ONE

      Bailey Cox eased carefully up to the corner of the building, her 9 mm Glock locked and loaded, but pointed at the darkened sky above her. Her finger tensed near the trigger as she moved slowly along the wall, sticking to the shadows. Her heart slammed wildly against her chest. She heard movement up ahead and voices, but they were muffled and she couldn’t recognize them, or hear what they were saying. All she could tell was that they were angry. She moved closer, still not sure what to make of the situation. Her father, a private investigator, had texted her half an hour ago, asking her to rush over to his office because he’d had a break in the case he was working on and he needed her help.

      Even though it was after 2:00 a.m., she hadn’t hesitated and had headed out the door as soon as she had received her father’s message. Bailey was used to staying up late and actually did her best thinking in the wee hours of the morning. She hadn’t expected trouble but was now glad that she always traveled with her pistol.

      When she’d arrived at her father’s office, she’d found the door cracked open and the small office abandoned. The light had still been on, and her father’s coffee was still steaming on his desk, so he had to be nearby. It wasn’t like him to call her and then not be there when she arrived. A tingle of fear shot down her spine. She’d heard noises in the alley behind her father’s office building and had followed them, having no other clues to lead her.

      The voices got louder. She eased around another corner and could barely make out two men arguing near a dark sedan parked by the Dumpster. The trunk door was open, and the men were gesturing toward its contents with angry waves. To her disappointment, neither man was her father. Still, she was glued to the argument as it played out in front of her. One of the men, dressed in a dark sweatshirt, moved closer to the car and kicked angrily at the bumper. They weren’t arguing in a language she understood, which ruled out English, Spanish and French. If anything, she guessed it sounded Slavic, but she was no expert. A soft light emanated from a nearby street lamp, but it wasn’t giving off enough light to help her identify either of the two men. Both had pale skin. The one in the sweatshirt had dark bushy hair. The other was in jeans and a black T-shirt and had dirty blond hair. Both were muscular and well built. The blond’s face was red and seemed to darken with each passing minute as his anger consumed him. She edged closer.

      “Freeze, or the next step you take will be your last.” The words were whispered but as hard as steel. Bailey felt the cold metal barrel of the pistol against her neck and did as ordered. She hadn’t heard anyone behind her and was instantly angry at herself for letting someone sneak up on her like that. She had been so focused on the men’s argument that she had totally failed to watch her six. She tried to turn to see who was holding a gun on her, but as she did so, the gun pushed harder against her skin. She prayed the aggressor wasn’t a friend of the two Slavic men.

      “I said freeze. That doesn’t mean move. Got it?” The deep voice was masculine and as cold as ice, but it also sounded familiar. Did she know this man? Her mind reeled. Even though he had spoken softly, a seed of dread was planted in her chest and she suddenly felt short of breath.

      It couldn’t be. Not here. Not now.

      She almost wanted her assailant to speak again so she could prove herself mistaken. It couldn’t be him. There was only one man on the planet who hated her and always thought the worst of her—Franklin Kennedy. She hadn’t seen or heard from Kennedy in years, but she was certain Kennedy was still a cop. He was the kind of man who was born to work in law enforcement and would toe the line until he either got killed in the line of duty or retired to work in some security firm. He was a cop, through and through. He was also a straight arrow that never bent, regardless of the circumstances. But why would Kennedy be here at her father’s office at two in the morning?

      “Hands up. Slowly.”

      The voice was gritty, but still spoken so softly that she couldn’t verify that it was Kennedy. The gun twisted slightly against her skin and she tensed, then she slowly raised her hands. The man reached forward and took her Glock and stowed it, then roughly shoved her up against the brick wall and frisked her, removing the small knife she had hidden in her waistband and the second pistol she’d secured in her ankle holster. He moved in closer so only she could hear his voice. She could even feel his exhalations warm against her neck and smell the mint from his breath. “Got any more hardware I should know about?”

      “No,” she answered softly, unable to keep the frustration out of her voice. “Look, I’m not trying to make trouble. My father called and when I got here, he wasn’t in his office...” She tried to turn around to explain herself face-to-face, but he stopped her before she could turn, grabbed her wrists with one hand and cuffed her with the other.

      “We got a report that there was a disturbance in this alley. The caller heard a gunshot, and you’ve got a gun. You have the right to remain silent. I suggest you exercise that right until we get this sorted out.” He tightened the manacles until they bit into her skin. It was Kennedy. She was sure of it now. She didn’t know how or why, but Franklin Kennedy now had her cuffed for the second time in her life. The first had been a living nightmare. She hoped this time wouldn’t be a repeat. She pulled against the cuffs as frustration filled her.

      “Easy.” His voice was still low, and when he paused, she imagined he was listening to other policemen through an earpiece. When he spoke again, he wasn’t talking to her and her suspicions were confirmed.

      “Roger that. I’ve got one suspect in cuffs. You’re a go. Repeat, you’re a go.”

      Suddenly she heard screeching tires and blue police lights lit up the side of the building. The yelling around the corner escalated, but now it wasn’t the foreign language she heard, but cops yelling at the two suspects to halt and put their hands up. The men didn’t obey though, and she heard running and more shouting, but thankfully it sounded like they were moving away from her instead of getting closer. A few seconds later, gunfire erupted. Kennedy instantly pushed her to the ground, shielding her with his body, his own gun drawn, ready to shoot if they were threatened. For the first time, she got a glimpse of his face.

      Clean-cut. Bold, direct features. It was Franklin Kennedy, alright. A spike of adrenaline soared through her veins.

      “Stay low. Got it?” he growled.

      He didn’t wait for an answer and kept his eyes peeled on the area around them.

      Bailey’s fear erupted. What was going on? First her father had sent her that bizarre text, and the next thing she knew she was handcuffed by her nemesis just a block or so away from a gun battle. Was her father caught in the middle? Was he even involved at all? Questions filled her mind, as well as a sense of dread. None of this could be good. Being handcuffed and forced to give up her weapons hadn’t helped matters. How was she going to help her father if she was under arrest?

      The bullets stopped flying and she felt Kennedy relax against her. He stood and pulled her to her