Chapter 2
Pendoggett, Cornwall, England
“I’m standing outside a cottage in Port Isaac, Cornwall, where Corporal Christian Watson is holed up with the shutters drawn and the doors locked. It is rumored Corporal Watson is the man responsible for the Kirkuk Police Station Incident.”
Lawrence Michelson’s boots dropped from the coffee table to the floor with a loudthump. His breathcaught in his chest like it came with a set of hooks.
“Ben!” he shouted. “Get your smelly ass in here!”
“I’m taking a shit!” his younger brother yelled from down the hall.
“Well, pinch it off! You gotta see what’s on the telly!”
Lawrence snatched the remote and thumbed up the volume. The reporter on the screen was redheaded and pretty. She tried to hide her well-padded figure beneatha yellow pantsuit, but it didn’t work. On any other occasion, Lawrence would have taken a mental picture to use in private later, but considering the subject matter she was reporting on, the last thing on his mind was his cock.
“Fecking hell, Lawrence.” Ben was doing up his jeans as he walked into the room. “What’s so important I had to—”
“Shhh.” Lawrence waved a hand, blood pounding inhis ears. “Listen.” He pointed to the telly.
“Corporal Watson has yet to confirm or deny these allegations,” the pretty reporter continued, “but we are hoping he will pop out soon and give us a statement.”
A recorded video bloomed on the screen. It showed a cheerily painted red door swinging open. A tall bloke with dark hair appeared on the threshold, where a microphone was promptly shovedin his face.
Lawrence vaguely registered that Yellow Pantsuit Chickadee yelled a question at Watson. He didn’t hear what it was, however, because he was too busy memorizing the man’s every feature.
Corporal Christian Watson had a stone-hewn jaw and the cheekbones to match, a hawkish nose, a five-o’clock shadow, and eerily light eyes. He struck Lawrence as the kind of bastard other menwanted to be and most women wanted to shag silly. The kind of bastard who breezed through life, unaware of the carnage he left in his wake.
The black anger Lawrence had struggled with his whole life bubbled up and filled him to the brim. He used to be able to control it. When he was younger, he’d fought and fucked, and both things seemed to quiet the turmoil inside him. But ever since hisfamily’s tragedy,controlhad become an issue. And now, looking at Watson’s face, darkness crowded Lawrence’s vision, and the urge to beat the living shit out of something—orsomeone—had his hands curling into tight fists.
“Stay tuned for more on this developing story,” the reporter said before the video cut off. Then the screen flipped to an ad for toothpaste.
“Jesus.” Ben stared at himwith wide, blinking eyes. “You think it’s true? You think he’s the one?”
If there is a God in heaven, please let it be so.
“Let’s find out, shall we?” Lawrence pushed up from the sofa, the muscles in his back twitching, the buzzing between his ears growing louder with each passing second. “It’s only twenty minutes to Port Isaac. Get your sidearm.”
Ben’s chin drew back. “Now hold on,Lawrence. You can’t mean to murder the bloke.”
“I don’t wanna murder him.” Although that wasn’t exactly true. For years he’d fantasized about killing the twat responsible for all the pain in his life. “I simply wanna talk to him.”
“Then why do we need our weapons?”
“Because if we shove the business ends of our heaters in his face, he’ll be more keen to tell us the truth.”
“I don’tknow.” Ben swallowed, and the sound was sticky. Then again,cowardlywas perhaps a better word for it.
Of the three Michelson brothers, Ben had always been the anxious one, afraid of rocking the boat, of getting into trouble. Lawrence had always been the hothead, the one wholikedto rock the boat,lookedfor trouble. And their older brother? Well,hehad been the best of them. It was forhissake that Lawrence did this now. At least that’s what he told himself as he walked to the coatrack by the front door and took down his cagoule.
“For fuck’s sake, Ben. This is our chance. After all these years, we’ve a face and a name. Don’t go pigeonhearted on me now.”
“If the sergeant finds out we been bringing our sidearms home, he’ll put our bollocks in a vise and have our jobs.”
Lawrence gritted his jaw until his back teeth squeaked. There were times he felt he’d been born on the wrong side of the Atlantic. Unlike the Americans, who armed their police forces, the good people of England preferred their law enforcement personnel to remain weaponless pansies. And even though he and Ben had both done the extra training, passed the exams, and made it into a specializedunit thatdidallow them to carry, they were required to leave their weapons inside their ARVs—armed response vehicles—when they weren’t on duty.
It was a travesty. As a constable, Lawrence felt he should bloody well be able to defend himself. And as a member of his regional firearms unit, he should certainly be trusted to take home his own damn weapon.
Which is why he did.
