Cavanaugh Standoff

The Cavanaughs are back to doing what they do best—fighting crime—in this electrifying new novel by USA TODAY bestselling author Marie Ferrarella!

For homicide detective Ronan Cavanaugh O’Bannon, this time it’s personal…and totally baffling! The body of a police friend is found executed in the same manner as rival gang members. There’s no progress in finding Aurora’s serial killer…until Sierra Carlyle joins the team.

The perky young newbie is as chatty and extroverted as Ronan is taciturn and closed off. Frankly, she irritates him, but she’s a brilliant, relentless investigator. Working together, facing danger, Sierra’s warmth begins to thaw Ronan’s iciness. But acting on their undeniable attraction proves unwise now. There’s a killer to find and stop…before he sets his sights on a Cavanaugh!

“I’m not heartless,” he informed her.

“I just don’t allow emotions to get in the way, and I don’t believe in using more words than are absolutely necessary,” he added pointedly since he knew that seemed to bother her.

“Well, lucky for you, I do,” she told him with what amounted to the beginning of a smile. “I guess that’s what’ll make us such good partners.”

He looked at her, stunned. He viewed them as being like oil and water—never being able to mix. “Is that your take on this?” he asked incredulously.

“Yes,” she answered cheerfully.

The fact that she appeared to have what one of his brothers would have labeled a killer smile notwithstanding, Ronan just shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

“Oh, you’ll get to believe it soon enough,” she told him.

Cavanaugh Standoff

Marie Ferrarella

www.millsandboon.co.uk

USA TODAY bestselling and RITA® Award-winning author MARIE FERRARELLA has written more than two hundred and fifty books for Mills & Boon, some under the name Marie Nicole. Her romances are beloved by fans worldwide. Visit her website, www.marieferrarella.com.

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To

Adelynn Marie Melgar

Welcome to the World

Little One

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Epilogue

Extract

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

The first kill had been easy.

All it had taken was a sense of detachment—and that had been there, hovering like a dark specter, growing closer and closer for the last two years.

Detachment had been the only way to survive ever since it had happened.

“It.” The event that had turned the world completely upside down, draining everyday life of all happiness, of what made life worthwhile. The event that had left nothing but a pile of ashes in its wake.

Placing the gun barrel up against that worthless scum’s head and then firing, had brought with it an unexpected, tremendous release of pent-up anger.

And just as unexpectedly, it had caused a sense of purpose to return to the emptiness loosely termed as “life.”

The first kill had originated from a chance encounter. After that, a plan had been born. A plan that had required a great deal of careful research, coordination and, above all, meticulous timing. But every risk, every dangerous moment, was ultimately so worth it.

And now? Now, finally, the end of the road was within sight.

Five bodies down, four to go. This would take more planning because they were on their guard now. But it didn’t matter.

However long it took, they were going to die.

Every single one of them!

The target had already been chosen, his day-to-day movements committed to memory. Just like the others.

If a conscience had been involved, it had long since been numbed into nonexistence.

Four more to go.

The words hummed like an enticing siren song. Four more people to kill and the score would finally be even.

Four more and then maybe, just maybe, life could begin to get back to normal.

And if not—and there was a big possibility that it wouldn’t—well, those evil, cold-blooded bastards all had it coming. Their deaths would be no loss to the world because they all dealt in death as if it was of no great consequence. With all of them wiped from the face of the earth, maybe someone else would go on living rather than have their life snuffed out as if they didn’t matter.

Maybe the self-righteous defenders of the public safety would even see it as a public service. Because that was what it was.

A public service.

A public that would be a little safer once those people were all dead.

And maybe, just maybe, sleep would finally return, bringing with it some measure of peace.

Peace, after two years.

Finally.

At least, there was a sliver of hope that it would. Something that had been missing all these many long months.

Chapter One

“Heads up, O’Bannon, your serial killer’s body count just went up by one.”

The declaration came from the Homicide Department’s lieutenant, Jacob Carver, as he came out of his office and walked toward the lead detective assigned to the unusual case.

A twenty-three-year-old veteran of the Aurora Police Department, the lieutenant had a Countdown-to-Retirement calendar prominently displayed on his wall. It was the first thing anyone saw entering his office. The second thing they noticed was the pile of travel brochures amassed on his desk, a pile that seemed to increase weekly.

But any hope the lieutenant had of having the time until his retirement go by quietly had evaporated with the advent of multiple murders—executions, actually—that pointed to a serial killer having invading the northern perimeter of their normally peaceful city.

Ronan Cavanaugh O’Bannon frowned. “Are they sure the body is courtesy of our serial killer?” he asked.

If it was the work of the serial killer who was selectively eliminating members of not just one gang but two, that brought the body count up to a frustrating five. Maybe this time the killer had gotten sloppy and left behind something that could be construed as a clue.

“One bullet to the back of the head, execution style, and, according to the first officer on the scene, the guy’s right hand was cut off,” Carver recited.

“Yup, sounds like our boy,” Detective Sebastian Choi, also assigned to the case, agreed. He shuddered. “Lot of anger there.”

“So you still like the theory you came up with?” Carver asked, sounding rather skeptical. He looked from Choi to O’Bannon, to Nick Martinez, Choi’s partner and also assigned to the case. “That it’s just gang retaliation, with one gang attacking another to even the score?”

“It could still be that,” Ronan allowed, the note of certainty missing from his low, deep voice. His frown deepened. “But according to the ME reports on the other four victims, all the killings were done exactly the same way. That points to one killer, not a mixed bag of executioners, the way we first thought.”

Carver’s gaze was unwavering as he looked at his lead detective. “Is that your gut talking?”

It was hard to miss the sarcasm but Ronan wasn’t the type to be intimidated. He was long past something like that. “It’s a family thing,” was all he said.

The lieutenant sighed, clearly impatient. Everyone knew what it looked like to retire with something of this magnitude left unsolved on his record. It was tantamount to a black mark. He needed this solved. Yesterday. “And that’s as far as you’ve gotten in the investigation?”

“Rome wasn’t built in a day, Loo,” Ronan replied quietly.

“No,” Carver agreed. “But it was demolished and fell apart pretty quickly.”

“What’s the big deal?” John Deeks, one of the squad room detectives who was eavesdropping, asked. “I mean, as long as these so-called gang members are only doing away with one another, that means there’s less of them to turn on the decent residents of their own cities, much less Aurora. Everyone remembers that drive-by shoot-out just within the city limits two years ago. Maybe this’ll teach them to keep away.”

Ronan turned his chair in Deeks’ direction. “Our job is to catch killers regardless of who they kill,” he informed the detective coldly.

“Yeah, they don’t pay us enough to pass judgment on the lifestyle and character of the victim,” Choi spoke up, joining in.

Deeks raised and then dropped his wide, sloping shoulders, retreating. “I’m just saying...”

Ronan leveled a steely gaze at the other man. “Everyone knows exactly what you’re saying.”

“Hey, back to your corners, everybody,” Carver ordered sharply. “I want to see this kind of energy out in the field, not here.” He turned his attention to Ronan and got down to the other reason he’d come out of his office rather than summon the detective in to see him. “Since the body count is up to five, I’m thinking maybe you need a little extra help.”

Ronan’s expression darkened just a shade. He had Choi and Martinez working with him. He didn’t want any “extra” help. Nor did he like what was being inferred. That he couldn’t do the job.

“We’ll get him,” he told Carver with the sort of finality that was known to end discussions.

Another man might have backed off, but dark looks and growled responses had no effect on Carver. In general, that was his domain. “I know you will.”

Whether that was meant to be patronizing or it was actually an honest statement was anyone’s guess, Ronan thought. But an inner voice told him to brace himself.

He watched as Carver turned, glanced over his shoulder to the far end of the squad room and then beckoned. “Carlyle, mind coming over here?” It was not a question but a civilly worded command.

Having been forewarned a few minutes earlier by Carver as to what the lieutenant proposed to have happen, Detective Sierra Carlyle was on her feet as soon as he uttered her name.

Aware that more than one set of eyes was on her, she wove her way between the desks that littered the squad room until she reached Carver.

Although she didn’t make eye contact with Ronan, she was instinctively aware of the fact that he appeared to be glaring at her. Well, she thought, this hadn’t been her choice, but now that it had been made, she intended to go along with it to the best of her ability. Her job was to follow a superior’s orders whenever possible, not to buck them.

With an acknowledging nod in her direction, Carver turned back to the man he’d selected to head the current investigation.

“Okay, O’Bannon,” Carver announced, “as of right now, consider Detective Carlyle part of your team.”

Ronan did not look pleased. “I don’t get a say in this?” he asked, his voice all but rumbling from deep within the caverns of his chest.

“Sure you do,” Carver loftily answered the younger man. “You get to say yes.” The lieutenant glanced around at the team, now increased by one. “You take that empty desk,” he told Sierra, pointing to the one butted up against O’Bannon’s. “Any other questions?” When no one said anything in response, Carver nodded, satisfied. “Didn’t think so.”

Placing the piece of notepaper he was holding with the current crime scene’s address on Ronan’s desk, he stepped back.

“All right, that’s the location of your newest dead body,” he told Ronan. “A drunk patron of the Shamrock Inn tripped over the body while apparently trying to duck out the back way to avoid paying his tab.” Carver laughed under his breath. “Seeing that body lying there was definitely enough to scare him sober,” he commented. He spared one last glance at the now team of four. “Okay. Do me proud. Solve this damn thing before it gets completely out of hand.”

“You ask me, it’s already out of hand,” Choi murmured under his breath the moment the lieutenant left the scene. Turning his attention to the detective who had just been added to their team, the father of three smiled broadly at her. “You can ride with me to the crime scene.”

Nick Martinez instantly came to attention. He moved in to flank Sierra’s other side. “If you want to arrive there in one piece, Carlyle, you can ride with me,” he offered.

Choi appeared annoyed at the inference. “Hey, what’s wrong with the way I drive?”

Martinez gave the other man a look that quipped, “Really?” Out loud he said, “Can’t go into it now. It would take too long and we’ve got to get to the crime scene.”

Ronan turned from his desk, his dark green eyes washing over the two men he’d been working with for a couple of months now. And then he looked at the woman Carver had added to the mix without so much as a warning—as if the situation wasn’t already difficult enough.

“You’re coming with me before these two jokers decide to play tug-of-war with you.” There wasn’t a hint of humor in his voice as he made the pronouncement.

The last thing Sierra wanted to do was appear to take sides in what she perceived to be some sort of unspoken power struggle.

“If you give me the address,” she told Ronan, who had already slipped the paper Carver had given him into his pocket, “I can drive there myself.”

“Good to know,” Ronan answered drily, making no move to take the paper out of his pocket and show her the address.

O’Bannon had just given her what amounted to a non-answer in her book. And now he was walking out of the squad room. Biting back a comment, she forced herself to hurry to keep up. Martinez and Choi were right behind her.

“So do you want me to drive myself over to the scene of the crime or not?” Sierra asked.

“Not,” Ronan answered, pressing for the elevator.

The elevator arrived the second he took his index finger off the down button. Ronan walked into the empty car and was quickly followed by the other three members of his team.

“Not very talkative, are you?” Sierra said, moving so that she was standing right next to him.

“Pet rocks have been known to talk more than O’Bannon does,” Choi told her. Both he and Martinez were behind her and the lead detective.

Not to be left out, Martinez assured her, “You’ll get used to it.”

Sierra slanted a look at the man to her right. He seemed oblivious to the conversation around him, although she couldn’t see how he didn’t hear them.

“I really doubt it,” she answered Martinez with sincerity.

The elevator doors parted on the first floor. Ronan spared her a glance just before he got off. He had one word for her.

“Try.”

And then he took off again, making her hurry if she wanted to keep up. At about a foot taller than she was, O’Bannon’s stride was a good deal wider than hers.

“Or,” she suggested, determined to keep pace, “you could try using sentences containing more than just one word.”

Ronan made no attempt to answer her. He continued walking toward the rear exit and then made his way through the parking lot until he came to where he had parked his vehicle. Only after he released the door locks did he turn toward the other two detectives who’d kept pace with him. He told them the address he’d been given by Carver.

“Got it,” Martinez said, nodding. It was a given that he was driving the other car. “We’ll be right behind you.”

It was unclear, at least to Sierra, whether the other detective had said that to O’Bannon or to her in an effort to let her know she wouldn’t be alone with their wooden leader.

Getting into the passenger side of O’Bannon’s car, Sierra buckled up. The second she secured her seat belt, O’Bannon took off.

Doing her best to relax, Sierra waited for him to say something.

But after they had gone two city blocks in complete silence, she realized that this was the way it was going to be, at least until they reached the scene of the murder. While she didn’t expect the detective to engage in rambling chatter, this “silent treatment” or whatever it was, was totally unacceptable to her.

“You know, it is all right to talk,” she told him, trying to sound cheerful. Unable to “get in his face,” she leaned forward and did the best she could by peering at his profile.

Aware that she had assumed a very unusual position, Ronan waited until he had driven through the intersection before he finally responded to her statement.

“Why?”

“Because,” she began patiently, “that’s what people do, especially when they’re thrown together in a situation that was not of their own choosing—like now,” she stressed. “They talk.”

Accelerating just a little, Ronan drove through the next intersection a shade before the light turned yellow. “I don’t.”

“Maybe you should,” she countered. She saw him turn his head slightly, as if to look at her, and then apparently he changed his mind. She began to feel as if she was dealing with a robot. Nevertheless, Sierra pushed on. “I’m sure you have something to say,” she told him, knowing she was setting herself up, but it was better than this feeling of being in exile.

“I’m thinking,” he informed her.

“Think out loud,” she suggested.

He obviously hadn’t expected that. “What?”

“Think out loud,” she repeated. “I know you’re not thrilled with this but, for better or worse, Carver made us partners for this case and partners use each other for sounding boards. That only works if they talk out loud because, despite what my brothers seem to think, I am not a mind reader.” She took a breath and waited. When Ronan still made no response, she told him a bit more forcefully, “So talk to me.”

Rather than comment on the case they were undertaking, Ronan contradicted what she’d said earlier. “We’re not partners.”

Caught off guard, she looked at him in surprise. “What?”

“You said Carver made us partners,” he said. “He didn’t. He put you on my team. There’s a difference,” he informed her.

Smiling, she said, “Now, was that so hard?”

Because she wasn’t responding to what he’d just told her, Ronan was momentarily confused. “What?”

Sierra spelled it out for him. “Talking. You talked in a full sentence. Several of them, actually. So my point is—was that so hard?”

He didn’t answer her question. Instead, Ronan announced, “We’re here,” as he brought his vehicle to a stop at the curb, parking it several lengths in front of a club named the Shamrock Inn.

The tavern had originally been considered to be in Tesla, the city neighboring Aurora. But somewhere along the line, someone had redrawn Aurora’s boundaries, placing the establishment partially over the city limits, leaving it in both jurisdictions.

A cartoon leprechaun was whimsically winking on the sign proclaiming the tavern’s name just above the door. What might have once been regarded mildly amusing in the dark of night now just looked sad in the light of day, Sierra thought, walking up to the squat building.

She expected Ronan to go in through the front door but he didn’t. Wordlessly, he circled the small tavern with its peeling paint and walked toward the alley behind the Shamrock Inn.

Suppressing a sigh, Sierra stepped up her pace again and quickly followed him.

Once in the alley, she saw that the Crime Scene Investigative Unit had reached the area ahead of them. Three investigators, including the head of the unit, Sean Cavanaugh, Ronan’s uncle, were spread out documenting the crime scene. The medical examiner was also there, his attention strictly focused on the victim lying facedown in the alley.

Sean looked up the moment he heard the detectives arrive in the alley. A tall, distinguished-looking man with a genial way about him, he waited until his nephew reached him before saying anything.

“Looks like your killer got another one,” he said grimly.

Ronan nodded as he assessed the lifeless victim. Like the others, the man had a single gunshot to the back of the head. Blood partially covered the tattoo at the nape of his neck. And, like the other victims, one of the man’s hands had been completely—and cleanly—hacked off.

Ronan looked at his uncle. “How long has he been dead?”

Sean pointed to the back of the tavern where a thin man of about forty or so was leaning against the wall, looking as if he was about to collapse at any moment. The first responding officer on the scene was next to him.

“That white-as-a-sheet-looking patron tripped over our victim at around two in the morning—right around closing time—so the victim’s been dead for at least that long. My guess is that he most likely departed this earth an hour before that.”

“The victim’s hand was cut off,” Sierra noted, struggling to separate herself from the horror of the scene. She saw that the appendage had been thrown haphazardly near the Dumpster and looked quizzically at CSI unit leader. “But the killer didn’t take it.” The act made no sense to her. Why cut off a hand and then just leave it? She would have thought the killer would have wanted it as a souvenir of his crime.

“He never does,” Sean told her. Looking at Ronan, he said, “You’ve got a new member,” and then smiled at Sierra. “Welcome to the party—such as it is,” he added. “A fresh pair of eyes might see something we don’t.”

“Yeah.” Ronan exhaled the word with a touch of impatience. He didn’t notice Sierra making her way to the police officer, nor did he notice her talking to him. He was focused on the victim. Moving in, he squatted down for a closer view of the man. The victim was dressed in what appeared to be designer jeans, undoubtedly boosted from some venue, Ronan guessed, and an ordinary T-shirt, now blood-stained. Like his neck, the back of the dead man’s arms had several tattoos, but nothing that struck Ronan as outstanding.

“Another gang member?” he asked his uncle.

“Looks that way,” Sean replied cautiously. “Working theory is still that this is a retaliation for the last killing.”