Allison Brennan - The Prey

“I’ll lay it straight for them. It’s not what you think, Johnny. But-but I think you’d better stop coming around, okay? Just steer clear for a while, okay?”

“He wanted me out of his life, told me as much. I left. I was hurt and angry and didn’t know what to do. I went back to my dad. That’s when he told me he’d told Narcotics about Denny. They were tailing him, hoping to catch Reginald Pomera.”

“Pomera,” Rowan muttered, familiar with the name.

“Yeah. He wasn’t top dog back then, but he was lethal. The major courier from South America into southern California. My dad didn’t tell me the details. Not then, not ever. I learned later that Pomera was in the country and they hoped to catch him. Denny was their best lead. He’d been approached with witness protection but denied he needed anything, that he was doing anything wrong.

“The next night, I couldn’t stand it. I didn’t want to betray my father, but I knew something was wrong with Denny. He had to get out, and fast. I didn’t have much money, but enough to take us to some hole-in-the-wall city where I could talk or beat sense into the jerk.” His voice cracked again, the hot sting of unshed tears caking his throat.

A memory of him and Denny. They were twelve. Riding bikes in the flood control channel. Laughing, taking jumps they had no business taking. They were lucky they hadn’t broken an arm or leg or worse. Denny always kept his hair too long, and it would hang over his eyes like a sheepdog’s.

“I went back, one last time, and that’s when I found him.”

The house blazed with light, as if on fire. But it wasn’t fire. It was cold death.

The smell of death wasn’t foreign to him. He’d lost a friend or two in the line of duty. The coppery scent of blood, mixed with the foul stench of bodily fluids at the moment of death when the body relaxed… death surrounded Denny’s house.

Denny’s death.

“He’d been shot execution style. I touched him, flipped over the body, to see if I could save him.”

The glassy eyes stared at him, dark and empty. He stared back, as if seeing his best friend for the first time.

“He was already gone. But his body was still warm. I’d missed his killer by minutes.”

“You would have been killed, too,” Rowan said, her voice tinged with emotion.

“I know.” He took a deep breath, finished up. “Against my father’s wishes, I did my own undercover work. Found out Pomera was in town. Learned from Denny’s lowlife friends that Pomera had ordered the hit because Denny was stealing from the deals.

“But,” he continued, his voice laced with intense hatred, “I think Pomera pulled the trigger himself. From everything I’ve learned about the bastard, he’d have gotten a sick thrill out of killing a pathetic, doped-up, mid-level drug dealer like Denny.”

“And that’s why you joined Drug Enforcement.”

“Yeah.”

“And why did you leave?”

Shit, she asked the hard questions. He hadn’t thought about this in so long, but he owed it to her, especially after dragging out her past. After what they’d shared.

And didn’t they say confession was good for the soul?

“It’s sort of complicated.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I want to.”

The doorbell chimed, breaking the moment. Rowan stiffened next to him, then extracted her limbs from his and jumped up. She hurried to the walk-in closet and closed the door firmly behind her.

Bad timing. Bad planning, too, he thought as he picked up his dirty sweatpants, still damp from their run. He quickly slid into them, pulled on his T-shirt, grabbed his gun, and jogged downstairs. Sex, then purging demons-he pulled himself together and hoped Michael couldn’t read every minute of the last twelve hours on his face.

He peered through the peephole and frowned. Quinn Peterson, the Fed. His disheveled appearance and day’s growth of beard suggested he hadn’t slept much the night before.

Not another murder. That meant Rowan was next. He stiffened at the thought. No, not Rowan. He wouldn’t let the killer even get close.

He braced himself for the bad news and opened the door. “Peterson.”

“Flynn.” Peterson stepped in and John closed and bolted the door behind him, reset the alarm. “Where’s Rowan?”

“Shower,” he said.

“I’m here,” Rowan called as she came down the stairs.

John sneaked a look at her. She was composed, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, her hair brushed and pulled into a wet ponytail. A flush that hadn’t been there yesterday coated her skin. He couldn’t help but be pleased he was the cause of her improved mood.

But her glow disappeared when she looked at Peterson’s face. John glanced back at the Fed. “What’s wrong?”

“Let’s sit down.” He crossed the foyer and walked over to the windows facing the ocean. He didn’t look at them.

“Quinn, what happened? Did he kill someone else?” Rowan’s voice cracked.

Peterson turned to face them, eyes red. “It’s Michael. The bastard shot him.”

John barely heard Rowan’s shocked gasp. His heart pounded; his ears rang. His brother. No.

“What hospital? Where-”

“He’s dead.”

“No.” John shook his head. “Goddammit, No !” He kicked the glass coffee table with his bare foot, and it toppled over and shattered against the end table.

Michael. Not Michael. John stared at Peterson and knew there was no mistake.

Michael was dead.

An intense, physical hollowness spread through his chest, ten times worse than anything he’d ever felt before. His father’s death had been a shock that jolted the family. His army buddies who’d died had hurt his soul. Denny’s senseless murder had rocked everything John believed in, had finished forming his path.

But Michael. His best friend. His brother.

All the death, all the pointless drug murders. He’d seen more blood and guts than most people see in their lifetime. Nothing had prepared him for this.

He pictured Michael, blood seeping from his lifeless body. His eyes open, glassy… He shook away the vision, his eyes blurry with unshed tears.

“What. Happened.” His breath came in ragged gasps as he tried to control his rage.

“He went to a bar last night, a few blocks from his apartment. The Pistol; apparently it’s a dive bar that doubles as a cop hangout.”

John knew the place. Michael went there when he was troubled. And he’d been plenty pissed last night.

“He was there for an hour or so, drank on the heavy side of moderate. The bartender didn’t think he was drunk, just tipsy. He went to a fast-food restaurant, ate there, walked home. He was talking to someone at the bar for a short time, and the police are working with the bartender on a description. The guy-dark blond hair, forties-left before Michael, but…”

Quinn paused, cleared his throat, then continued. “Michael entered his apartment and the police believe an intruder was waiting for him. He was shot three times in the chest. Died at the scene.”

John’s fists clenched at his side. He wanted to punch someone. He wanted to kill someone. “No. I don’t believe it.” But his tone said the opposite.

“He didn’t bother hiding it. Three neighbors called in gunfire to 911. I would have been here sooner, but it took time for the local police to realize there was a connection. It was the chief who ultimately called me less than an hour ago. I came straight here.”

Quinn stared at him, his own face twisted with hurt and regret. “It’s the same bastard. He-left a note. I’m sorry, John. I’m really sorry.”

John’s mind was a jumble of memories and plans and vengeance. The killer went after Michael. Why? It wasn’t in the books. He did it because he could. To show Rowan he could get to her.