The Precinct: SWAT

She nodded, studying the seam of the window from top to bottom. “It could be done. I could do it.”

“Unless you had a fear of heights,” Louis teased.

“Fortunately, I don’t.”

“I’ll bet you don’t fear much, do you, darlin’?”

The blonde officer’s cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink. Carrying numerous deadly weapons and crawling across his furniture didn’t fluster her, but a darlin’ from a good ol’ Texas charmer did?

Quinn stopped the conversation. This wasn’t the time for Louis’s flirting. Or his own scientific observations. “I think we’d see the evidence if someone had come through the window. Beyond the fact that it’s tempered, shatterproof glass and the condensation outside from the freezing temperatures would make any kind of traction for your climber almost impossible, there’s no way to replace that specific kind of window overnight.”

She turned her wide green eyes from Louis, seeming to understand his facts better than his COO’s flirting. “Is there another exit to the roof besides the stairwell next to the elevators? Anything with direct access to your office?”

“No.”

She tipped her chin up toward the ceiling “What kind of duct work do you have running up there?”

Officer Murdock was definitely an odd sort of woman, certainly nothing like the polished beauty of his executive assistant, Elise, or any of the other poised and tailored belles he escorted to society events. “Standard issue, I suppose. Although the access panels do have sensors to monitor whenever one opens or closes.”

Michael Cutler seemed to think she was onto something. He looked up at the air-return grate over Quinn’s desk. “Murdock. Call Taylor down and scout it out. Looks like there’s more than one way to get into your office, Quinn. The right perp could even lower the package through that grate without ever setting foot in here.”

The bothersome blonde paused by the desk on her way out the door. “Couldn’t the break-in be something more simple? Like, someone you know—someone who wouldn’t raise any suspicions if they were caught on camera walking into your office?”

Quinn bristled at the accusation. “The people who work at GSS are family to me. I surround myself with people I trust without question.”

“Well, that’s a problem, then, isn’t it?” She flipped her ponytail behind her back, looking up at him with an earnest warning. “You may be trusting the wrong guy.”

“Randy, go.”

Her captain’s brusque command finally moved her out of the room. “Sorry. Climbing into the rafters now, sir.”

Apparently, Louis’s interest in waiting for answers on the break-in—or for the promised text message—waned once she’d left the room. “I’ll be in my office if you need me,” he excused himself, “and do call as soon as you find out anything.”

“Randy?” Quinn asked after they’d both gone and he was alone in the office with Michael.

“Miranda Murdock.” The police captain shook his head, as if Quinn’s wasn’t the first curious reaction the SWAT sharpshooter had garnered from the people she met. “Believe me, what she lacks in tact, she makes up for in sheer determination. There’s not a task I’ve given her yet that she hasn’t accomplished.”

“Other than successful public relations.”

“She’s raw talent. Maybe a little too eager to get the job done at times. She matched the highest score for sharpshooting on the KCPD training range.”

“You have faith in her.”

“She wouldn’t be on my team if I didn’t.”

“Quinn?” The familiar knock at his door told Quinn that his assistant, Elise, had an important message for him.

“What is it?”

Elise tucked her dark hair behind one ear, hesitating as she walked into the room. Quinn braced for whatever unpleasant bit of news she had to share. “The current nanny has gotten wind of the threat against Fiona and wants to quit.”

He adjusted his glasses at his temple, snapping before he could contain a flash of temper. “I’m having a Mary Poppins moment here. How many nannies do I have to go through to get one who’ll stay?”

“She’s afraid, Quinn.”

“There’s a guard with Fiona at all times,” he argued.

“Yes, but not with the nanny,” Elise patiently pointed out. “Quinn, she has every right to be concerned for her safety. The guard’s first duty would be to Fiona, not her.”

Where was the loyalty to his family? The sense of responsibility? The devotion to his daughter? She was the fourth woman he’d hired this year—after firing the one he’d caught drinking at the house, and the one who thought spanking his three-year-old was an option, and filing charges against the one who’d tried to sell pictures of his daughter to a local tabloid. “Where is she now? I’ll double her pay if she stays.”

“Um…”

“Daddy!” Quinn understood Elise’s hesitation when the tiny dark-haired beauty who looked so like her late mother ran into his office.

“Hey, baby.” Quinn knelt down to catch Fiona as she launched herself into his arms. He scooped her up and kissed her cool, wind-whipped cheek as her long, thin fingers wound around his neck. “How’s my little princess today?”

“’Kay.” Even though she couldn’t read yet, he turned her away from the hateful note on his desk and bounced her on his hip. Fiona batted away the gloves that were clipped to the sleeves of her coat and held up her well-loved, oft-mended hand-sewn doll. Fiona’s bottom lip pouted out as she pointed to the bandage taped to the doll’s knee. “Petwa has a boo-boo.”

Quinn pulled up the cloth leg and kissed it, suspecting he’d find a similar first-aid job under the knee of Fiona’s corduroy pants. Although the initial flush of her cheeks had concerned him, he was relieved to see that Maria, the nanny du jour, had at least taken the time to dress his daughter properly for the winter weather and brush her curling dark locks back into a neat ponytail before abandoning her.

“There. She’ll be all fine now.” Stealing another kiss from Fiona’s sweet, round cheek, Quinn set her down and pulled off her hat and coat. He nodded toward the specially stocked toy box he kept behind the counter of the kitchenette at the far end of his office suite. “Okay, honey. You run and play for a few minutes while I talk to Elise.”

“’Kay, Daddy.”

He waited until the box was open and the search had begun for a favorite toy before he turned his attention to his assistant. He didn’t have to ask for an explanation. “The nanny didn’t call,” Elise told him. “She dropped Fiona off with me downstairs and left. I couldn’t convince her to stay.”

Quinn unbuttoned his jacket, unhooked the collar of his starched white shirt and loosened his tie, feeling too trapped from unseen forces and ill-timed inconveniences to maintain his civilized facade. He paced down to see with his own eyes that Fiona was happy and secure, playing doctor on her doll with a plastic stethoscope and thermometer.

He came back, scratching his fingers through his own dark hair. He needed to think. He needed answers. Now. “Can you watch her, Elise? I have work to do. I don’t want to leave until I resolve this threat.”

Elise’s mouth opened and closed twice before her apologetic smile gave him her answer. “For a few hours, maybe. But my parents are in town, Quinn. I’m supposed to be baking pies with my mother, and taking them to the candlelight service at church this evening. Besides, I can’t keep her safe. And if that threat is real…”

He had no doubt that it was. Three dead men in the Kalahari proved that. “You could come to the house. You know what kind of security I have there. There’s a panic room and armed guards.”

“And my parents?” He’d always admired Elise for her ability to gently stand up to him. “It’s Christmas Eve, Quinn.”

He was already nodding, accepting her answer, knowing it had been too much to ask. “Of course. I understand. I was just hoping I wouldn’t have to upset Fiona’s routine any more than it already has been.”

The vibrating pulse against his chest ended all conversation, blanked out all thought except for one more visual confirmation that Fiona was safe. Then he let the protective anger he felt purge any distraction from his system as he pulled his phone from inside the pocket of his suit jacket.

“Quinn?” Michael prompted, equally on guard.

He nodded, reading the message he’d been promised. “It’s the text.”

“What does it say?” Elise asked.

Quinn read the skewed nursery rhyme, filling in the abbreviations as he said the words out loud. “Mary, Mary, Quite Contrary, how does your money grow? With silver bells and 2.5 million shells into 0009357:348821173309. Midnight tonight. Or there’ll be another present for your daughter.”

“What the hell?” was Michael’s reaction.

“It’s a riddle,” Elise needlessly pointed out.

“I get it,” Quinn assured them. “Mary was my mother. I have a memorial trust in her name. Whoever this coward is wants me to transfer two and a half million dollars into this account by midnight. Or…” He glanced over at Fiona’s laugh. He couldn’t imagine a world where someone had silenced that glorious sound. “I’ll transfer the money.”

“I don’t recommend that.” Michael took the phone from him, calling his tech guru Trip on the radio to get him up here to trace what Quinn was certain would be an untraceable number.

“What choice do I have, Michael? How can I fight the enemy when I don’t know who he is? And until we do find out where the threat is coming from, there’s no way to stop him from coming at me again.” He turned to his assistant. “Elise, contact my bank. Don’t let them close before I get there.”

“Yes, sir.” She hurried to her office to do his bidding.

Michael copied down the message. “What if you hadn’t understood the rhyme?”

“I don’t think this bastard is stupid. And he knows I’m not.”

Michael pointed toward the letter wrapped in the evidence bag. “This message says to make something right before New Year’s Eve. That’s a week away. It can’t be this simple, and he’s gone to too much trouble to have it all be over this soon.”

“Agreed.” Quinn propped his hands on his hips. “As long as I can keep Fiona out of this, I want to string this guy along until I can get my hands around his neck.”

Any further conversation stopped as the grate over Quinn’s desk swung open and Miranda Murdock lowered herself down through the opening to plop her combat-style boots on top of his desk. She’d stripped off her Kevlar and rifle and was brushing dust from her black uniform and snaggled hair. And she didn’t seem to see anything odd about making such an entrance.

“I think I found the way in, sir,” she reported to Michael, jumping down beside him. “Barring the whole ‘just walking through the front door’ scenario. Of course, the intruder would still have to alter the camera recording—and turn the sensors off for the few seconds it would take to get in and out.” She paused in her report, her sharp eyes turning to the side and widening enough that Quinn turned to see what had caught her attention.

Fiona. Standing in the middle of his office, her doll dangling to the floor beside her, looking up at the tall blonde woman as if a dusty angel had just descended from heaven.

Miranda’s lips twitched before settling into a smile. “Hey.”

The tiny frown that creased Fiona’s forehead gave her an expression that was more concerned than afraid, or even curious. “You falled.”

The SWAT officer looked up at the open grate, still swinging slightly from the ceiling where Fiona was looking. “Um, no. I crawled. And climbed. And…jumped.” She plucked a clump of cobweb from her hair, glancing toward Quinn and her commanding officer with a questioning plea before pointing a finger at his daughter. “But, you shouldn’t try that. It’s too high. I’m, you know, taller. And a grown-up.”

But the explanation had taken too long and Fiona had moved on to her real concern. Quinn’s hands curled into fists at his sides as Fiona walked right up to Miranda and held up her doll. “Petwa falled.”

“Oh. Um, well…” She snapped her fingers. “That’s exactly why you shouldn’t crawl through ceilings.”

Fiona stared.

Quinn gradually relaxed his protective stance. Not everyone got small children, nor knew how to communicate with them—and he suspected Miranda Murdock was on that list. But he could see she was doing all she could to allay Fiona’s worries.

“Not that your dolly—Petra, is it?—would do that. She needs to stay close to you. On the ground.” Seemingly as flummoxed by his daughter’s fascination as she’d been with Louis’s idle flirtation, she looked to her captain for help. “Sir?”

Michael nodded a dismissal. “Prove to me that you can get back out through that heating duct, and I’ll have Trip check the sensors there to see if they’ve been triggered by anyone else in the last twenty-four hours.”

That, apparently, she could do. Needing no more encouragement, the twenty-something female officer climbed up on the desk and pulled herself back up into the ventilation duct in a skilled combination of pull-up champ and gymnast.

“She’s…different, isn’t she?” Quinn observed.

“Like I said, Murdock is gung ho. She’ll get the job done.”

“Michael.” Quinn usually found his instincts about people to be unerringly accurate. “I have another favor to ask of you. Just how much faith do you have in Miranda Murdock?”

Michael’s blue eyes narrowed. Perhaps he’d just had a similar brainstorm. “You’ve supplied my team with nothing but the best equipment since we first started working together. Your vest design saved my life from a bullet once. I figure I owe you.”

“Then I have a proposition for you.” Quinn scooped Fiona into his arms, drawing her attention away from the dusty blonde angel and the grate that had closed over their heads. “We do.”

Chapter Two

Miranda stilled her breathing, calmed the twitchy urge to blink and squeezed the trigger of her Glock 9 mil, landing five shots, center mass, through the paper target’s chest. Then just for good measure, and because the accuracy score of her shooting range trials was one thing she could control, she angled the gun and put a hole through the paper target’s head.

“You shouldn’t be alone at Christmas,” Dr. Kate Kilpatrick advised. The police psychologist was always full of advice during their sessions. “If your brother is still over in Afghanistan—”

“He is.”

“—then maybe you could volunteer at one of the city mission shelters, visit a shut-in in your neighborhood or invite a friend over for lunch.”

And just which of her friends would be available on Christmas Day? Certainly none of the men on her team. They all had families—wives, children, in-laws. They’d be real gung ho about giving up holiday family time to keep the “odd man out” on their team from being alone on Christmas Day. Lonely was one thing. Pity was another.

Miranda pulled off her earphones and pushed the button to bring the hanging target up to the booth for a closer inspection. Instead of heeding Dr. K’s recommendation to find some company after her mandated counseling session that afternoon, Miranda had come to KCPD’s indoor firing range in the basement of the Fourth Precinct building to blow off steam.

All that touchy-feely stuff Dr. Kilpatrick wanted her to talk about got stuck in her head and left her feeling raw and distracted when they were done. Randy Murdock was a woman in a man’s world. Her brother, John, a KCFD firefighter who’d reupped with the Marines after the love of his life had married someone else, had raised her to understand that when the job was tough—like being a part of KCPD’s SWAT Team 1—that what she was feeling didn’t matter. Four other cops, and any hostages or innocent bystanders, were counting on her to get the job done. Period.

No warm fuzzies allowed.

Nodding with satisfaction that her kill rate had been 100 percent, Miranda sent the target back and cleared her weapon.

“What are you thinking?” Dr. Kilpatrick asked after a long, uncomfortable silence.

“That I’m not the only person with such a nonexistent home life that I’m available for an appointment the afternoon before Christmas.”

“Ouch.” Observant though it was, Miranda regretted the smart-aleck remark as soon as she’d said it. But the therapist let it slide right off her back with a poised smile. “There you go deflecting the focus off yourself again. Deftly done, too. I could write an article about your classic avoidance tendencies. Always striving to please someone else instead of working toward your own goals. Using work or physical activities to avoid thinking about your feelings or dealing with the loneliness.”

Sharp lady. Miranda hated that the police shrink might be onto something there. “So why are you here at four o’clock on Christmas Eve, Doc?”

“To see you, of course.”

“Sorry about that.” Miranda pushed herself up out of the cushy seat. “We’d better wrap things up then, hmm?”

“Miranda, sit.” Dr. Kilpatrick wore a maternal-looking frown now. And though she’d never known her own mother, or maybe because of that, it made Miranda feel so unsure of how she should respond that she sank back into her chair. “You’re just as important as any of the other officers, detectives and support staff here in Kansas City.”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m the low man on the totem pole on my team.”

The maternal vibe became a supportive pep talk. “That’s nonsense. You’re a highly qualified sharpshooter. You passed all the same rigorous physical and mental exams as the other members of your team. Other than chain of command, you know it takes all five of you working together equally and complementing each other’s strengths to make SWAT Team 1 the success it is.”

Miranda released the magazine from the Glock’s handle and pulled out the remaining blanks. Then she reloaded the clip with 9 mm bullets from the ammo box on the shelf in front of her and ensured her gun was in proper working order before returning it to the holster strapped to her right thigh.

She was in the locker room showering when more of the conversation she’d had with the psychologist started replaying in her head.

Dr. Kilpatrick had the patience of a saint. She could ask a question and wait. But the ongoing silence in the psychologist’s office finally got to Miranda, and she blurted out one of the few things that scared her. “Holden Kincaid is coming back.”

“Kincaid? I know several Kincaids on the force. Which one is he?”

“He’s the guy I replaced on SWAT Team 1 when he went on paternity leave. He and the guys are all pretty close.” The random confession had sounded like polite conversation to fill the silence at first. But once one insecurity was breached, others came out. “I mean, even if I prove I’m as good at this job as he is, possibly even better, what good does that do me? If Captain Cutler and the guys resent that I’m there instead of him, that messes up our efficiency. I’d feel like a real usurper for being there. But if I transfer off the team, or get cut because Kincaid is a better man…”

She turned off the hot water and hugged her arms around her naked body as the water ran down the drain and the locker room’s cool air raised goose bumps across her skin. If Dr. Kilpatrick wasn’t so good at her job, then Miranda might not still be shaking from the embarrassing accuracy of the psychologist’s next question.

“Do these self-esteem issues go back to that incident this summer when the Rich Girl Killer attacked you?”

“He wasn’t after me. He wanted Sergeant Delgado’s girlfriend—his wife now—because she could ID him.”

“I read Delgado’s report myself. He said you slowed down the RGK long enough for him to get there to save his wife from being murdered.”

Backhanded praise was no better than a reprimand. “My job wasn’t to slow him down. It was my job to stop him. I failed. He got the drop on me, bashed my head in and I failed.”

“There’s a reason it’s called a team. It takes all of you, working together, to complete your mission. You’re there to complement each other’s strengths, and, on certain days, compensate for a weakness. Every man on that team knows that. Every man has been where you are. No one blames you for having an off day.”

That indulgent, don’t-be-so-hard-on-yourself tone only made the self-doubts whispering inside Miranda’s head shout out loud. “You know it’s different when you’re a woman, Doc. ‘Good’ isn’t good enough. If I can’t perform when my team needs me to, then why the hell should Captain Cutler keep me around?”

The psychologist jotted something on her notepad, then leaned forward in her chair. “SWAT Team 1 is your family, aren’t they? That’s why you’re being so hard on yourself, why you’re so afraid of making a mistake. You don’t want to lose your family again.”

Stupid, intuitive psychologist! That was why the session with Dr. Kilpatrick had upset her so much today. She’d gotten Miranda to reveal a truth she hadn’t even admitted to herself yet.

With her parents both gone and her older brother stationed in Afghanistan, Miranda had no one in Kansas City. No one, period. All she had was this job. Being a cop—a highly select SWAT cop—was her identity. It gave her goals, satisfaction, a sense of community and worth. If she screwed it up, then she’d really be up a creek. Of course, the holidays only exacerbated that reeling sense of loneliness she normally kept at bay.

And she’d actually revealed all that to the doctor?

“Ow!” The pinch of sanity on her scalp told her that (a), she was tugging too hard with the hairbrush, and (b), she needed to get a grip. If she wanted to make the claim that she was a strong woman who deserved to have the job she did, then she needed to quit wallowing in these weak, feminine emotions that felt so foreign to her, and get her head on straight.

Decision made. Time to act. Emotions off.

“Now get out of here, Murdock,” she advised her reflection in the mirror.

After pulling her long, straight hair back into a ponytail, Miranda dressed in her civvies and bundled up in her stocking cap and coat to face the wintry air blowing outside. Night had fallen by the time she hurried down the steps toward the crosswalk that would lead her to the parking garage across the street.

Heading south for half a block, she jammed her hands into the pockets of her navy wool peacoat and hunched her shoulders against the wind hitting her back. When she reached the crosswalk and waited for the light to change, she pulled her cell phone from her pocket to check the time. Great. By this hour on Christmas Eve, none of the usual restaurants where she liked to pick up a quick dinner would be open. She tried to picture her freezer and wondered what microwave choices she had on hand that she could zap for dinner, or if she’d be eating a bowl of cereal again. Why couldn’t she remember these things before she got hungry and the stores had closed?

The light changed. She jumped over the slushy gray snow that had accumulated against the curb, and hurried across the street. That was another thing she missed with John being over in Afghanistan. Besides the bear hugs and patient advice, the man could cook. She’d never really had to learn because he had the gourmet talents and interest in the family. Miranda could easily recall the ham, mashed potatoes, baby asparagus, fruit salad and thick chocolate cake John had fixed for Christmas dinner last year. Her mouth watered at the memory of silky, semisweet frosting and light, moist layers of pure fudge heaven.

Her bowl of cereal was sounding pretty sad right about now.

She entered the parking garage and jogged up the ramp to the second level, where she’d parked her red pickup that morning, long before they’d gotten the call to the Gallagher Security Systems building. As the morning’s events passed through her mind, her thoughts took a left turn and landed on the image of GSS’s boss, Quinn Gallagher, running the show in his poshly furnished, high-tech penthouse office.

The tailored suit and way he spoke, straightforward and concise, as though he was used to people jumping at his word, were clear indicators of his wealth and power. But the short dark hair with that one shaggy lock falling out of place onto his forehead, and those Clark Kent–ish black glasses said science geek. Surprisingly, there’d been muscles under that suit coat. She’d seen them flex and push at the seams of his jacket when he picked up his little girl. Quinn Gallagher was an odd combination of a man—a nearsighted nerd with guns and pecs hidden beneath his suit and tie.