“He’ll probably be calmer if I stay in there with him. Just carry on as normal.”

“No,” Reese said. “Tory, don’t go back in there.”

“Darling, I’ve got twenty people in my waiting room. I can’t risk him getting spooked and taking them hostage. I’ll be fine. Just come and pick him up.”

“Damn it, Tory—” Reese swerved around a double-parked car, turned onto a one-way heading the wrong way toward Bradford, and stomped on the gas. The line went dead. She hit speed dial for the station.

“Sheriff’s depar—”

“This is Conlon. I need backup at Tory’s clinic. No lights, no siren, and no one goes in without my say-so. Have them block the parking lot and set up a perimeter three blocks in every direction.” She swung onto a street paralleling the rear of Tory’s clinic. “Suspect is inside the building, possibly armed, definitely dangerous. I’m going in. No one enters until I radio all clear. Put a unit on the back door. Have you got this?”

Gladys Martin said calmly, “Yes, Sheriff. One unit on the parking lot, another at the back door, and a three-block perimeter. Calling now.”

“Thanks.”

“Be careful, Sheriff.”

Reese disconnected and careened to the curb. The dashboard clock read a minute to go on her estimate. She parked, jumped out, and cut through several backyards to approach the rear of the clinic through the small stand of trees that ringed the building. Everything looked quiet. She drew her weapon, eased inside through the back door, and slipped down the hallway that bisected the treatment area. Closed doors on either side led to the equipment room and small pharmacy. Tory’s office door was open. The treatment room doors were both shut. Nita was probably still in room one with her patient. Carefully, quietly, Reese sidled along the wall to treatment room two. The door was slightly ajar. Smart, Tory. Very smart. She put her shoulder against the wall and toed the door open another inch so she could see inside.

A youngish male sat on the treatment table, shirtless, his left shoulder partially visible. A two-inch laceration surrounded by beefy red tissue oozed pus. Tory stood a few feet away at the end of the treatment table, arranging instruments on a stainless steel tray. His black hair was matted to his neck with sweat and his face was tomato-red, as if he had a fever. He gripped the edges of the treatment table, his fingers opening and closing convulsively. He seemed to be jittering. She wondered if he was high on drugs, or just high from fever and stress. She raised her weapon, pushed the door the rest of the way open with her foot, and slid into the room.

“Police. Down on the floor. Do it now. On the floor, hands over your head. Do it now.” He glanced at her wild-eyed, jumped down from the table, and pivoted toward Tory. Tory jumped back, her eyes registering her fear.

“Take another step,” Reese said clearly and calmly, “and I’ll drop you where you stand.”

“I got no weapon,” he said, but he wasn’t getting down on the floor. He was facing Tory, partially blocking her from Reese’s view.

“I don’t care. Get down on the floor or you’re dead.”

He hesitated, but he must have heard in her voice that she wasn’t bluffing. He dropped to his knees, then went face-down and spread his hands out over his head.

“Hands out to your sides. Now.” Reese crossed to him, knelt with her knee on his near shoulder, holstered her weapon, and quickly cuffed him. Once she had him secured, she radioed for backup. “Code four here.”

“This is Adam Charlie one,” Bri answered. “We’re at the back door.”

“Clear the building.”

“Ten-four, Sheriff.”

“I’m going to check on the rest of the patients,” Tory said.

“Not yet,” Reese snapped. At Tory’s questioning look, she tamped down the adrenaline surge that kept her temper burning hot. Tory was fine. Safe. “Wait until Bri clears the place. In case he’s not alone.”

“All right.” Tory hesitated as if she were about to say something else but left the room and the question unasked. Her eyes held worry she couldn’t hide. Reese thought she knew why, but there was nothing she could do about Tory’s concern. She wasn’t sorry. She’d do what she had to do. She wasn’t going to let anyone hurt her family. Ever.

Chapter Twenty-nine

“I’m about finished here,” Mica told Mitch as she stacked the last case of beer in the cooler.

“Good.” Mitch tossed down the tequila he’d been nursing all night, stood, and stretched. He gave her a lazy smile as he dragged his hand through his hair and cocked his hips. His message was clear—I know you want in my pants. “I’m ready.”

“Like, when aren’t you?” Mica grabbed her denim jacket and came around the bar to join him. More than a few girls had eyed him with interest the last few hours. His sexiness wasn’t an act—he was hot. He wouldn’t have survived long around Hector—like all the guys, Hector liked watching girls get it on, as long as the girls looked like girls. The butch ones, they got the shit kicked out of them—and dudes like Mitch? They better learn to fight or they were dead. The memories chilled her, and she wondered if Mitch knew what he was risking by playing this game with her. She grabbed his hand. “Let’s go.”

“You okay?” Mitch murmured as he wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Yeah,” Mica said flatly. “Just great.”

At least Flynn was out of it. Mica still couldn’t believe Flynn had come after her. Come after her and called her out over Mitch. Just remembering the blaze in Flynn’s eyes when she’d said she didn’t want Mitch touching her sent a current of excitement right to her clit. She’d been a possession all her life, but for the very first time, she liked the feeling of belonging to someone. As long as that someone was Flynn. Flynn on fire melted her.

Everything in her life had come with a price tag, but Flynn asked nothing of her, other than the truth. Funny, she’d spent her life with people who wanted part of her, but no one had ever wanted that from her before. Hector had been happy with her lies. Even her family, in some ways, had been too. She didn’t blame them for looking the other way, for pretending they didn’t know what she did, or why—but deep down inside she wondered if anyone would ever really see her. And then along came Flynn, gently and unyieldingly demanding she talk to her, reveal her secrets, share her pain. Now that she’d been touched with tenderness, held with desire, she couldn’t imagine living without it. Couldn’t imagine living without Flynn.

“Oh fuck,” Mica whispered. Flynn. Dios, she wanted her. She…“Oh no. No, no.”

Mitch stopped under the awning of a darkened storefront and nuzzled her neck. “Something wrong?”

“No.”

Mitch kissed her and murmured teasing suggestions of what he planned to do when they reached Mica’s apartment. His delivery was smooth and practiced, with just enough humor in his tone for Mica to know it was part of the act.

“I bet you get a lot of action this way,” Mica whispered in Mitch’s ear.

“You’d be surprised,” Mitch whispered back, pressing his lips to a spot below Mica’s ear.

She let him hit on her, but she wasn’t giving anything back. “What are you—about five-ten?”

“Mmm. Yeah.” Mitch kissed the corner of her mouth. “See anyone on the streets you recognize?”

“No.” Mica looked past his shoulder. No one behind them but tourists. “My couch is about five feet long. You’re going to be really uncomfortable tonight.”

“I’m heartbroken.”

She bit the underside of his jaw. “You should be happy I’m not really into this. You’d have more than a heart ache to worry about.”

He laughed. “I’ll suffer silently.”

She pulled away, shoved her hand in his back pocket, and tugged him along the street. “You have a girlfriend?”

He snugged her close with an arm around her shoulders. “More like a wife.”

“She good with this?”

“If she thought I was seriously trying to make it with you, she’d cut off my nuts.”

Mica laughed and rested her head against Mitch’s shoulder. “I like her.”

“You would, I think.”

“What does she do?”

“She’s a cop.”

“Huh. I guess she’d have to be.”

“She wasn’t always.”

“Yeah?” Mica pointed up the street. “That’s my place. So what was she? Your girl.”

Mitch didn’t usually talk about Sandy when he was on the job, even though she’d been undercover with him a time or two. Maybe hearing about Sandy would settle Mica down. She’d been jumpy and wired since they’d left the Piper. Not that he could blame her, but he needed her thinking. They’d both need to be sharp if they were going to pull this off. “When I met her, she was working the streets.”

“Really.”

“Yeah.” He didn’t tell many people that, but he thought Mica would get it. Where you came from didn’t define who you were. “She’s tough. Strong. A lot like you.”

“Sounds like she might be smarter than me. Was some pimp running her?”

Mitch tightened inside but he didn’t let anything show. “No. She was independent.”

“That’s hard to do. I couldn’t manage it.”

“The two of you came from different places, but you both survived, right? She got out. So did you.”

“I’m not out yet.” Mica stopped, turned into him, and kissed him. She said against his mouth, “This is my place. Are you going to get me out, cop?”

“Yeah,” Mitch said. “I am.”

“Then I guess you better come up and sleep on my couch.”

She took his hand and pulled him up the walk. Once inside, she led him up a couple of flights of stairs and down a hall. She slowed and pointed to a door with chipped brown paint, a tarnished number 4 hanging askew, and a sliver of light edging out underneath. “That’s it, and I didn’t leave a light on.”