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Of course he could.
Jericho knew that.
It didn’t stop his heart pounding or his palms from sweating as he sped through the Sydney suburbs.
He knew why.
Quinn was important to him.
They all were.
He hadn’t known them for nearly long enough for them to have lodged themselves so completely. They had twined so deeply around his organs that he wouldn’t be able to extract them without fatal results. They were a disease that had attached itself to his most vulnerable parts.
He put his foot further down on the accelerator. Jericho needed to get there before something happened to his cop.
Words he never thought he’d ever think.
“Jer—”
“Shut up.”
“We have to get there in one piece if you want to be all hero.”
“I said shut up,” Jericho said through gritted teeth. He eased off just enough to satisfy his friend.
Theyfinallyarrived, and Jericho left the car running, sprinting across the yard.
An old lady Jericho knew as Richard Burrows’ sort-of grandmother, Gloria Pilla, was in the front yard. She was on her knees in the long grass, almost hidden if it weren’t for her bright-yellow dress or the harrowing sobs coming from between her lips. He recognised the phone in her hands as Quinn’s, and his blood went cold as his breath left him.
“Where is he?” Jericho demanded. “Quinn. My cop!”
“He’s—he’s—” She hiccupped. “He’s—”
He was still inside.Fuck.
Two shots fired in quick succession inside the house, and Jericho bolted for the front door, ignoring Six’s yelling. Six would look after Gloria. Jericho had to get inside.
Quinn was inside, and there was no way Jericho was staying outside to wait for some kind of cavalry when he was perfectly capable ofbeingthe fucking cavalry.
Sounds of a scuffle had him speeding up, rushing through to the kitchen, where he found Quinn grappling with an unknown assailant. Quinn’s gun was out of reach, and Quinn was only making a half-hearted effort to fight back. The blood covering the side of his face had Jericho seeing red, anger like an explosion in his gut and squeezing his chest.
He grabbed a fistful of the attacker’s shirt and yanked him back as hard as he could. Jericho’s leg lifted, following the momentum, and the flat of his foot hit square in the man’s chest, hard enough he heard a distinct crack. Fuckinggood.
The man didn’t stagger from the pain and instead came at Jericho with a knife. Wrong move.
Jericho swept his arm across the space in front of his chest, turning it during the motion to take hold of the attacker’s wrist. At the same time, he brought his elbow forward and smashed it into his nose with another sickening crack. The blade clattered to the floor.
Jericho jerked the man’s arm back and twisted him, slamming his forehead into the kitchen counter. Once and then a second time for good measure. He kneed him in the stomach, even knowing it was overkill. Jericho didn’t care. This fuckingshitstainhad touched Quinn, hadhurthim. Jericho would make him scream.
Jericho let him go, and he slumped to the floor, groaning. Jericho pulled his Glock 22 out and aimed. If he was going to shoot him, he’d do it with his own weapon this time.
Jericho clenched his jaw. “Move at all and I put one in the back of your head,” he said harshly. He wouldn’t hesitate.
He checked Quinn quickly, a calculated risk because Quinn was the priority, always. Six was kneeling in front of him, checking his pupils with a small torch and speaking quietly to him. Jericho felt some of his tension ease. Six would look after him.
Jericho crouched down beside the man who had dared to touch Quinn and pressed the muzzle against the curve of his skull. “I really want to pull the trigger right now,” he whispered. “You have no idea. So don’t tempt me.”
Jericho couldn’t resist kicking him once more, every fibre of his being wanting to do far more damage than that. He found zip ties in a drawer below the cutlery and tied the man’s wrists together, tighter than was necessary. The red from the pressure biting into him was satisfying. Jericho pulled him roughly to his knees and pressed his forehead against the side of the counter, angling him so the blood from his nose was running down and wouldn’t drown him—which was a shame. “I want you to move, remember? So go ahead.” He didn’t. Another shame.
