“Thank you,” she replied. “I’ve got a .380 in my boot, but I’d feel better with a 9mm. You wouldn’t happen to have a spare hidden away in here, would you?”
Teddy unlocked his center console and removed a Glock. He dropped out the magazine, pulled the slide, and confirmed a bullet in the chamber. After inserting the loaded magazine, he offered it to her.
“Full mag, the chamber’s loaded,” he said.
“Yeah, I saw that,” she replied. “Thanks for this.”
With their weapons by their sides, they made their way to the front door.
Sydney rang the bell, knocked, then made a call. “I’m hoping she answers.”
When her friend didn’t answer the doororthe call, Teddy said, “Let’s see if there’s a point of entry around back.”
Together, they made their way through the yard. The gate to the fence was wide open, same with the kitchen slider.
This isn’t good.
With their weapons drawn, she entered the home. He, close on her heels.
Every interior light was off, but the sun shone into the house with all the brilliance of a new day. He homed in on the trail of blood from the kitchen toward the front of the home.
“God, no,” Sydney blurted, her gaze jumping to his.
In the living room, a Black woman lay dead, a gun in her hand. Across the hall, in the dining room, lay a White man, also clutching a handgun.
A stifled wail poured from Sydney as she knelt by her friend. With gentle fingers, she felt Naomi’s neck, then closed her eyes. Bending close, she whispered into her ear, then kissedher forehead with a tenderness that sent a rush of emotion through him.
“Naomi’s gone.” As Sydney rose, vengeance blazed from her eyes. “That monster murdered my friend.”
He’d seen that look before. It was as if he was staring into the eyes of the devil himself. Her friend’s death had set off a chain reaction… starting with revenge.
Here we go.
SYDNEY
Sydney was gutted.Her heart had been shredded, but she had to fight off the grief and do her job. First, she needed to check on the man lying in a pool of his own blood in Naomi’s dining room.
But Tank was already there.
“No pulse,” Tank said, as Sydney hurried over.
The dead man stared up at her with vacant eyes. Sydney knew who he was. He had no facial hair, but he did have a layer of dark stubble covering his shaved head. He wore a light gray suit, pink dress shirt, no tie. His suit looked tailored, his shoes—buffed to a sheen—looked expensive.
“Domestic incident?” Tank asked.
The fury that filled every cell in her body flooded her with adrenaline. “No, she’s been hunting this monster for a while.”
Tank stood. “We need to clear the house.”
Together, they walked from room to room, checking closets, behind shower curtains, and under beds. Naomi and her killer were the only two there. As they returned to the first floor, Sydney’s phone rang.
She answered. “Come around back. We’ll meet you in the kitchen.”
Seconds later, Sydney’s supervisor stood on the other side of the sliding glass door. After covering his feet in shoe covers, Lorne entered, glancing briefly at her costume and Tank’s oversized suit jacket covering most of it.
“Tank Santini, Lorne Cadance,” Sydney said on autopilot. As the men shook hands, Sydney said, “It’s him, and they’re both down.”
Lorne’s shoulders dropped. “Fuck, no.”
