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She slid her arms around his waist. “Don’t beat yourself up too much. It takes two to fuck things up as hard as we did,” she whispered against his neck, her voice breaking.
He savored the silky feel of her hair, a flicker of amusement surfacing. “We were young, all right. And it was a royal fuck up.” He got an unsteady laugh, and he hugged her tighter. “Of epic proportions.”
She let go of him and her mouth wasn’t quite steady when she looked at him. She stared at him for a moment, then said, “It would have helped if you would just tell me why you need the information about The Black Hearts.”
He debated how much he could trust her. She was a cop, and they hadn’t seen each other in a long time. They were both harboring resentments. “It has to do with my father and mother, a mystery I need to solve. Don’t push me harder on it. Once I get some answers, I can be more forthcoming. Right now, it’s a considerable problem I have to solve.”
She brushed past him, and disappointment washed over him.
Still, he couldn’t help but get lost in how good she looked as she walked a few paces away. He raised his gaze when he realized she’d stopped moving and was watching him give her the once-over, a look of mild rebuke in her eyes.
He gave her a lopsided grin. “Hell, O. You can’t blame a man for looking.”
She shook her head, a glimmer of dry amusement in her eyes. “You’d better check yourself. You’ll get ahead of yourself thinking with the wrong head.”
His grin deepened, and he decided it would be a good idea if he changed the subject. He wanted her back in his life. “What do you say, O?”
She bit her lip and sighed. “All right. I’ll ask around and if I find anything useful, I will let you know. Is that workable?”
He closed his eyes briefly, so grateful. “Yes. I can live with that.”
“Good. I’ll see you around, Dean.” She started to go, then turned back. “Oh, and I accept your apology.”
Amused by the dryness in her tone, he said, “There’s more than one road to redemption.”
“Then I think you’d better get yourself a good map.” After that comment, she was gone.
He stood there for a moment. Actually, all roads led to O. He’d always known that.
CHAPTERTHREE
The white supremacistcell hadn’t given up easily. The ground outside the warehouse was littered with shell casings and bodies, blood everywhere. Two SWAT co-workers had been hit, but luckily not critically. Ophelia’s body still buzzed with all the adrenaline that had drop-loaded into her system when the bastards had ignored their warnings and opened fire.
With her assault rifle hanging by the strap at her side, she entered the warehouse. The main area was plastered with swastikas, racist propaganda and filled with sofas and chairs. She moved through, confident that the place had been cleared of all armed assailants. None of them had given up, and all of them had been neutralized.
She walked into another open space filled with boxes and wooden crates. With the Halligan tool firefighters employed in opening doors and other uses, she pried off the lid of the first box. She gasped, the hot air in the place filled with cordite and dead, unwashed humans.
C4. A lot of it. Military grade. She pried the top off another box and her stomach clenched with fear. Parts…missileparts. A freaking missile.
Suddenly there was a scuff of a shoe, and she reached immediately for her rifle.
“You do that, and you die,” a male voice said.
She stiffened. Dammit, they’d missed one of them. She turned slowly to face him. He had blond hair, a flag bandana around his neck, and a swastika on the back of his hand. Just like his dead comrades outside. “This place is crawling with law enforcement…SWAT. You’re not going to get out of here alive.”
“Neither will you if you don’t slide that weapon off your shoulder and kick it over here.” He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes wide, his movements jerky.
“What is all of this?” she asked, not moving a muscle.
“Stop stalling and do it, lady, or you will stop breathing.”
She had been taught in the academy never to give up her weapon. Never. It would put her at a grave disadvantage. Her hand dropped to her hip where her sidearm was obscured by the box she’d opened. With her right hand, she maneuvered the strap from around her body over her head, crouched down, and placed the rifle on the cement. She rose and pulled her sidearm at the same time she kicked the rifle toward him. His momentary distraction gave her a small advantage. She whipped up her pistol and fired. Time slowed and stretched in front of her, distorting voices, images, memories. Her gunshot was followed immediately by his. He staggered and went down just before the impact of his bullet hit her square in her chest. It propelled her backwards, and she landed on her back, all her air expelled in one huge burst of pain as if it were her last.
Her last.
Her mind swam with thoughts and impossibilities as her breath froze in her chest. For a moment, she couldn’t inhale as flashes of mistakes, regrets, and pain tore through her.
As people rushed toward her position, shouting and running feet, someone clasped her. It was Randy.
