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She opened her mouth, trying to rasp something out, so he leaned down and put his mouth next to her ear.
“It’s too noisy in here. Don’t try to say anything,” he said loudly into her ear.
He began to lift his head, and she turned hers, their cheeks grazing each other. The contact was electric.
“My cargo,” she rasped, her voice sounding dusty, almost painful.
He raised his head, more than a little unnerved by the sensation still rocketing through him, and looked through the open door, past Bowman’s shoulder. He saw the fireball as someone detonated the C-17.
Fuck. They had left behind four airmen. It was unheard of. They always recovered their dead.
He looked down and met her eyes, then said loudly enough for her to hear. “Don’t worry about your cargo. It’s been taken care of.”
She grasped his hand and squeezed. “You’re sure…” he saw her mouth form the words.
“I’m sure,” he said with finality.
With a short nod, her eyes drifted shut once again.
He met Cali’s troubled gaze with his own. She’d seen the C-17 getting blown as well.
What the fuck had been the cargo on that plane?
Chapter One
0830, Las Vegas, the morning of the shootout at St. Michael’s Solutions HQ
Las Vegas Metropolitan Police Department Officer Jordan Gonzalez stood at attention, her back ramrod straight, her eyes focused on the wall above Sheriff Neil Donovan’s head. Undersheriff Abel Jones stood at her side with the same posture. If anything, he was even more upright.
Donovan rifled through a stack of paperwork, his disquiet evident. He looked up and met their gazes. “Jesus, when you two fuck up you do it with a flourish, don’t you?”
Their boss’s question didn’t invite a response.
“You know the drill. Surrender your shields and weapons. Be available for Internal Affairs. They’ve already started their investigation. My advice? Talk to the union rep and get a lawyer. Dismissed.”
His curt words were belied by the genuine concern he’d finally allowed to the surface. It showed on his face, in his eyes. Not that it mattered. IA would clear them. Or not.
She and Abel both pivoted and walked out of the office, aware that every eye in the bullpen was on them. This morning’s shitshow was only hours old, so not many people knew exactly what had gone down, but everyone knew she and Abel had discharged their weapons, and that a federal agent had died as a result.
Handing off her weapon and shield to the desk sergeant brought more than a pang. She’d been on the job her entire adult life, spent ten years as an Air Force cop, where she’d been good enough to be selected as a Phoenix Raven, the best of the best. Now look at her.
She and Abel left LVMPD headquarters and stepped into the brightening Vegas day, where a white SUV loitered at the curb. They climbed inside and closed the doors without a word.
Warren Bowman sat behind the wheel, and next to him was Devin Beck, the titular head of St. Michael’s Solutions. He swiveled in his seat as Warren pulled away from the curb.
“Any complications?”
Jordan shook her head, and Abel made an aggrieved sound in his throat. It had to burn, giving up his shield and weapon like that. Abel was the Undersheriff of LVMPD, second only to Donovan. For him to be under investigation this publicly was unprecedented.
Warren stopped in front of a mid-century modern house in a quietly emerging neighborhood and Abel’s wife Amelia stepped out of the turquoise front door and stood on the stoop, a child cradled in one arm.
“I can’t be seen with any of you for a while,” Abel said quietly. Jordan heard the fatigue dragging through his voice. “As much as I’d love to help, it’d just muddy the waters even more.”
He paused, meeting Jordan’s gaze. “I still don’t quite understand what happened this morning, but I’m damn glad you’re okay, and that Tate survived.” He shook his head in bemusement.
Jordan managed a smile. He looked exhausted, and she couldn’t blame him.
Without the benefit of the nanites that’d miraculously healed Tate, Abel looked like a man barely keeping himself upright.
