angela followed her over the threshold. “It’s February . . . a week away now, isn’t it?”
The quiet caution—the sympathy—in Angela’s voice rubbed her the wrong way.
Hope grimaced.
Frig and a fiddlestick. The anniversary, the day she dreaded with every fiber of her being. Trust Angela to remember the date along with the whole sad story. She sighed. Wouldn’t you know it—a single lapse in judgment over too many vodka tonics after work one night, and she’d let her secret loose. Now her friend knew everything, every sordid detail about the shooting and her brother’s part in it. Recall ripped her apart. Sorrow tightened her chest. She pressed her shame down deep, refusing to allow any to seep into her expression.
Same old, same old.
Except, in this case, not the same at all. Unprecedented described the situation better. She never talked about that day. With anyone. At least, she hadn’t until Angela pressed the issue, and she’d fallen apart like a piece of week-old crumb cake. Hope exhaled in resignation. Happy hour gone wrong in a cop bar. A total cliché, and yet, she couldn’t bring herself to regret it. She’d needed to talk, and Angela was a very good listener.
Crossing the vestibule, Hope glanced over her shoulder. Hazel eyes that saw way too much met her gaze. “Got something good for me, Ange?”
“I have exactly what you’re looking for.”
Please, God—be merciful and throw her a bone. “A distraction?”
“An interesting case.”
“Perfect.” Stepping out of the vestibule, she turned into the kitchen. “Beer or tea?”
“Beer,” the duo said together, voices merging.
Hope’s mouth curved. Fantastic. Despite the crazy coming-back-from-the-dead thing, nothing had changed. Beer it was. And a good pale ale it would stay.
Skirting the bar stools, Hope swept past the floor-to-ceiling cabinets and made for the refrigerator. Silence descended. The wall clock ticked, interrupting the hush, soothing her as her guests settled at her kitchen island. So predictable. Angela always sat in the same spot, choosing the middle stool, while Mac leaned against the island, forearms planted on the countertop, black leather jacket a blight against white marble.
Stainless steel glinted in low light, flashing beneath the row of halogens overhead as she grabbed the door handle and pulled. The fridge opened with a sigh. She glanced at the top rack, reached inside, and grabbed three bottles by the throat. Glass kissed, clinking in the quiet. Hope turned toward the island and set her bounty down on Carrara marble. Falling into routine, Mac went to work, twisting off the tops. Carbonation hissed. Beer bubbled up the bottle necks. Foam trickled down the glass, sending the sharp scent of alcohol into the air. Ignoring the froth, he placed the first microbrew in front of Angela. Another got set in front of Hope before Mac took the last for himself.
“So . . .” Raising the bottle, Hope took a sip. Cool and crisp, the ale touched the back of her throat and went down smooth. Hmm, so good. She hadn’t drunk a beer in months. The last time she indulged had gone down just like this—with Mac and Angela sitting in her kitchen, about to toss an interesting case in her lap. The difference here? No file folder full of details and crime scene photos sitting on the countertop between them. Gaze moving between the pair, Hope tipped her chin. “Spill. Give me the details.”
“Okay.” Pursing her lips, Angela set her beer down. The bottle clinked against stone. A furrow between her brows, she glanced at Mac. “Where the hell do I start?”
Mac sighed. “Four months ago, Ange and I got caught in an investigation that led to an interesting opportunity. There’s a lot of info, but the short of it is—we were recruited by an elite outfit running covert ops.”
Surprise popped Hope’s brows skyward. Wow. Unusual, but all right. Given the pair’s badassery, she bought that. “Military or civilian?”
“Military,” Ange said. “Very hush-hush.”
“National security?”
Mac nodded. “Top secret, classified.”
And there it was—the entire reason behind the cover-up.
So much made sense now. She knew all about Special Forces and deep-cover squads tasked by the government to clean up dirty situations. The kind no one in power wanted the public to know about. Dangerous missions. Top secret government-sanctioned activities—terrorist or otherwise. Hell, she wasn’t naive. She’d grown up in a vice admiral’s house where terms like wet work and black ops got used from time to time. “So, the job required that you disappear. Fall off the grid without explan
ation.”
“No one but you knows we’re alive, Hope.” Expression serious, Mac eyed her over the top of his microbrew. “We’d like to keep it that way.”
“Understood,” she said, reacting to the authority in his voice, resisting the urge to tack a sir onto the word. Maybe even add a salute for good measure. Hope cringed. Crap. She kept falling into old habits. Her father had trained her far too well. “All right, then . . . that’s the what and why. Now, give me the who.”
“He’s a good friend of ours,” Mac said. “He’s been through some harrowing shit and—”
“PTSD?”
Angela shook her head. “I don’t think so. He doesn’t act like it, but we have another problem.”
She raised a brow. “What’s that?”
Mac met her gaze. “He can’t remember something we need him to.”
“Mission gone bad?” Hope asked, mind already churning, running down the possibilities, making a mental list of potential psychological disorders. No one reacted the same way to trauma. Some internalized and shut down. Others craved an outlet, became violent or self-destructive. Some simply needed to talk and work through the issues. But in the rarest of cases, the mind reacted with such savagery it treated the memory like the enemy and closed ranks. Compartmentalized in the name of mental stability. Built a bulwark around the incident to lessen the pain and prevent the mind from splintering. “Loss of life?”
“Brutal.” Hazel eyes intent, Angela frowned. “He lost his entire family in the attack.”
“Hell,” she whispered, knowing that was exactly what it must feel like to him. Total and complete hell. For his loss—the grief he no doubt suffered—with an added complication. Survivor’s guilt. The condition was a powerful thing. Some never got past it.
“Yeah,” Mac said, picking at the label on his microbrew.
Fury of Surrender (Dragonfury Series Book 6) Page 6
