The Precinct: Brotherhood of the Badge

“And where do you think you’ll be when those bullets start flying?”

At last she turned. Her face was close to his, her eyes studying his mouth as if analysing the words that just came out.

He tucked a golden strand behind her ear. “I have a hard time with you – Ben, too – being a detail that gets overlooked. Ben’s already growing up without a dad. I couldn’t handle it if he had to grow up without a mother, too.”

She reached up and touched his face with her wet hand, stroking his jaw. “It’s for Benjamin’s sake that I’m trying to be this strong. You saw how upset he got this morning at the diner. He needs to know that I can take care of us.”

“My mum and dad were always stronger together.”

Her tremulous smile cut straight to his heart. She brushed her fingertips across his lips. “I don’t know what that’s like, Sawyer.”

“Let me show you. Let’s be that team.”

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Sawyer Kincaid – This gentle giant discovers a darker side to his personality when his father is murdered. When the woman who once rejected his love is targeted by a killer, will it bring out this Kansas City cop’s protective instincts, or send him over the edge?

Melissa Teague – As a young woman, she married a man who turned out to be her worst nightmare. When her ex escapes from prison, she learns that putting her faith in another man may be the only way to survive.

Richard “Ace” Longbow – Melissa’s abusive ex. He’s escaped from prison to save his own neck from an inside hit, but what’s his plan for life on the outside?

Benjamin Teague – A bright, happy four-year-old who knows nothing about the father who never claimed him. Melissa wants to keep it that way.

Fritzi Teague – Melissa’s mother.

Hank Brennerman – Ace’s cellmate. He likes to talk.

Tyrell Mayweather – An enemy of Ace’s from inside the pen. But escaping from prison makes strange allies.

Riley Holt – The FBI agent in charge of recapturing the fugitives.

William Caldwell – Longtime family friends of the Kincaids.

John Kincaid – Deputy commissioner of the KCPD, Sawyer’s father. Unforgivably, unmistakably dead. But why, and who’s responsible?

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Julie Miller attributes her passion for writing romance to all those fairy tales she read growing up, and 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.” This award-winning author and teacher has published several paranormal romances. Inspired by the likes of Agatha Christie and Encyclopedia Brown, Ms Miller believes the only thing better than a good mystery is a good romance.

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.

Protective Instincts

JULIE MILLER

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For my reading and writing students.

Thanks for keeping me on my toes and being

such cool kids to work with. Remember,

each of you has a talent.

Learn something new every day – it keeps your

brain healthy and makes life more interesting.

Make a difference every day – in big ways or

small, others will appreciate it, and you’ll feel

good about yourself.

Keep working hard.

And thanks for the chocolate!

Prologue

John Kincaid touched his tongue to the coppery tang of his swollen split lip. His words were slurred, his confusion evident. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”

“You’re a cop. Does it make any difference?” Dark eyes reflected delight in their power over him.

“Shut up! We’re not supposed to talk.” The one with the colorless eyes shoved the taller man.

“Back off!”

Not good. His enemies were fighting between themselves now. With his wrists handcuffed behind the rusting steel office chair, John sat helplessly in their path, waiting to bear the brunt of their discord.

“Quit playin’ us! You think we’re stupid, old man?”

Three of the fingers on his right hand were already broken when the kick came and crushed another joint. John gritted his teeth, his agonizing scream growling inside his throat.

He’d been tortured like this before, having the crap repeatedly beat out of him, as though pulverizing the muscles and bones would loosen the tongue. But he’d been a young man then. Age and too many years on a desk job had weakened his body if not his will. It was harder to stay awake this time, harder to detach his brain from the violence so that he wouldn’t reveal something he shouldn’t.

Only, that’s what made no sense. These two bastards—the hotheaded one with the prison tattoos and the older, more calculating one with the meaty fists—hadn’t asked him one sensible question beyond verifying his name and position as deputy commissioner of KCPD.

Nothing about an open case.

Nothing about revenge for someone he’d killed or put away over the span of his thirty-year career as a cop.

Nothing about using him as a get-out-of-jail-free card, exchanging one of their buddies for his release.

Nothing but pain and punishment.

John hadn’t recognized either man when they’d abducted him from his Sunday-morning run through the park earlier in the day and brought him to this run-down brick-and-steel warehouse. He didn’t recognize the place, either, though it was near the Missouri River—judging by the wash of water outside the walls, which his ringing ears had detected when he’d first regained consciousness in the bare-bulbed circle of light just outside the warehouse’s office.

He still couldn’t put a name to a face or case beyond Jaw-Smasher, as he’d silently dubbed the big black man, and Bone-Crusher, as he’d nicknamed the wiry smart-ass with the white, nearly shaved, hair.

Senseless violence was not a foreign concept to a man who’d been a cop for thirty years, and who’d served in military intelligence before that. But his kidnapping hadn’t been random. These two knew his running schedule, knew the park, knew at just what stretch of road he’d be alone and out of sight from any other joggers. And they’d come prepared—with some kind of knockout drug that had taken him down before he could put up much of a fight, and a van that John had spotted and dismissed earlier on his run. Real plates. Real business logo. Woman driver.

John’s awareness sharpened a notch and he slyly tilted his chin to peer through his one good eye into the broken shadows and empty spaces of the warehouse around him. Where was the woman now? Was she part of this? A girlfriend? Running the show? Another flunky? Or had she already become a victim?

John risked another question. “Where’s your driver? Is she okay?”

The punch that hit his temple knocked over his chair and John turned his swirling brain and battered cheek into the cool concrete floor, letting the oblivion swallow him up.

When John awoke, he was alone. The lightbulb had either burned out or been turned off, and he was sitting upright again. Only the moonlight creeping through the broken panes of glass on the windows high above him offered any reprieve from the darkness.

Crap. Susan would be freaking out by now. Not only had he missed their Sunday date night, but he hadn’t called her—hadn’t been able to. During his ride in the van, his phone had been taken, along with his gun and badge. Throughout the thirty-seven years of their marriage, Susan had always insisted that he call if he wasn’t going to show up when and where he was supposed to. It was the least he could do for a woman who’d been married to a cop for as long as she had. A woman who loved him, a woman who’d done the lion’s share of raising four sons he couldn’t be prouder of.

She’d have called those four sons by now. Three of them, at any rate. One of them might not be answering his phone this week. Not if he was on another bender. Maybe the other boys would be too busy to answer. Maybe Su was alone and frightened and he couldn’t do a damn thing about it.

Outside the brick walls, a dog whined from some alley in the distance. The howl was mournful and weak, as though the animal was on its last legs, as though it was all alone and had given up hope. John turned his ear toward the sound. “I hear ya, pal,” he slurred. “I hear ya.”

Damn. Deputy Commissioner John Kincaid cursed the downward spiral of his thoughts and shifted, trying to ease his busted ribs and aching conscience into a more bearable position. Concentrate. He wasn’t ready to leave his family. He wasn’t ready to quit being a husband or father.

Did his wife know how much he loved her?

Would his sons remember the lessons he’d taught them?

His boys were all cops—just like him. All of them as protective of their mother as they were the people of Kansas City.

Despite their overachieving schedules, despite their own problems, they’d take care of her. Even if he never got out of this senseless hell, John knew she’d be taken care of. Believing in that one thing was the only comfort he could find.

But somebody ought to help that dog.

And a drink of water would be nice.

Some aspirin would be helpful.

Freedom would be even better.

The silence of the place hurt his ears. His battered fingers and numb arms made a token effort to escape the cuffs, but there was little his weakened body could do.

He was bleeding inside already. He knew the signs.

Unless a miracle stepped out of the shadows and freed him, he was going to die. He only wished he knew why.

And then an outside door opened. John’s pulse quickened as he heard the sound of footsteps, one set, leisurely in pace but even and certain in stride. Footsteps coming for him.

He doubted it was his miracle.

John squinted his good eye shut as the lightbulb snapped on and its harsh brightness seared his brain.

By the time he’d blinked his waiting visitor into focus, he finally understood why he’d been brought here. He looked into the eyes of an old friend. Resurrected from the past. John had wondered when keeping secrets would finally come back to bite him in the ass. Tonight was the night, apparently. “You.”

“Me.” The visitor was alone. Unapologetic. Unmoved by John’s disfiguring injuries. “I see my men have been a little rough with you.”

Bone-Crusher and Jaw-Smasher weren’t too stupid to know when to back away from a threat like this one. They were long gone. Had they completed their task and been paid off and sent on their way? This one had never liked loose ends. If the two goons were still alive, that meant they were needed for some other purpose. Another job. More people hurt. Maybe even John’s own family. His beautiful wife or one of his sons. “I thought you were dead.”

“Not so much.”

John had neither the strength nor the inclination to laugh. “I wrote about us. And what we did.”

“A memoir. How touching. Those pages will never see the light of day, not unless you break your sworn oath—and all-American good guy that you are, I know you won’t.” His old friend moved closer, braced one arm against the arm of John’s chair and leaned in. The fire in the voice was the same, the chill in the eyes unfazed by so many years apart. “What we did…was make a difference in the world. You. Me. All the others. We were visionaries.”

John sat up as straight as his body would let him. “I never liked your vision of the future.”

“You won’t like yours now, either.” His visitor stepped back, smiling. It was a cold imitation of humor. This smile was deadly.

So was the gun pointed at John’s heart. “Goodbye, John.”

Chapter One

Sawyer Kincaid hated the rain.

He hated the sound of it beating against the green canvas tent top. He resented the clingy mist of it masking the tears on his mother’s pale cheeks, as though it could somehow wash away her grief. He loathed the springtime chill of it running down the back of his neck beneath his collar.

But mostly he hated the way it beaded atop the black stripe that bisected the nickel-and-brass badge he wore on his chest—the way the moisture attached itself to every KCPD badge here.

Of course, he could move closer to the somber ceremony instead of standing back at the fringe of family and friends and colleagues. He could get under the tent, get out of the rain. But he was just too big a man to be standing at the front of the crowd if anyone else behind him wanted to see. Besides, getting closer wouldn’t make the rain stop.

Getting closer wouldn’t make the pain go away, either.

“…but come ye back when summer’s in the meadow, or when the valley’s hushed and white with snow…”

For a moment Sawyer tore his attention away from the rain’s gloomy rhythm to listen to his youngest brother Holden’s rich, melodic voice. Their father would have loved his a cappella rendition of “Danny Boy.”

But how the twenty-eight-year-old baby of the Kincaid family could sing at a time like this was beyond Sawyer’s understanding. Maybe the kid was more put together than he’d given him credit for. Sawyer could barely push the thank-yous and glad-you-cames and Dad-would-be-pleased- to-see-you-heres beyond the tight constriction of his throat. A neck as thick as his wasn’t built for wearing button-down shirts and black silk ties. The last time he’d worn his police dress uniform had been when he’d received his detective’s shield. His dad had been there that day, too, shaking his hand and beaming proudly.

Today, Thomas Sawyer Kincaid was burying his father in the ground.

In the damn rain.

This ain’t right.

The nagging mantra had plagued him since that phone call from the commissioner five days ago. “Your father’s dead, Detective. John was murdered. His body was found in Swope Park—though the lab says that isn’t the primary crime scene. I assure you, we’re giving this case top priority. John was a good man. A good cop. He was my good friend. If there’s anything I can do for any of you, let me know. I’m so sorry.”

Sawyer spotted the lady commissioner standing at the front of the crowd, waiting to say a few words about her colleague and friend. Commissioner Shauna Cartwright-Masterson had been a real class act about the whole thing—paying a couple of visits to his mother, Susan, and steering the press away from the family. But the commissioner could talk until she was blue in the face. There just weren’t enough good words that anyone could say to make this right.

John Kincaid had survived walking a beat in downtown K.C. He’d survived being a detective in vice and homicide. Last year he’d led an organized-crime task force that had brought down the Wolfe International crime syndicate.

He should have survived a damn run in the park.

Sawyer shrugged the dampness and injustice of it all off his big shoulders, and concentrated on staying in the moment. He had to focus on the now, not the past, not the future—or else he’d start cussing or blubbering like a baby. An emotional outburst like that in front of all these people would be a real tribute to his father.

Like hell it would.

He blinked the stinging wetness from his eyes and inhaled a deep breath to cool his lungs. He turned away from troublesome thoughts and emotions and visually sought out the rest of his family.

Holden was wearing his dress blues, too. Standing at the foot of their father’s flag-draped casket, he finished his song, saluted John Kincaid’s memory, then resumed his seat beside their mother in the front row of chairs.

Another brother, Atticus, was in uniform as well, as he sat on the opposite side of Susan Kincaid with a stoic, unreadable look behind his dark-rimmed glasses. Atticus was the cool, calm and collected one. Though they’d all been spending time at the house these past few days, Atticus could keep it together better than any of them and provide the rock of support their mother would need.

The soil squished beneath Sawyer’s size thirteens as he subtly shifted his stance to locate his oldest brother in the crowd of mourners. There, even farther from the main gathering than Sawyer, unshaven and scowling, leaning on his cane beneath an overhang of dripping pine boughs, stood thirty-five-year-old Edward Rochester Kincaid. Though he’d made lieutenant more than two years ago, Edward had refused to wear his uniform today. He’d reminded their mother that he was on disability leave from the force and wearing it would be awkward with all the veteran and active-duty officers in attendance. But Sawyer knew better. His mother knew better. Awkward didn’t begin to describe what Edward must be feeling with all these people around. At a funeral. He hadn’t just been out of touch with the department since the tragic attack that had robbed him of so much. He’d been out of touch with his friends and family. Out of touch with life. The fact that he’d shown up at all was a concession to Susan Kincaid’s grief, and a nod of respect to their father.

But they were all here—Edward, Sawyer, Atticus and Holden. John Kincaid’s four sons. Bonded by brotherhood. Forged into men by the badges they wore. Reunited by grief.

Knowledge of those family ties eased the constriction in his chest and Sawyer inhaled a deep, grounding breath.

“It isn’t easy, is it.”

Sawyer clenched his fists at his sides to mask his startled reaction to the voice beside him. He could do this. If his grieving mother could make nice with well-meaning friends who wanted to offer comfort and sympathy, and maybe find a little for themselves, then so could he. He angled his head toward a black umbrella and the distinguished gentleman who’d come up beside him. “No.” This sucks. Nah, Mom wouldn’t like him to say that here—even to an old family friend. He swallowed the emotion that seemed to paralyze his throat. “It’s not.”

There. He got some words out. Decent ones, too.

“Hang in there, son.” William Caldwell reached up to squeeze Sawyer’s shoulder. He wore his black suit with the same impeccable style as the gray streaking his temples. But underneath the businessman’s facade, Sawyer knew there lurked a man who was more fraternity brother and army buddy to John Kincaid than wealthy entrepreneur and owner of his own computer technology company. “These are tough times. It’s the second funeral for a friend I’ve been to since the beginning of the year. Your dad and I should be gearing up for retirement. Enjoying ourselves. It shouldn’t end like this.”

Sawyer and his brothers had gone hunting or fishing with Bill Caldwell and their dad more times than he could remember. They’d shared crazy stories over campfires. He’d absorbed words of wisdom from the old pros about catching fish and tracking game, talking to girls and living life like a man.

But Sawyer still wasn’t ready to hear the speeches. He wasn’t ready to join in the prayers. He wasn’t ready to talk about the injustice that burned him right down to his soul.

Probably sensing the tenuous control Sawyer held on his civil demeanor, Caldwell patted his arm and pulled away. “You take care now.”

Take care of what? Sawyer planed his hand down his face to clear the rain from his eyes and mouth. He needed to be doing something. He needed to move, to go. His palms were itching with the need to grab somebody by the throat and make them pay.

Even John Kincaid’s easygoing, good-ol’-boy son had a temper inside him. And it was brewing. The emotions would boil over if he didn’t do something about this travesty soon.

So there on the spot, standing in the rain, he gave himself a job to do.

There were plenty of folks here, honoring his father. Missing him. But amongst the honor guards, police and government officials, extended family and friends like Caldwell, Sawyer concentrated on something more important than tamping down his sorrow or anger.

He studied each face huddled inside the tent, standing beneath umbrellas and taking shelter under the green, soggy branches of the towering oaks and ash trees and pines lining the road that twisted through the hills of Kansas City’s Mount Washington Cemetery. But he wasn’t looking for familiar friends or comfort.

Sawyer was looking for a face that didn’t fit. He was looking for someone watching the gathering and admiring the success of his handiwork—someone whose curiosity might be bolder than his brains. A smile of satisfaction amongst all the sorrow. He was looking for the man who’d beaten his father bloody and fired a bullet into his chest.

He was looking for his father’s killer.

“IS THIS A JOKE?”

Sawyer switched the phone to his left ear and paced to the opposite end of the large country kitchen. Staring out the window over the sink into the blackness of the backyard he’d grown up in, he jerked the knot loose on his tie and unhooked the top two buttons of his soggy white shirt.

Finally, he had something useful to do to take his mind off the funeral and the friends and family who’d come to his mother’s house afterward. But he’d trade almost anything for a different assignment.

“I wish. All three of them have vanished. Including our pal Longbow.” Friend and fellow cop Detective Seth Cartwright, the commissioner’s son, hadn’t shown up for the potluck dinner after leaving the cemetery. Now Sawyer understood why. A nightmare from the organized-crime investigation they’d worked together last year had reawakened.

“He’s no friend of mine.”

“Mine, either. I know what that bastard can do.” Like try to murder Seth’s wife.

Sawyer knew Ace Longbow as a hulking, temperamental enforcer for the mob. In exchange for testifying against his former boss, he’d been given the opportunity to spend the rest of his life rotting away in prison, instead of facing a lethal injection himself. But something had gone very, very wrong at a courthouse in Jefferson City, Missouri, that afternoon. “You’re sure he didn’t die in the crash?”

They should be so lucky.

Seth continued. “We’re listing all three as escaped prisoners until we’ve got bodies to confirm their deaths.”

Sawyer scrubbed at the evening beard peppering his jaw. “What happened?”

“The Department Of Corrections in Jefferson City had him out to testify in the Wolfe case, along with two other prisoners who were involved in different federal investigations. From what I understand, there were weapons planted in the courtroom. Artillery fire from a van outside knocked out one of the walls.”

“Artillery fire? Sounds like an invasion. Or terrorists.”