Empty.
He loped down the tall white-walled space, wary of the doors. The kitchen was clear, window steamed up and sink still full of dishes. He paused at the long, curved staircase down into the Macroy’s main living area—his memory of the blueprints filled in what was down there, the living room and bedrooms, office, and theatre—but the steps were covered with torn, crumpled papers that looked undisturbed.
Garage, then. Back of the house.
Habit raised his hand to his ear before he remembered that this wasn’t one of his operations. Marlow was on his own.
So was Cade, but he was used to that.
He shouldered the door to the garage open and went in, gun raised, just as the intruder—tall and skinny in gray sweats with a hoodie pulled tight around their face—climbed onto the top of a Lexus and climbed out a narrow broken window.
Shit.
Chapter Five
THE MAN INgray landed awkwardly on the grass, arms extended to break his fall, and scrambled back to his feet. A bright smear of red ran down the arm of his hoodie.
“Hands up!” Marlow barked as he stopped, feet planted and arms braced as he lifted his gun. “Don’t move.”
The suspect started to raise his arms slowly, but Marlow could already tell he wasn’t going to comply from the way his eyes darted around. That was a man who still thought he had options.
Cade broke the last shards of glass out of the window with the butt of his gun. He swung one leg out and then angled his broad shoulders through the gap. Marlow glanced at him quickly.
It was the closest to an opportunity that the suspect would get. He bolted like a sprinter off the blocks and dashed toward the trees. Marlow sighted down his gun to the nice broad space between the man’s shoulders as they jerked up and down with each step. It was an easy target. He wasn’t the best shot in the Night Shift—that was Bennett—but he’d not miss that.
His ribs twinged with the memory of shock and pressure. It hadn’t hurt. Not at first. He’d just felt winded.
Except this wasn’t anything to do with that. Everyone involved was either dead or still in prison, not out for a run in the afternoon sun.
Marlow swore and thumbed the safety back on. He tucked the gun into its holster, snug and heavy against the small of his back, before he gave chase.
Glass crunched in the grass as Marlow cut through it. The long muscles in his thighs flexed as he powered up the slope after the suspect. His knee decided this was the opportune moment to remember it wasn’t 100 percent as he navigated the uneven footing. It felt like shards of glass frayed the tendon each time he changed direction.
It was fine.
Or it was functional, at least. Close enough.
The suspect scrambled over a fallen tree, strips of bark stripped off under his sneakers, and landed badly on the other side. His leg folded under him, and he bounced down the steep hill in a tangle of arms and legs.
Marlow vaulted the log, one hand braced on the wet, scabby wood, and followed in a—slightly—more controlled descent. At the bottom of the slope, the suspect dragged himself to his feet and broke into a stubborn hobble toward the empty streambed that cut along the bottom of the valley.
A shabby red 4x4 was just visible through the trees on the other side, caked with dirt and bits of tree from the drive up. The suspect had come prepared.
Marlow skidded down the last few feet of the slope. He heard gravel kick down behind him and took a quick glance back to check that he wasn’t being flanked. Instead, it was Cade, stains on his gray trousers, only a few yards behind Marlow with his gun still drawn.
The back of Marlow’s neck crawled with suspicion, an itch that ran all the way down to the small of his back, but he ignored it. Everyone at the station knew that Cade was a pain in the ass, but Marlow didn’t think he was corrupt. In his experience, corruption made people a lot more concerned with what people thought of them.
He dragged his attention back to his own feet as he reached the bottom of the hill. There was blood on the stones where the suspect had landed and a gray cord where the drawstring had snapped off his hoodie. Marlow hopped over them and broke into a dead run across the last stretch. He hurdled the dry gully and wove through the trees as he tried to cut the suspect off before he reached his car.
Branches whipped at his face, and Marlow swore under his breath as he tried to dodge under them. The side of his neck stung where one of the thinner branches had caught him. This was why he hated the countryside. He could chase a perp down an alley in the city, and all he had to worry about was broken glass on the ground and rats.
Ahead of him, the suspect misjudged his speed and smacked into the side of his car. He bounced off and scrabbled at his pockets with frantic fingers.
Shit.
Marlow might not be entirely sure whether Cade meant to flirt with him or not—or what the hell he’d do if Cade was—but he knew he didn’t want to look like an incompetent ass in front of him. Flirtorasshole, that would be humiliating.
He put on a final burst of speed and tackled the suspect. His shoulder slammed into the man’s side, and they both went down. The suspect kicked out violently with both feet, the heels of sneakers jabbed into Marlow’s chest and shoulder, and popped a switchblade out of his pocket.
