Kira knew this already from her research, but she was trolling for details. Wolfe Security was guarded about its inner workings, and the firm’s website gave out scant information. But there had been a handful of articles written over the years, mostly by reporters covering celebrities, and Kira had gleaned a few interesting details.
“Is it true all you guys have military backgrounds?” she asked.
“Not all but most. And it’s not all guys, by the way.” He looked at her. “We’ve got quite a few women in our ranks.”
“Interesting. And you, Erik, and Jeremy, you were all Marines?”
“That’s correct.”
“And you served together?”
“Yes.”
Another interesting tidbit. She wished she knew more about Jeremy’s background, but he’d been so stingy with information. From her digging, she’d learned he was from Jacksonville, Florida, and had gone to college on an ROTC scholarship. Clearly, his military service was a major part of his life, but the only time he’d spoken about it was that night at the ship channel.
She thought of the way he’d opened up to her, if only for a few minutes. He’d talked about death and fear and brotherhood.
And she thought of the way he’d dragged her into his lap and kissed her. He was a man of few words, which made his actions all the more thrilling.
“Jeremy saved my life once.”
She looked at Liam, afraid that if she said anything, he would stop.
“We were in Afghanistan. Suicide attack. Jeremy was on overwatch.”
“You mean, like . . .”
“He was on a rooftop. Took out the threat. Saved twelve people that day, including eight Marines.”
“Wow.”
“I take it he didn’t mention it. He doesn’t talk about himself much.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
He looked at her. “He’s very good at his job, though.”
“I noticed that, too.”
“He excels at reacting. There’s no hesitation—he’s pure focus. That’s how he’s wired.”
Kira looked at him, wondering why he was telling her all this.
“You should know you’re in good hands,” he said.
She glanced away, not sure what to say to that. She didn’t want to be in anyone’s hands. She didn’t want to be part of any of the things that were happening, but here she was anyway, caught in the middle of it.
If only she’d pieced the clues together sooner, none of this would have happened. Why hadn’t she put together the puzzle when Ollie did? If she had, he might be alive today, along with Shelly Chandler. And Gavin Quinn—who was looking more and more like an innocent man, falsely accused—might not be stuck in the ICU fighting for his life.
He’s pure focus.
Something about those words snagged Kira’s attention. Maybe Liam was on to her. Was that the underlying message, in addition to you’re in good hands?
Jeremy was one of Liam’s top agents, and she was messing with his focus. Did he somehow know that she had feelings for Jeremy? But how could he know that?
Well, the man made a living by being observant. Maybe he’d figured it out.
They reached the hotel’s tree-lined driveway. Liam pulled under the porte cochere, where wealthy hotel guests were sliding out of Benzes and Bentleys.
Valets and bellmen jumped to attention, taking their cars and their luggage off their hands, so they were free to check into their luxury rooms or hit the spa or maybe get a drink in the Metropolitan’s swanky bar. Kira had been here two nights, and she felt disconnected from all of it. Despite the sumptuous linens and pillows, she’d barely managed a few hours of sleep.
Liam parked the Escalade and turned to face her. Something in his eyes told her she could trust him.
“How long does it take to get past it?” she asked him.
“Get past . . .?”
“Nearly getting shot and killed.” She looked out the window. “I’ve hardly slept in a week.”
“Insomnia is associated with PTSD. You should talk to someone professional.”
“Did you?” She looked at him. “Talk to someone professional?”
He hesitated, and she thought he was going to duck the question.
“No,” he said. “I usually talk to my wife. She’s in law enforcement, so she knows what it’s like.”
Kira was surprised by his candor. And she felt a pang of envy. It must be nice to have a relationship like that, one where you could help each other through problems. All her adult life, Kira had been on her own. For years, she’d been trying to prove her independence to her parents and her brother and herself. Now she wondered what it would be like to have someone to share things with.
She wanted to talk to Jeremy. She thought of how he’d reacted last night after her shower meltdown. He’d been comforting and kind and hadn’t given her a lot of platitudes. Mostly, he’d distracted her by kissing her until she was so turned on she couldn’t think of anything else. That was one kind of therapy.
Trent stepped out of the hotel and strode straight up to the Escalade. Evidently, she was being handed off to yet another agent who wasn’t Jeremy. Trent opened the door, and Liam held up his hand.
“Give us a sec.”
Trent closed the door.
“You should really talk to someone,” Liam repeated.
“I’ll check into it,” she said.
But by the look in his eyes, he knew that was a lie.
Charlotte sat at the bar at Bud’s BBQ two blocks from the police station, watching ESPN as she waited for her to-go order. She picked up her drink and sipped through the slender red straw. In the mirror behind the bar, she watched as the door opened, and Diaz stepped into the restaurant. It took him about two seconds to spot her, and he walked over.
“Where’d you go?” he asked, sliding onto a stool. “I thought you were coming back after dinner.”
“Got sidetracked,” she said. “Ended up spending two hours in the emergency department at Methodist Hospital.”
“What’d they say about your shoulder?”
“Nothing broken.” She moved it slightly and winced as pain zinged through the joint. “They gave me a fancy ice pack and sent me home, so I stopped to pick up some dinner. How’d you find me?”
“Spotted your car.”
Charlotte looked Diaz over. Her partner appeared bone-tired, and his hair was doing that spiky thing it did when he ran his hand through it too many times.
“How’d it go with the tapes?” she asked.
“Still nothing.”
The pretty young bartender walked over with a smile for Diaz, which seemed to perk him up somewhat.
“What can I get you?” she asked.
He nodded at Charlotte’s drink. “What is that, rum and Coke?”
“Straight Diet Coke.”
He frowned. “You working after this?”
“Maybe.”
“I’ll have a Coke,” he told the bartender. Then he looked at Charlotte. “If you’re thinking about going back in, I wouldn’t bother. The tapes are a bust.”
After Gavin Quinn’s assailant vanished into the tunnel system, detectives had spent all afternoon combing through security footage from Brock Logan’s office and surrounding areas. By evening, they’d found nothing, such as a suspicious vehicle or possible accomplice, that might give them a clue to the shooter’s current whereabouts. Much like the River Oaks murder, the perpetrator had waltzed right up to his target, shot him, and calmly left the scene.
Charlotte had been a cop for twelve years, and she found the attacks particularly disturbing. Not that the perp was a great shot—if you included Shelly Chandler, he was two for five in terms of lethality—but he was brazen.