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“I’m not supposed to like you, Kincaid,” she whispered against his collar. “I’m not supposed to even know you.”
“I know.”
Liza’s fresh, angelic face, momentarily free of attitude or suspicion, was smiling.
Those peachy lips were parted in anticipation, and, like a hungry man, Holden couldn’t resist. He leaned in, brushed his lips against hers. Her taste was sweeter than he’d imagined.
The scrape of metal on metal jarred Holden from the unexpected pleasure of that kiss, reminding him that nothing could come of it—that he was only guaranteeing trouble for them both if something did…
Available in September 2009 from Mills & Boon® Intrigue
The Sheriff’s Amnesiac Bride by Linda Conrad & Soldier’s Secret Child by Caridad Piñeiro
Her Best Friend’s Husband by Justine Davis & The Beast Within by Lisa Renee Jones
Questioning the Heiress by Delores Fossen & Daredevil’s Run by Kathleen Creighton
The Mystery Man of Whitehorse by BJ Daniels
Unbound by Lori Devoti
Private S.W.A.T Takeover by Julie Miller
Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and to shyness. Encouragement from her family to write down all those feelings she couldn’t express became a love for the written word. She gets continued support from her fellow members of the Prairieland Romance Writers, where she serves as the resident “grammar goddess.”
Born and raised in Missouri, she now lives in Nebraska with her husband, son and smiling guard dog, Maxie. Write to Julie at PO Box 5162, Grand Island, NE 68802-5162, USA.
PRIVATE S.W.A.T. TAKEOVER
BY
JULIE MILLER
MILLS & BOON®
MILLS & BOON
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For the Greyhound Museum in Atchison, Kansas. What a pleasure to meet “The Talented Mr Ripley,” a retired champion greyhound, and his two female companions, who greeted us at the door, kept us company as we toured the facility and insisted that we pet them.
Thanks to the friendly docents and dog owners who made the visit an unexpected yet marvellous addition to last summer’s vacation. And thank you to every person with a kind heart and a conscience who rescues unwanted, discarded and neglected animals and gives them a loving home.
Prologue
April
“…’Tis I’ll be here in sunlight or in shadow. Oh Danny Boy, Oh Danny Boy…”
Officer Holden Kincaid had learned three things from his father—how to sing like an Irish tenor, how to shoot straight and how to be a man.
He’d never learned how he was supposed to deal with losing the father he idolized to two bullets. He’d never learned how he was supposed to help his mother stop weeping those silent tears that twisted him inside out. He’d never learned why good men had to die while bastards like the ones who’d kidnapped, beaten and murdered Deputy Commissioner John Kincaid could cozy up someplace safe and warm while Holden buried his father in the cold, hard ground.
The lyrics flowed, surprisingly rich and full from his throat and chest, while he sought out his fractured family. Thank God his brother, Atticus, was here to sit with their mother and hold her up throughout this long, arduous day. Though he was the hardest one to shake of all the Kincaids, Atticus was hurting, too. Holden noted the way his unflappable older brother sat, with his hand over his badge and heart, revealing a chink in his stoic armor.
He looked farther back and spotted Sawyer standing just outside the tent, getting soaked. The tallest of all the Kincaid brothers, Sawyer might be hanging back so as not to block anyone’s view of the graveside ceremony. Judging by the way he kept shifting from foot to foot, though, it was more likely he was scanning the crowd of mourners, sizing everyone up as a potential suspect. Holden could understand that. He was about to crawl out of his own skin because he was so antsy to do something about the injustice of their father’s murder.
But Susan Kincaid had asked him to sing. Had asked him to honor his father with John Kincaid’s favorite song. He’d suck up his own grief and anger, and do whatever he had to do to bring their mother some measure of peace and comfort.
Speaking of comfort, where the hell was Edward? Holden’s oldest brother should be here, too, no matter what the reclusive master detective was dealing with. Yeah, he knew that there were a couple of heartwrenching reasons why Mount Washington Cemetery was the last place Edward might want to be. But after losing the husband she’d loved for more than thirty-seven years, all her sons gathered around her might be the one thing that could bring a smile back to their mother’s face. For her sake, if not his own, Edward Kincaid needed to be with the family.
Holden finished the song, as quietly as a prayer, and blinking away his own tears as he pulled his KCPD hat from beneath his arm and placed it over his light brown hair, he turned to the flag-draped casket to salute his father. The steady drumbeat of rain on the green awning over the burial site punctuated the ensuing silence like a death knell. Holden didn’t even remember moving, but next thing he knew, he was seated beside his mother, warming her chilled fingers in his grasp. The Commissioner of Police completed the eulogy and the twentyone gun salute resonated through every bone in his body.
And then it was done.
Or was it all just beginning?
“Holden?” Atticus asked him to take his place at their mother’s side. Instead of telling him the reason, he nodded toward a copse of trees about thirty yards up the sloping hill.
Son of a gun. Edward had shown up, after all. He wasn’t wearing his KCPD dress uniform like the rest of them, but even from this distance Holden could tell he’d cleaned up, and, hopefully, sobered up to pay his respects to their father.
Holden was twenty-eight years old and he still had the urge to charge up that hill and swallow Edward up in a bear hug. But he’d let wiser heads prevail. Namely, Atticus. Charging and hugging would probably send Ed running in the opposite direction just as fast as his cane and gimpy leg would allow.
With his extensive training in Special Weapons and Tactics, Holden understood that teamwork usually got the job done better than any one man’s heroic gesture. Tamping down his own desire to take action, Holden slid into the role required of him on this particular mission. He drew his mother’s hand into the crook of his arm. “I’ll stick with her.”
As Atticus picked up an umbrella and went to talk with Edward, Susan Kincaid’s grip shifted. “You did a beautiful job, sweetie.”
“Glad to do it, Mom. I know Dad loved that song. He taught it to me on one of our camping trips. Scared all the fish away with our singing. All the brothers, too.”
He heard a bit of a laugh. Good. Maybe not.
He easily supported her weight as she wrapped her arm more tightly through his and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. As he looked down at the crown of her dark brown hair, he noticed gray sprinkled through the rich sable color. Hell. He hadn’t noticed those before. He’d bet good money the sudden sign of aging hadn’t been there a week ago when he’d stopped over for a family dinner—while his father had still been alive.
An unexpected rage at the collateral damage the senseless murder had spawned exploded through every cell in his body. John Kincaid’s killer hadn’t just stolen his life. The killer had left a big hole in the leadership of the Kansas City Police Department, and an even bigger hole in the hearts of the Kincaid family.
Somebody had to pay for all that.
But with the same kind of deep breath that iced his nerves before he pulled the trigger to shoot, Holden buried his anger. Instead of lashing out, he leaned over and pressed a kiss to the crown of Susan’s hair. “I love you, Mom.”
She hugged the triangular folded flag tight to her chest and nodded, rubbing her cheek against his sleeve. The sniffle he heard was the only indicator of sadness she revealed. Her brown eyes were bright and shining when she looked up at him and shared a serene smile. “I love you, too, sweetie.” Then she settled in at his side, holding her chin up at a proud angle his father would have admired. “Walk me to the car?”
“You bet.”
They were all the way down to the road when a man in an expensive black suit stopped them. “Su?”
“Bill.”
Holden adjusted the umbrella to keep his mother covered as William Caldwell, his father’s best friend since their fraternity days at college, bent down to exchange a hug. The laugh lines alongside his mouth had deepened into grooves, emphasizing his silvering hair and indicating another casualty of John Kincaid’s death.
“Holden.” As Bill pulled away, he reached for Holden’s hand. “I can’t tell either of you how sad, and how angry, this makes me.” Releasing them both, he straightened his own black umbrella over his head. “I’m making a sizable donation to the KCPD Benevolence Fund in John’s name, but if there’s anything more personal I can do…anything…ever….”
Bill Caldwell ran his multinational technology company as smoothly as he’d told B.S. stories around the campfire on the many hunting and fishing trips he’d taken with the Kincaids over the years. But today he seemed to be at a loss for words.
Susan squeezed his hand, rescuing him from his overwhelming emotions. “Come to the house, Bill. We’re having an informal potluck dinner. Nothing fancy. I just want to be surrounded by everyone who loved John. I want to celebrate what a good, wonderful man he was.”
Bill squeezed back and leaned in to kiss her cheek. “I’ll be there.”
Holden settled his mother into the back of the black limousine they’d ridden in to the cemetery. After tucking a blanket over her damp legs and finding a box of tissues to set beside her, he closed the door and circled the long vehicle to greet Atticus as he walked up the asphalt road. Alone.
Holden’s temper flared again. “Where the hell is Edward?” His long strides took him away from the limo. “You went to talk to him. What did he say?”
As usual, Atticus didn’t ruffle. “I talked to him. As tough as this is on us, you have to know it’s probably harder for him to be here. His wife and daughter aren’t that far from where—”
“I know he’s hurting,” Holden snapped. “But Mom wants to see him. He can’t be such a selfish son of a bitch that he’d cause her pain, can he?”
“Get off your high horse. Sawyer’s with him—bringing him around to avoid the crowd. Ed won’t let Mom down.”
“You don’t have to defend me, Atticus.” Edward and Sawyer walked out of the woods to the limo. “Got your boxers in a knot, baby brother?”
The rain whipped his face as Holden spun around. Edward’s dark hair and beard had been trimmed short—a vast improvement over the shaggy caveman look he’d sported a couple of weeks ago the last time Holden had dropped by his place to try to annoy him out of his drunken grief. Yet there was something dark and sad about his pale gray eyes that wiped away Holden’s temper.
He noted the scar cutting through Edward’s beard, and the way he seemed to lean heavily on his cane as he approached. Edward had been through more than any man should have to endure, and Holden was immediately contrite about any doubts he’d had about his oldest brother’s loyalty to the family.
“Hell.” It wasn’t much to offer in the way of sympathy, but Holden walked the distance between them and wrapped Edward up in a tight hug. “I miss you.”
At first, Edward’s shoulders stiffened at the contact. Then one arm closed around Holden’s back and squeezed with a familiar strength. But just as quickly as the bond was affirmed, Ed was pushing him away. “Get off me, kid.” He inclined his head toward the limo. “Is Mom inside?”
“Yeah.”
Edward swiped the rain from his face and looked at Holden, then beyond to Sawyer and Atticus. The four brothers hadn’t been united like this for a long time. But the unspoken sentiment between them felt as strong as ever. “This ain’t right.”
After Edward climbed into the backseat for a few minutes alone with their mother, Holden closed the door and straightened, standing guard to ensure their privacy. Sawyer rested his forearms on the roof of the limo on the opposite side, looking first to Atticus beside him, and then across the top to Holden. “We’re gonna get whoever did this, right?”
“Right,” Atticus said before turning away to scan the departing crowd and keep everyone else away from the private family meeting.
Holden took the same vow. “Amen.”
Chapter One
October
Oh God. In her sleep, Liza Parrish rolled over and tried to wake herself up. It was happening again. And she couldn’t stop it.
“Shh, baby. Shush.”
Liza closed her hand around the dog’s muzzle and hunched down closer beside him in his hiding spot in the shadowy alley. The fact that he didn’t protest the silencing touch was evidence of just how close to starvation this furry bag of skin and bones was.
He was lucky she’d come here after classes and work tonight, following up on a call to the shelter about an emaciated stray wandering the dock area that neither the county’s Animal Control Unit nor the Humane Society had been able to catch. She’d get him back to the vet’s office where she was interning—feed him a little bit of food and water, run some tests to make sure he wasn’t infected with heartworm or some other debilitating disease, give him some love and a bath, and maybe just save his life.
But who was going to save her?
She hoped the dog was the only one who could hear her heart thumping over the whoosh of the Missouri River, surging past only a few yards away.
Trying to calm herself so the dog wouldn’t panic and give away their position, Liza blinked the dampness of the foggy night from her eyelashes. If only she could blink away the stench of wet dog and old garbage just as easily. If only she could blink herself to safety.
Her leg muscles were beginning to cramp in protest against just how long she’d been curled up with the knee-high terrier mix, hiding behind the trash cans and plastic bags that smelled as if they could have been left in this alley off the river docks ever since the warehouses on either side had closed. She was tired, aching, chilled to the bone—and scared out of her mind.
But she wasn’t about to move.
Hearing two gun shots from the other side of the brick wall she huddled against did that to a woman.
Watching the two men waiting in the black car parked only ten, maybe twenty feet from her hiding space also kept her rooted to the spot. Her jeans were soaking up whatever oily grime filled the puddle where she crouched. The only warmth she could generate were the hot tears stinging her eyes and trickling down her cheeks.
Was this what it had been like for her parents and for Shasta? Endlessly waiting for death to find her. Fighting back the terror that churned her stomach into an acid bath. Driving herself crazy trying to decide whether, if she was discovered, it was smarter to fight or run for her life.
She felt her parents’ terror. Felt her pet’s confusion as he valiantly tried to protect them. Felt their senseless loss all over again.
Two gunshots.
Death.
And she had a ringside seat.
The dog squirmed in her arms and Liza absently began to stroke his belly, feeling each and every rib. “Shh, baby.” She mouthed the words. She wasn’t the only witness to this crime.
Eyewitness.
Almost of their own volition—maybe it was a subconscious survival streak kicking in—her eyes began to take note of the details around her.
Black car. Big model. Missouri plate B? Or was that an 8? Oh hell. She couldn’t make out the number without moving.
But she could see the men inside. She had a clear look at the driver, at least. He was a muscular albino man, with hair as shockingly white as the tattoos twining around his arms and neck were boldly colored. In the passenger seat beside him sat a black man. He was so tall that his face was hidden by the shadows near the roof of the car’s interior. She could tell he was built like a lineman because he was having a devil of a time finding room enough to maneuver himself into his suit jacket.
The size of the black man was frightening enough, but the albino looked crazy scary, like he’d beat the crap out of anyone who stared crosswise at him.
She was staring now. Stop it!
Liza closed her eyes and turned away. She could note any damn detail she wanted, but if those crazy colorless eyes spotted her, she was certain there’d be no chance to tell anyone what she’d seen.
The gunshots had rent the air only a couple of minutes ago, but it felt like hours had passed before she heard the next sound. The sticky, raspy grind of metal on metal as someone opened the front door of the warehouse and closed it with an ominous clank behind him. At the sharp bite of heels against the pavement, she opened her eyes again. The black man was getting out of the car with an umbrella, opening the back door.
“No, Liza. Don’t look.” It was almost as if she could hear her mother’s voice inside her head, warning her to turn away from the eyes of a killer. “It’ll hurt too much.”
“But I need to see,” she argued, feeling the tears welling up and clogging her sinuses again. “It’s the only way I’ll be free of this nightmare.”
“Don’t look, sweetie. Don’t look.”
“I have to.”
Liza squinted hard, catching sight of the back of a pinstriped suit climbing into the backseat of the car.
“No!” She threw her head back. She’d missed him. She hadn’t seen the man who’d fired the gunshots.
The next several minutes passed by in a timeless blur. The car drove away. She’d seen fogged up windows, and a face through the glass. But it had been too vague. Too fast.
She didn’t know what the third man looked like.
As she had dreamed so many times before, what happened next was as unclear as the mist off the river that filled the air. But Liza was inside the warehouse now, cradling the weightless black and tan dog in her arms, creeping through the shadows.
If there were gunshots, if there were killers, then there must be….
“Oh, my God.”
Liza had no free hand to stifle her shock or the pitying sob that followed.
In the circle of harsh lamplight cast by the bare bulb hanging over the abandoned office door was a man. Lying in a spreading pool of blood beside an overturned chair, his broken, bruised body had been laid out in a mock expression of reverence. His twisted fingers were folded over his stomach. The jogging suit he wore had been zipped to the neck, and the sleeve had been used to wipe the blood from his face.
“Stay with me, baby.” She set the dog on the floor, keeping one foot on the leash she’d looped around his neck in case he should find the energy to try to run from her again. Although she was in grad school learning how to treat animals, not humans, she knelt beside the man’s carefully arranged body and placed two shaking fingers to the side of his neck. She already knew he was dead.
“Remember.” Liza heard the voice inside her head. Not her own. Not her mother’s. “Remember.”
“I’m trying.”
Barely able to see through her tears, Liza pulled her cell phone from her pocket and turned it on. She punched in 9-1-1. “I need to report a murder.”
“Remember.”
“Shut up.” She tried to silence the voice in her head. She wasn’t on the phone anymore. She was kneeling beside the body, reaching out to him.
The dead man’s eyes popped open.
Liza screamed. She tried to scoot away. “No!”
His bloody hand caught hers in an ice-cold grip and he jerked his face right up to hers. “Remember!”
“No-o-o!” Liza’s own screams woke her from her nightmare. She thrashed her way up to a sitting position. Panting hard, she was barely able to catch her breath. And though she felt the haunting chill of her cursed dreams deep in her soul, she was burning up.
“What the hell? What…”
She became aware of wiping her hands frantically, and then she stilled.
On the very next breath she snatched up the pen and notepad from her bedside table, just as she had been trained to do. Write down every detail she remembered from her dream before the memories eluded her. Dead body. Cold hand.
“Remember,” she pleaded aloud. Before the body. There were gunshots. She put pen to paper. “Dead man. Two shots.” And…and…
Blank.
“Damn it!” Liza hurled the pen and pad across the room into a darkness as lonely and pervasive as the shadows locked up inside her mind.
A low-pitched woof and a damp nuzzle against her hand reminded her she wasn’t alone. She was home. She was safe. She flipped on the lamp beside her bed and with the light, her senses returned.
Three sets of eyes stared at her.
She could almost smile. Almost. “Sorry, gang.”
The warm, wet touch on her fingers was a dog’s nose. She quickly scooped the black and tan terrier mix into her lap and hugged him, scratching his flanks as she rocked back and forth. Liza couldn’t feel a single rib on him now. “Good boy, Bruiser. Thanks for taking care of Mama. I’m sorry she scared you.”
Not for the first time Liza wondered if the scrappy little survivor remembered that night more clearly than her own fog of a memory allowed her to. She traced the soft white stripe at the top of his head. “I wish you could tell me what we saw. Then we could make this all go away.”
But she and her little guardian weren’t alone. The nightmare might have chilled her on the inside, but her legs were toasty warm, caught beneath a couple of quilts and the lazy sprawl of her fawn-colored greyhound, Cruiser. “So I woke you, too, huh?”
Cruiser outweighed Bruiser by a good sixty pounds, and could easily outrun him, but a guard dog she was not. She was the cuddler, the comforter, the pretty princess who preferred to offer the warmth of her body rather than her concern. Liza reached down and stroked the dog’s sleek, muscular belly as she rolled onto her back. “I know you’re worried, too, deep down inside. I wish I could be as serene and content as you.”
And then, of course, there was the furry monster by the door. Yukon’s dark eyes reflected the light with something like contempt at the disruption of his sleep. Despite weeks of training and all the patience she could muster, the silvery gray malamute had yet to warm up to her. No amount of coaxing, not even a treat, could lure him to join her in bed with the other dogs. He didn’t even mooch when she cooked in the kitchen. Yukon tolerated the rest of the household. He accepted the food and shelter she offered and ran or roller-bladed with her anytime she asked. She always got the feeling that he was looking for a chance to escape—to run and keep on running away from the prison he temporarily called home. No way was Yukon ever going to thank her for rescuing him from being euthanized by an owner who couldn’t handle such a big, athletic dog. No way did he care that she’d been scared, trapped in a nightmare she’d relived time and again these past six months. No way was he going to offer one bit of his strength to make her feel any better. She spotted the crumpled notepad lying just a few feet away from him against the wall. “Nothing personal, big guy,” she said. “Sorry I woke you.”
Liza checked the clock. Four a.m. She’d worked the late shift at the vet clinic and had her applied microbiology review in another four hours. She should try to get some more sleep.
But she was wide awake in the middle of the night. She had no family to call, no arms to turn to for comfort. She was isolated by the very nightmare she desperately needed to share with someone who could help her complete the memories and then get them out of her head. But the KCPD and a restraining order from the D.A.’s office—to keep her identity out of the press—prevented her from talking to anyone but the police and her therapist about the gruesome crime she’d witnessed. She was alone, with no one but her three dogs for company.
She glanced over at Yukon, who was resting his muzzle on his outstretched paws again. He understood isolation. “But you like it better than I do, big guy.”
With sleep out of the question and class still hours away, Liza shoved Cruiser aside and kicked off the covers. “Move it, princess.”
Knowing she’d have extra fur and body heat to keep her warm, Liza kept the house cool at night. The October chill that hung in the air shivered across her skin as her bare feet touched the wood floor beside her bed. Instead of complaining, she let the coolness rouse her even further. After a few deep breaths, she stepped into her slippers and pulled on her robe as she walked past Yukon and headed for the kitchen.
The usual parade followed, with Bruiser right on her heels and Cruiser padding behind at a more leisurely pace. Yukon deigned to rise and come out of the bedroom, only to lie down outside the kitchen doorway. Liza brewed a pot of green tea, ignored her fatigue and pulled out her pharmacology text. She read her next assignment until the first rays of sunlight peeked through the curtains above the kitchen sink.
It was 7 a.m. Late enough to politely make the call she’d been ready to make since the nightmare woke her.
The male voice on the other end of the line cleared the sleep from his throat before answering. “This is Dr. Jameson.”
Great. She’d still gotten him out of bed. Now her therapist would think she’d had some kind of breakthrough. But all she had was the same familiar nightmare she wished would go away.
Combing her fingers through the boyish wisps of her copper-red hair, Liza apologized. “I’m sorry to wake you, Doctor. This is Liza Parrish. I think I’m…” She swallowed the hesitation. There was no thinking about this. Just say it and get on with it, already. “I want to try the hypnotherapy you suggested. I need to get the memory of that cop’s murder out of my head.”
“CAN SHE TELL ME ANYTHING NEW or not?” The burly blond detective named Kevin Grove addressed the question across his desk to Dr. Trent Jameson rather than to her.
The gray-haired psychologist answered for her as well. “Possibly. Though she seems to be juxtaposing her parents’ deaths with your crime scene, there were certainly a few more details in the account she shared with me this morning. She’s certain there were two gunshots now. And that the victim’s body had been arranged in a way that indicates the killer—or someone who was on the scene with the killer—cared about him.”
“Uh-huh.” Grove frowned, looking as skeptical as Liza felt.
Dr. Jameson continued. “I realize those are clues your forensic team can piece together as well. But I tell you, the clarity of her memory is improving. I believe we’ve reached the point where I can put her under and guide her memories toward a particular fact.”
“You can do that? You can pick a specific memory out of her head?” Grove asked.
“It’s a new technique I’ve been working on for several months with some success.” Jameson blew out a long sigh, as though defending his expertise was a tedious subject. “I believe questioning Liza while she’s in a suggestive state could tap into those memories she’s either blocked or forgotten.”
“You want to hypnotize her here.” Detective Grove still wasn’t up to speed on the idea of hypnotherapy. Or else, that doubt in his tone meant he understood just fine what Dr. Jameson was proposing—he just didn’t think it was a worthwhile idea.
Liza squirmed in her chair. Surrendering her thoughts and memories to a professional therapist was risky enough. To do it in front of an audience felt a whole lot like standing up on a firing range and letting the entire world take a potshot at her.
But she had to try. This was about more than clearing her head of the nightmares that plagued what little sleep she did get and left her exhausted. She owed something to John Kincaid, the dead man she’d found in the warehouse. Six years ago, witnesses had come forward to help convict the thieves who’d murdered her family in a home invasion. Liza had been away at college, working on her undergraduate degree, the night her parents and pet were murdered. She hadn’t been there to fight to protect her family. Or to see anything useful she could testify to at their killers’ trial.
But she could testify for John Kincaid. If she could remember.
Helping another victim find justice was the only way she could help her late parents.
Twisting her gloves in her hands, Liza distracted herself from the uneasy task that lay ahead of her by counting the dog hairs clinging to the sleeves of her blue fleece jacket.
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