by KC Burn
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Suspense Romance from Dreamspinner Press
Romance from Dreamspinner Press
Copyright
Published by
Dreamspinner Press
382 NE 191st Street #88329
Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Copyright © 2011 by KC Burn
Cover Art by Reese Dante http://www.reesedante.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 382 NE 191st Street #88329, Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/
ISBN: 978-1-61372-213-8
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
November 2011
eBook edition available
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-214-5
Dedication
To the friends and family who’ve supported me and helped me get this manuscript off the ground, most especially Chudney, Jax, Dottie, and Alex. I couldn’t have done it without you.
Chapter One
Kurt hunkered down behind the car, waiting for Ben’s signal. How bulletproof were these cars? Thirty years ago, they were built like tanks. His father still had one, called it an antique land yacht. Now… well, they sure as hell weren’t titanium.
The sun blazed, heating his face, making sweat drip down from his short hair and into his collar. His navy-blue shirt was already drenched—Kevlar vests were hot and heavy, but they were a necessary evil. Last Tuesday in May, but the temperature rivaled the middle of July. He fucking hated midday busts on sunny, summery days. The sunshine meant they had no visibility advantages, and a sudden glare could blind someone at a critical moment.
He swiped the back of his hand across his forehead. At least if he were undercover, he could be wearing a bandana to soak up the sweat. The acrid scent of the tar heating in the asphalt battled with rotting fish and garbage from the nearby market district. He wished they’d waited for backup. But he’d only been a detective for three years—Ben had been doing this for a lot longer, and he had to bow to Ben’s greater experience. His partner might be taciturn and reticent, but he was a dedicated and effective officer. Kurt trusted him with his life.
As it should be.
Ben slipped into position by the front door of the building and gave him the signal he’d been waiting for. Tugging the collar of his vest one final time, Kurt crept around to cover the rear of the building, holding himself close to the wall, out of any of the windows’ sight lines.
Gustav, one of Ben’s informants, had contacted Ben with a tip about a suspect. Ben said they had to follow up immediately, and Kurt trusted his partner to do what was best, even though the tip was for a case that wasn’t even theirs. But Ben had contacts everywhere, and it couldn’t hurt to get a few kudos from the drug squad.
Glock poised, the familiar grip kept him grounded while he waited for the inevitable dash for the back when an officer announces himself at the front. He stretched to peer through the dirty window. There were no people. No movement. Nothing to suggest the room he observed had been used in a long time. A layer of dust coated the table and chairs.
Ben demanded entrance loudly enough for Kurt to hear, bringing his attention back to the door. Almost simultaneously, Ben booted in the front door and the building exploded, throwing Kurt backwards.
The light hurt his eyes, but Kurt couldn’t shut them any farther than they were. He wished he could scrunch his ears shut, too, against the infernal beeping.
“Are you awake?” a strident female voice asked.
He cringed.
“Come on now, it’s time to wake up.”
The beeping was regular, rhythmic… like a heart monitor. Right. The harsh smell of cleansers should have given it away. He was in a hospital. The monitors must have alerted someone of his return to consciousness.
“What happened?” God. That didn’t sound like him—that sounded like someone who’d swallowed gravel for breakfast. Talking hurt like a bitch too.
“Can you open your eyes, Detective O’Donnell?”
No fucking way. “Too bright,” he managed to say. A throbbing heartbeat of pain started in his temples. Other body parts threatened to chime in, which he wasn’t looking forward to, but hell, it meant he wasn’t dead.
The light level dropped, and Kurt cracked open his lids. A nurse with—he strained to focus—teddy bears on her scrubs, stood over him, holding a clipboard and scratching out a few notes with the loudest pen ever created.
“Thirsty.”
Despite her glass-cracking voice, the woman smiled down at him in sympathy. “I know. But you can’t have anything until the doctor sees you.”
She patted his shoulder gently and left the room, rubber soles squeaking, making him wince.
What the hell had happened?
He tried moving each limb, gingerly, testing for soreness. Nothing screamed as loud as his head, but there were issues with his left arm and left leg. Glancing around the room, he couldn’t see anything with the date, or even the time. The last thing he remembered was getting into the car with Ben after receiving a tip. Did they have a car accident? Had he been shot? Trying to remember sent spikes of red-hot agony into his head. Heaving out a sigh, he relaxed as much as he could on the granite slab the hospital claimed was a mattress.
Although he wanted nothing more than to rip out his IV and storm out into the hallway, demanding someone tell him what was going on, in truth, he was afraid doing so would only make everything hurt worse. He’d never felt this horrible in his life—he didn’t want to know how much shittier it could get.
The unmistakable sounds of an irate Irish couple arguing in the distance wafted into the room. He relaxed even further. If his parents couldn’t convince the doctor to hurry up and see him, as soon as his brothers and sisters descended, the hospital staff would do whatever they could to get rid of the raucous brood as soon as possible.
“That’s my baby in there!”
Uh. They were getting closer, and Kurt hoped they’d either calm his mother down or let them in, because his mother was working herself into a fine state, and her voice tap-danced in his brain.
“Mrs. O’Donnell. Mr. O’Donnell. The doctor’s on his way, I promise. Come with me to the waiting area, it won’t be long.”
The firm voice belonged to his boss. What was he doing here? Did that confirm whatever happened had been related to the bust they’d been heading to? Why couldn’t he remember what went down? And where the fuck was Ben?
Kurt brought his right hand to his head, and rubbed gently. God almighty, he needed some narcotics,
or hell, maybe a beheading wouldn’t be so bad.
“Detective O’Donnell.” A tiny white-coated woman entered his room. “I’m Doctor Sarwa. How’s the head?”
“Hurts.” There went that croaking voice again. “What happened?”
“In a minute. Any nausea?”
“No, not really.” Not a lie, but he wasn’t ready to eat anything, either.
Dr. Sarwa gave a curt nod and made few notations on a clipboard before she set it down and flipped back the covers on his left side. Kurt peered down, despite the strain it put on his eyeballs, and saw a huge long bandage over his arm. Was it broken?
The doctor peeled back the bandage, revealing a number of black stitches along a jagged cut extending along the inside of his arm from mid-bicep to wrist.
“You’re lucky, Detective O’Donnell,” the doctor murmured as she gently probed at the… he couldn’t call it an incision. No self-respecting surgeon in the world would make a cut that ragged and random. “You didn’t break any bones.”
That was her definition of lucky? Having seen the damage, his arm began throbbing in time with the pounding in his brain.
Kurt took a deep breath. His throat was so dry, he didn’t want to say one more word than necessary. “Leg?”
She snorted. “Just a twisted knee, not serious at all.”
“Thirsty.”
“I’ll tell the nurse when I leave. You can have a little juice.” She retaped the bandage. “Looks good. Okay, quick rundown. You conked your head, and shrapnel sliced open your arm.”
Kurt laughed, but shut it down after a second when it upgraded the tap-dancers in his head to a steel drum band. “Professional opinion?”
Dr. Sarwa smiled faintly at him. “I could get technical with you, but you’ll remember this easier once the grogginess wears off. The shrapnel was dangerous—you had to get into surgery immediately or you were going to bleed out. But it could have been a lot worse. I’ll be back later.”
He might have drifted for a few minutes, but a nurse showed up almost immediately with a cup of juice, followed by his mom and dad.
“Baby, oh, baby!” His mom flew to the side of the bed opposite the nurse. At the moment, he was more interested in the approaching bendy straw. The crisp bite of apples hit his nose, and his parchment-dry mouth salivated in response.
His mom grabbed his hand and squeezed lightly. Tears wet the back of his hand. This was the first time he’d been… certainly not hurt. With six elder siblings, he’d had his share of breaks and contusions. But this was the first time he’d been hurt on the job, because why else would he have a shrapnel wound, even if he couldn’t remember how he got it.
With his thirst eased, if not slaked, he turned his head to his mom. The nurse left, to be replaced by his dad.
“Kurt, baby….”
“Mom, I’m okay.”
“No you’re not.”
Kurt winced, and his father spoke softly. “Deirdre, not so loud. Remember what the doctor said.”
“But he’s not okay, Sean.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry, baby.”
“How are you feeling, Son?” His father’s hand hovered over his bandage, and finally settled on his shoulder.
“Sore.” But now that he was more awake, he was ready to go home. The pain was beginning to dull, settle, now that he knew what was physically wrong. “Dad, what happened?”
His parents exchanged a glance. His mother started weeping.
“What?” They were never at a loss for words.
“Baby, you could have died.” His mom’s voice broke.
The decibel level rose outside his room. The rest of his family must have arrived. Shit, this wasn’t any worse than when Ian dared him to climb that rotting tree in their backyard. He’d broken an arm and a leg, then. This was a bad cut, a knock to the head and a twisted knee. Really not cause for all the histrionics. But they still acted like he was a baby, even though he was thirty-one. Why did he have to be his parents’ last kid?
The door opened, but it wasn’t one of his siblings who entered. It was his boss.
“Sir?” Nausea boiled in his gut, and the throbbing in his head accelerated.
“O’Donnell. Glad to see you’re awake. I’m afraid I have some bad news.” Like the somber expression hadn’t given it away.
“What, Sir?” His mother’s grip tightened, and his father stepped away, looking out the window.
“Do you remember what you were doing when the explosion occurred?”
Explosion? Now the shrapnel made sense. Nothing else did. “I don’t remember an explosion. Just getting the tip from Gustav, before I got in the car with Ben. Did the car explode?” Why wasn’t Ben telling him this? The nausea had transformed to a sharp, burning pain in his gut.
“The building your informant directed you to was rigged. We’re almost positive that one of the guys Ben put away while he was on the drug squad—guy who goes by the name of Novi, the Russian Bear—was behind the explosion. He was released on parole a couple of months ago.”
Novi. Kurt remembered stories about him—drug runner and dealer, among other things. But he could tell by Inspector Nadar’s expression that there was more to come.
“I’m sorry, Kurt. Ben didn’t make it.”
Dead? He sucked in a breath. Shards of memories filled with heat and noise assaulted him.
“Honey, I’m so sorry,” his mom whispered. His parents had met Ben a couple of times. Ben had been a loner, and even after three years, Kurt didn’t know a lot about his personal life, but Ben was his partner. They’d worked well together, and he’d considered them friends. The almost fifteen-year age difference hadn’t mattered in the least.
His eyes filled, and he broke the gaze with Inspector Nadar, facing his mom. She pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed at his damp face.
Pulling in a deep breath, he directed his gaze back at his boss. “How long ago? Have you informed his family?” As far as he knew, there was only Ben’s mother. He wanted to be there; it was his responsibility.
“I did that while you were in surgery. I don’t have any details yet, but the funeral will likely be on Saturday. If you want to be there, you need to concentrate on getting well.”
“Yes, Sir.” He’d be there, no matter if he had to drag an IV stand along behind him. Later he’d worry about getting the Russian Bear behind bars.
“Good day, Mr. and Mrs. O’Donnell.” Inspector Nadar nodded sharply before he spun on his heel and left the room.
“That’s right, baby. You need to get better. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”
His brothers and sisters boiled into the room, all appropriately sympathetic for his loss, and glad he was mostly okay. Every one of them hugged him, awkwardly to be sure, but it wouldn’t be his family if there wasn’t any hugging or kissing. One of them had to be responsible for intimidating the nursing staff, because he believed most hospital patients weren’t allowed eight visitors at a time. He truly appreciated his family, and he hoped Ben’s mother had someone to help her, if she was having a lucid day and was able to comprehend the loss she’d suffered.
“Mom, I want to go home.”
“I know, baby. The doctor wants to keep you another day, then your dad and I will take you back home with us. Erin prepared the spare room for you while we rushed right here. We’ll take good care of you.”
He’d thank his sister later. Stupid to want his mom to take care of him at this age, but the thought of going back to his sterile apartment made him want to cry more. He didn’t have a girlfriend; he didn’t have anyone he even dated regularly. But he had his big, comforting family.
The chapel was small, but already his leg protested the trip from the taxi. Ben wouldn’t care if he sat at the front or the back, so he slipped into an empty seat in the very last row. Drawing attention to himself, when he survived but Ben hadn’t, made him uncomfortable.
He should have let his parents come, but for some reason he’d wanted to do
this alone. Stupid. The cane wasn’t quite enough support, not when he had to use the wrong arm. He scanned the attendees for anyone who looked like Mrs. Kaminski. He needed to pay his condolences to her, if nothing else. Most of the pews were filled with dress uniforms—very few in civilian dress.
The minister strolled out, appropriately somber, to start the ceremony. There was no casket as there had been at Granny O’Donnell’s funeral—the only other person close to him to have died. Kurt hoped the lack of casket was due to choice and not necessity, but he’d been so exhausted from his injuries he hadn’t thought to inquire about the details. The service began, but didn’t hold his attention. No minister could have anything to say to comfort Kurt. Not now.
Memories of the hours they’d spent in a department-issued car together flitted through his brain. Ben may have been reticent about his personal life, but he’d imparted years of wisdom to a green detective and Kurt had soaked it up, becoming better at his job every day because of Ben.
