Читать книгу Necessary Action - Julie Miller - Страница 8

Prologue

“This is some kind of Valentine’s Day curse.” Duff Watson stuck his finger inside the starched white collar of his shirt and tugged, certain the tux the rental shop had given him for today was a size too small.

He wondered what his family would think if he tossed the red bow tie and unbuttoned the collar of this stupid monkey suit. His sister, the bride, would be ticked, and his father would be embarrassed, Grandpa Seamus would laugh, and he’d never hear the end of it from his brothers. So he endured.

Duff—no one had called him by his given name, Tom, for years—was all for celebrating his sister’s happiness. He’d even agreed to stand up as best man for her fiancé. But the only things that felt normal about Liv’s wedding day were the gun holstered at the small of his back and the KCPD detective’s badge stashed in his pocket. And, oh yeah, watching his two younger brothers, Niall and Keir, tagging along behind him as they escorted the bridesmaids down the aisle to join him at the altar.

The three Watson brothers, all third-generation cops following proudly in their father’s and retired grandfather’s footsteps, couldn’t be more different if they tried. Niall was the brain, a medical examiner with the crime lab. He seemed clueless about all the pomp and circumstance surrounding the wedding. He looked as though he was doing some sort of mental calculation about the distance to the altar or how many guests were seated in each pew. Keir was the social one, and he was eating this stuff up. He flirted with his escort and blew a kiss to the older woman in the second pew, Millie Leighter, the family cook and housekeeper who’d helped raise the four of them after their mother’s senseless murder.

Duff was the self-avowed tough guy. He didn’t have the multiple college degrees Niall did, and he’d never win a sweet-talking contest against Keir. But neither could match him for sheer, stubborn cussedness. Duff was the survivor. He’d been old enough when Mary Watson had died that he could see his father’s anger and grief, and had stepped up to help take care of his younger siblings, even after their father had hired Millie, and Grandpa Seamus had moved in to do whatever was necessary to hold the fractured family together. Hell, even now that they were all grown-up, he was still doing whatever was necessary to protect his family—listening to his baby sister when her devil scum of a former partner had seduced and then cheated on her, making sure the man she was marrying today was worthy of her. He’d written a personal recommendation for Keir to one of his academy buddies when the ambitious youngest brother had been up for a promotion to the major crime unit. And there was no end to the coaching Niall required as the shy brainiac negotiated the intricacies of interpersonal relationships.

Duff had the street smarts, the gut instincts that helped him get through numerous undercover assignments for the department. He read people the way Niall read books. Only once had he misjudged someone he’d tried to help, and he’d paid for that mistake with his heart and a beat down that had put him in the hospital for nearly three weeks.

But facing a drug dealer’s wrath hadn’t killed him. Being betrayed by Shayla to her brother had only made Duff stronger and a hell of a lot smarter about falling in love. He’d been played for a fool, and he owned the repercussions of his mistake. Maybe his colossal screwup—when it came to love on this day that was all about love—was the reason he couldn’t get his tuxedo to fit right.

“Natalie is married to Liv’s partner, you know.” Niall, an inch taller than Duff, adjusted his dark glasses and whispered the chiding remark about flirting with the bridesmaid to Keir, who stood a couple of inches shorter.

“Relax, charm-school dropout.” Keir clapped Niall on the shoulder, grinning as he stepped up beside him. “Young or old, married or not—it never hurts to be friendly.”

“Seriously?” Niall turned that same whispered reprimand on Duff, eyeing the middle of his back. “Are you packing today?”

He’d tucked his ankle piece into the back of his itchy wool slacks. At least he wasn’t wearing his shoulder holster and Glock. “Hey. You wear your glasses every day, Poindexter. I wear my gun.”

“I wasn’t aware that you knew what the term ‘Poindexter’ meant.”

“I’m smarter than I look.”

Keir had the gall to laugh. “He’d have to be.”

Duff shifted his stance, peering around Niall. “So help me, baby brother, if you give me any grief today, I will lay you out flat.”

“Zip it. Both of you.” Leave it to Niall to be the cool, calm and collected one. Liv had probably put him in charge of corralling her two rowdier brothers today. The smart guy scowled at Keir. “You, mind your manners.” When Duff went after the collar hugging his neck again, Niall leaned in. “And you, stop fidgeting like a little kid.”

A sharp look from the minister waiting behind them quieted all three brothers for the moment. With everything ready for their sister’s walk down the aisle, the processional music started. Duff scanned the crowd as they rose to their feet. Millie dabbed at her eyes with a lace hanky, making no effort to hide her tears. He knew a hug could make those tears go away, and he would gladly go comfort her, but he was stuck up here at the altar.

Grandpa Seamus was sneaking a handkerchief out of his pocket. The old man was crying, too.

And then Olivia and their father, Thomas Watson Sr., appeared in the archway at the end of the aisle. A few strands of gray in his dark hair, and the limp from the blown-out knee that had ended his frontline duty with the department far too soon, couldn’t detract from the pride in Thomas’s posture as he walked his daughter down the aisle. Duff’s sinuses burned. Be a man. Do not let your emotions get the better of you. Do not cry.

But Olivia Mary Watson was a stunner in her long beaded gown and their mother’s veil of Irish lace. Who knew that shrimp of a tomboy would grow up into such a fine, strong woman? He took after their father with his green eyes and big, stocky build. But Liv was the spitting image of the mother he remembered—dark hair, blue eyes. Walking beside Thomas Sr., he thought of the wedding picture that still sat on his father’s dresser.

He blinked and had to say something quick to cover up the threat of tears. “Dude,” Duff muttered. He nudged the groom beside him. “Gabe, you are one lucky son of a—”

“Duff.” Niall’s sharp tone reminded him that swearing in church probably wasn’t a good idea.

Gabe sounded a little overcome with emotion, too. “I know.”

“You’d better treat her right.”

Yep. Liv must have put Niall in charge of keeping him in line today. “We’ve already had this conversation, Duff. I’m convinced he loves her.”

Gabe never took his eyes off Olivia as he inclined his head to whisper, “He does.”

Keir, of course, wasn’t about to be left out of the hushed conversation. “Anyway, Liv’s made her choice. You think any one of us could change her mind? I’d be scared to try.”

The minister hushed the lot of them as father and bride approached.

“Ah, hell,” Duff muttered, looking up at the ceiling. So much for guarding his emotions and watching his mouth. He blinked rapidly, pinching his nose. “This is not happening to me.”

“She looks the way I remember Mom,” Keir said in a curiously soft voice.

Duff felt a tap on his elbow. “Do you have a handkerchief?” Niall asked.

So he’d seen the tears running down Duff’s cheeks. “The rings are tied up in it.”

“Here.” Niall slipped his own white handkerchief to Duff, who quickly dabbed at his face. He nodded his thanks before stuffing the cotton square into his pocket and steeling his jaw against the embarrassing flare of sentiment.

When Olivia arrived at the altar, she kissed their father, catching him in a tight hug before smiling at all three brothers. Duff sniffed again, mouthing the word beautiful when their eyes met. Keir gave her a thumbs-up. Niall nodded approvingly. Olivia handed her bouquet off to her matron of honor and took Gabe’s hand to face the minister.

The rest of the ceremony continued until the minister pronounced them husband and wife and announced, “You may now kiss the bride.”

“Love you,” Olivia whispered.

Gabe kissed her again. “Love you more.”

“I now present Mr. and Mrs. Gabriel Knight.”

Duff extended his arm to the matron of honor and followed Liv and Gabe down the aisle. He traded a wink with Grandpa Seamus, silently sharing his commiseration over the public display of emotion. He nodded to his dad and exchanged a smile with Millie before unbuttoning his jacket. The tie was going next.

He was halfway to the foyer and the freedom to unhook the strangling collar when he spied a blur of movement in the balcony at the back of the church. A figure in black emerged from the shadows beside a carved limestone buttress framing a row of organ pipes. The man opened his long duster coat, revealing the rifle and handgun he’d hidden underneath.

Duff was already pushing the matron of honor between the pews and pulling his weapon when Niall shouted, “Gun!”

The organ music stopped on a discordant note and the organist scrambled toward the opposite balcony door. The man’s face was a black mask, his motives unknown. But when the stranger raised his rifle to his shoulder and took aim at the sanctuary below, his intent was crystal clear.

“Everybody down!” Duff ordered, kneeling beside the pew and raising his Beretta between his hands. “Drop it!” But the bullets rained down and he jerked back to safety.

“I’m calling SWAT,” Keir shouted. Duff glanced back to see him throw an arm around Millie and pull the older woman down behind the cover of a church pew with him. Gabe Knight slammed his arms around Liv and pulled her to the marble floor beneath his body. Niall was reaching for their father and grandfather.

He heard panicked footsteps, frightened shouts and terse commands as bullets chipped away marble and splintered wood. Flower petals and eruptions of dust floated in the air. Half the guests at the wedding were cops, active duty or retired, and every man and woman was taking cover, protecting loved ones, ensuring everyone was safe from the rapid barrage of gunfire.

Duff waited for a few beats of silence before swinging out into the aisle again and crouching at the end of the pew. The gunman was on the move. So was he.

“I’ve got no shot,” Duff yelled, pushing to his feet as the shooter dropped his spent rifle and pulled his pistol. He pointed the other officers on the guest list who happened to be armed to each exit and zigzagged down the aisle as the next hail of bullets began. “Get down and stay put!” he ordered to everyone else, and ran out the back of the sanctuary.

“Niall!” Duff heard his father shout to his brother as Duff charged up the main stairs to the second floor. By damn, if that whack job had hurt his brother, he was going down.

Signaling to another officer to cover the opposite entrance, Duff pushed open the balcony door. But he knew as soon as they entered that the balcony was clear. The chaos down below echoed through the rafters, but Duff tuned it out to focus on the staccato of running footsteps. The shooter was gone. He’d taken his weapons with him and fled through the massive church.

Duff returned to the darkened utility hallway, where a wave of cold air blew across his cheek. Outside air. Close by. The clang of metal against metal gave him direction. The perp had gone up to the roof.

His instinct was to turn to his radio and call in his location and ask for backup. But he was wearing a black tuxedo, not his uniform. He’d have to handle this himself. Leaving the other officer to see to the frightened organist, he sprinted down the hallway and climbed a narrow set of access stairs to the roof. If the perp thought he was getting out this way, he’d corner the chump before he reached one of the fire escapes.

Duff paused with his shoulder against the door leading onto the roof, reminding himself he’d be blind to the perp’s position for a few seconds. Nobody shot up his sister’s wedding, put his family in danger, threatened his friends. No matter what screw was loose in that shooter’s head, Duff intended to stop him. Heaving a deep breath, he shoved the door open.

Squinting against the wintry blast of February air, he dove behind the nearest shelter and pressed his back against the cold metal until he could get his bearings. The glimpse of gravel and tar paper through the kicked-up piles of snow were indicators that he wasn’t the first person to come out this way. The AC unit wasn’t running, so he should be able to hear the shooter’s footsteps. Only he didn’t. He heard the biting wind whipping past, the crunch of snow beneath tires as cars sped through the parking lot and the muted shouts of his fellow officers, circling around the outside of the church three stories below. The only labored breathing he could hear was his own, coming out in white, cloudy puffs, giving away his position like a rookie in training.

He was going to have to do this by sight. Clamping his mouth shut, he gripped his gun between his chilling hands and darted from one cover to the next. Instead of footprints, there was a wide trail of cleared snow, as if the man had been dragging his long coat behind him. But the trail was clear, and Duff followed it to the short side wall of the roof. He peered over the edge, expecting to find a fire escape. Instead, he found a ladder anchored to the bricks that descended to the roof of the second floor below him. But he spotted the same odd path transforming into a clear set of boot prints, leading across the roof to the wall that dropped down to the parking lot.

“Got you now.” Duff tucked his gun into his pocket and slid down the ladder.

He rearmed himself as he raced across the roof. He could make out sirens in the distance, speeding closer. Backup from Kansas City’s finest. Ambulances, too. That meant somebody was hurt. That meant a lot of somebodies in that sanctuary could be hurt. This guy was going to pay.

Duff swung his gun over the edge of the roof and froze. “Where the hell...?”

The only thing below him was a pile of snow littered with green needles at the base of a pine tree, and another officer looking up at him, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head.

The perp had vanished. Poof. Disappeared. Houdini must have shimmied down that evergreen tree and had a driver waiting. Either that or he was a winged monkey. How could he have gotten away?

“Son of a...” Duff rubbed his finger around the trigger guard of his Beretta before stashing it back in its holster. He was retracing his steps up the ladder, fuming under his breath, when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled out his cell, saw Keir’s name and answered. “He got away. The guy’s a freakin’ magician.”

“Grandpa’s been shot.”

“What?” The winter chill seeped through every pore of his skin and he broke into a run. Seamus Watson, eighty-year-old patriarch, retired cop who walked with a cane, followed Chiefs football and teared up at family weddings the same way Duff did was a casualty of this mess? No. Not allowed. “How bad?”

“Bad. Niall’s trying to stop the bleeding. Get down here. Now.”

Duff had no one left to chase. The shooter’s trail had gone as cold as the snowflakes clinging to the black wool of his tuxedo.

“On my way.”