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Now the other cops had their weapons out and pointed.
My heart threatened to stop any second. If even one of them pulled their trigger. “Don’t! No,” I pleaded on a scream.
I got between them again, my back to Brett’s front. He bit out another curse, but again swept an arm out in front of me. He didn’t move me out of the way this time. He held me in front of him.
“You shoot him, you shoot me,” I said.
Brett started to try to lift me clear once more, but I held firm, staying between him and them.
A female cop made a frustrated snarl before yelling, “Holster your guns. Jesus. Put ’em away. Or switch to stun.” She took charge, her voice rising. “What is this about, Broudou? You came tearing out of the house looking to attack us. We’re trained—”
“I want to talk to Detective Dickhead.” Brett had stopped trying to lift me away, but he was barely contained. His arm was like cement in front of me, and I held onto it, my fingers tightening around him.
“You mean Officer Dove? You have his number—”
“No. You call him. You can get his ass here quicker.”
“And if he’s in the middle of something?”
“Then I’m taking Billie, and I’m making some phone calls to old friends.” His tone was ominous. “I’m not fucking around. Get him here, or I’m returning to my roots.”
She frowned, not understanding that last statement, but Brett didn’t care. He twisted, lifting me in a surprisingly gentle hold as he carried me back through the gate, hitting the button so it’d lock. When we got back into the house, he put me down, but only to bend in front of me so he could throw me over his shoulder.
“Brett!”
“Just easier this way.” He took the stairs three at a time, going into his bedroom, where he set me on his bed. He disappeared into his closet, bringing out a bag.
“What are you doing?”
He put the bag on the bed, unzipped it, and went to his dresser. “I meant what I said. These fucks know who this guy is and they haven’t told you?” He waited one second for me to affirm.
I nodded warily. “He wouldn’t.”
He pulled open the top drawer, taking out my clothes. He tossed them onto the bag, opening the second drawer. “That’s what I figured.”
“Brett.” I reached for the bag, holding it to me. “What are you doing?”
He stopped, his gaze wild, his jaw clenched in a way I’d never seen before. He was livid. “We don’t need their protection. I know people. You can disappear, and if this fucker wants to get to you, the only way is through me. If they don’t share—”
“Which one are you going to call? Channing Monroe or Mattis Naveah?” a voice asked from the doorway, a strange voice that I’d never heard from Travis.
His gaze was hooded, his jaw clenched.
Brett’s eyes narrowed. “Maybe one, maybe both. I know others too.”
“That’s right. You know all sorts of people. What’d you say to Howard again? ‘I’m in the NFL Honors. Guys like to talk to me.’ Or something like that? Am I getting that wrong?”
Brett grew still.
The tension in the room thickened.
“Who’s the guy trying to kill Billie?” Brett asked.
Travis’ jaw could cut glass. “That is information I cannot share, nor should I have said in the first place.”
“Bullshit. You wanted her to know. You told her all about the profile. You wanted to share the details about the theory on who this guy is—”
“Profiles work. That’s why we use them.”
