Julie Miller - Protective Instincts

John risked another question. “Where’s your driver? Is she okay?”

The punch that hit his temple knocked over his chair and John turned his swirling brain and battered cheek into the cool concrete floor, letting the oblivion swallow him up.

When John awoke, he was alone. The lightbulb had either burned out or been turned off, and he was sitting upright again. Only the moonlight creeping through the broken panes of glass on the windows high above him offered any reprieve from the darkness.

Crap. Susan would be freaking out by now. Not only had he missed their Sunday date night, but he hadn’t called her—hadn’t been able to. During his ride in the van, his phone had been taken, along with his gun and badge. Throughout the thirty-seven years of their marriage, Susan had always insisted that he call if he wasn’t going to show up when and where he was supposed to. It was the least he could do for a woman who’d been married to a cop for as long as she had. A woman who loved him, a woman who’d done the lion’s share of raising four sons he couldn’t be prouder of.

She’d have called those four sons by now. Three of them, at any rate. One of them might not be answering his phone this week. Not if he was on another bender. Maybe the other boys would be too busy to answer. Maybe Su was alone and frightened and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Outside the brick walls, a dog whined from some alley in the distance. The howl was mournful and weak, as though the animal was on its last legs, as though it was all alone and had given up hope. John turned his ear toward the sound. “I hear ya, pal,” he slurred. “I hear ya.”

Damn . Deputy Commissioner John Kincaid cursed the downward spiral of his thoughts and shifted, trying to ease his busted ribs and aching conscience into a more bearable position. Concentrate . He wasn’t ready to leave his family. He wasn’t ready to quit being a husband or father.

Did his wife know how much he loved her?

Would his sons remember the lessons he’d taught them?

His boys were all cops—just like him. All of them as protective of their mother as they were the people of Kansas City.

Despite their overachieving schedules, despite their own problems, they’d take care of her. Even if he never got out of this senseless hell, John knew she’d be taken care of. Believing in that one thing was the only comfort he could find.

But somebody ought to help that dog.

And a drink of water would be nice.

Some aspirin would be helpful.

Freedom would be even better.

The silence of the place hurt his ears. His battered fingers and numb arms made a token effort to escape the cuffs, but there was little his weakened body could do.

He was bleeding inside already. He knew the signs.

Unless a miracle stepped out of the shadows and freed him, he was going to die. He only wished he knew why.

And then an outside door opened. John’s pulse quickened as he heard the sound of footsteps, one set, leisurely in pace but even and certain in stride. Footsteps coming for him.

He doubted it was his miracle.

John squinted his good eye shut as the lightbulb snapped on and its harsh brightness seared his brain.

By the time he’d blinked his waiting visitor into focus, he finally understood why he’d been brought here. He looked into the eyes of an old friend. Resurrected from the past. John had wondered when keeping secrets would finally come back to bite him in the ass. Tonight was the night, apparently. “You.”

“Me.” The visitor was alone. Unapologetic. Unmoved by John’s disfiguring injuries. “I see my men have been a little rough with you.”

Bone-Crusher and Jaw-Smasher weren’t too stupid to know when to back away from a threat like this one. They were long gone. Had they completed their task and been paid off and sent on their way? This one had never liked loose ends. If the two goons were still alive, that meant they were needed for some other purpose. Another job. More people hurt. Maybe even John’s own family. His beautiful wife or one of his sons. “I thought you were dead.”

“Not so much.”

John had neither the strength nor the inclination to laugh. “I wrote about us. And what we did.”

“A memoir. How touching. Those pages will never see the light of day, not unless you break your sworn oath—and all-American good guy that you are, I know you won’t.” His old friend moved closer, braced one arm against the arm of John’s chair and leaned in. The fire in the voice was the same, the chill in the eyes unfazed by so many years apart. “What we did …was make a difference in the world. You. Me. All the others. We were visionaries.”

John sat up as straight as his body would let him. “I never liked your vision of the future.”

“You won’t like yours now, either.” His visitor stepped back, smiling. It was a cold imitation of humor. This smile was deadly.

So was the gun pointed at John’s heart. “Goodbye, John.”

Chapter One

Sawyer Kincaid hated the rain.

He hated the sound of it beating against the green canvas tent top. He resented the clingy mist of it masking the tears on his mother’s pale cheeks, as though it could somehow wash away her grief. He loathed the springtime chill of it running down the back of his neck beneath his collar.

But mostly he hated the way it beaded atop the black stripe that bisected the nickel-and-brass badge he wore on his chest—the way the moisture attached itself to every KCPD badge here.

Of course, he could move closer to the somber ceremony instead of standing back at the fringe of family and friends and colleagues. He could get under the tent, get out of the rain. But he was just too big a man to be standing at the front of the crowd if anyone else behind him wanted to see. Besides, getting closer wouldn’t make the rain stop.

Getting closer wouldn’t make the pain go away, either.

“…but come ye back when summer’s in the meadow, or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow…”

For a moment Sawyer tore his attention away from the rain’s gloomy rhythm to listen to his youngest brother Holden’s rich, melodic voice. Their father would have loved his a cappella rendition of “Danny Boy.”

But how the twenty-eight-year-old baby of the Kincaid family could sing at a time like this was beyond Sawyer’s understanding. Maybe the kid was more put together than he’d given him credit for. Sawyer could barely push the thank-yous and glad-you-cames and Dad-would-be-pleased- to-see-you-heres beyond the tight constriction of his throat. A neck as thick as his wasn’t built for wearing button-down shirts and black silk ties. The last time he’d worn his police dress uniform had been when he’d received his detective’s shield. His dad had been there that day, too, shaking his hand and beaming proudly.

Today, Thomas Sawyer Kincaid was burying his father in the ground.

In the damn rain.

This ain’t right .

The nagging mantra had plagued him since that phone call from the commissioner five days ago. “ Your father’s dead, Detective. John was murdered. His body was found in Swope Park—though the lab says that isn’t the primary crime scene. I assure you, we’re giving this case top priority. John was a good man. A good cop. He was my good friend. If there’s anything I can do for any of you, let me know. I’m so sorry .”

Sawyer spotted the lady commissioner standing at the front of the crowd, waiting to say a few words about her colleague and friend. Commissioner Shauna Cartwright-Masterson had been a real class act about the whole thing—paying a couple of visits to his mother, Susan, and steering the press away from the family. But the commissioner could talk until she was blue in the face. There just weren’t enough good words that anyone could say to make this right.