Servicing the Target (Masters of the Shadowlands #10)(15)

Holding his head, Aaron staggered to his feet. Apparently the bull had got him on the way to her.

Robert stood beside the fugitive. Doing nothing.

She eyed him. “Way to back up your teammates, Robert.”

He flushed. “I secured the perp.”

“Anne had already cuffed him,” Aaron pointed out.

Anne glanced at the downed bull and saw the remnants of shaving lotion on his cheeks and jaw. Hair wet. Shirtless. “You didn’t check the bathroom, did you, Robert? And if you’d stayed on guard as ordered, he wouldn’t have gotten through.”

Robert’s lips twisted in a sneer. “You gonna cry because you got hurt?”

Oh, honestly. The station where she’d once been assigned as a cop had been famous for its misogynistic attitudes. And now she had to deal with it here.

Insecure men who were threatened by competent women were a pain in the ass.

But the stupid bullshit they spouted no longer made her furious. Now, the feeble yapping of men like her cousin was merely irritating, similar to the buzzing of a persistent fly.

“Actually, Robert, I’ll simply note in the report that you disobeyed orders and were out of position which resulted in unnecessary violence and injury during a pickup. I’ll also add that you sat on your ass while your teammates were fighting.” She motioned to the fugitive. “Grab him, please, Aaron. I’ll call Dude and Mitchell in.”

Robert glared, muttered, “Cunt,” and stalked out of the room.

She shook her head, frustration simmering in her gut. His insolence could be ignored, but his incompetence and inability to work as part of the team put everyone at risk.

As Aaron led Wheeler out to the van, Anne called in Mitchell and Dude, receiving “Good going, boss,” from Mitchell, and “Rock on,” from Dude.

“Miss, please.” On the porch steps, the mother intercepted Anne. “My house? Since Eddie fought back, does that mean my house will be lost?”

Anne took her hands and spoke gently. “No, Mrs. Wheeler. As soon as the jail takes custody of him, the collateral papers are no longer in force.” She squeezed the trembling fingers. “Your home is safe.”

As she walked out into the downpour and wind, she glanced at her watch. Still fairly early. She might as well dispatch Mitchell to deliver the fugitive to the jail and fill out the Statement of Surrender form. The rest of them would see if any other skips had decided to stay home in the storm.





The wall sconces in Z’s lanai cast enough light that Ben could see the rain pouring down. Drops slammed against the sidewalk violently enough to bounce. Pools of water were streaming through the tropical landscaping.

His buddies stopped behind him in the open screen door.

Lightning seared his eyes followed by an ear-splitting clap. As the cool air turned hot and arid, filled with the grit of a sandstorm, Ben froze. All around the team, flashes from artillery shells lit the night with cracks like thunder.

No.

Slowly inhale. In. Out. He was in Florida. It was raining. He growled, half under his breath, “Damned thunderstorms.”

“No shit,” Digger’s eyes met his in complete understanding. “Sounds too f*cking much like an aerial bombardment.”

Z walked up behind them and set his hand on Ben’s shoulder. Warmth and reassurance flowed from the strong grip. After a second, he asked, “Can you stay a moment?”

“I’m okay.”

“You are, indeed.” Z squeezed his shoulder before releasing him. “This is another matter.”

What would that be? “Yes, sir.”

Z turned his attention to the others. “Gentlemen, I’ll see you next month.”

“Later, Dr. Grayson. Later, Haugen,” Digger said, starting a chorus of good-byes.

Ben lifted his hand as the men headed out.

Guided by the rain-dimmed solar lights, they dashed for the fence gate and the Shadowlands parking lot.

A long zigzag of lightning lit the night as Ben returned to the screened and covered lanai. Z had resumed his seat on the dark-red cushioned, oak-and-iron chair.

“What’s up?” Ben asked, sidestepping a hanging planter. A chill breeze rustled the trailing blooms and carried the scent of ocean and tropical flowers.

“Can you sit for a minute, please?”

Hell, that didn’t sound good. Ben hadn’t had any problems recently—nothing he couldn’t handle, so he doubted Dr. Zachary Grayson, psychologist, had called him back to assess his PTSD. More likely, he was dealing with Z, the owner of the Shadowlands, who was one of the most protective motherf*ckers Ben had ever met.

And stubborn as hell. Refusal was futile.

Ben scowled. “If you’re planning to grill me for more than five minutes, I want a beer.” Since two of the veterans were recovering alcoholics, the psychologist didn’t serve anything stronger than sodas during the sessions.

Z gave him a relaxed grin. “Fair enough.”

Against the wall, the fridge was filled with junk food, healthy snacks, juices—and alcohol of all kinds. As in the Shadowlands, Z made a point of stocking people’s favorite drinks. Ben looked for a green label and found a Brooklyn Lager. Thinking of the strain in Z’s face, he also splashed a shot of Glenlivet into a glass.

He handed Z the glass of scotch, then dropped into a facing chair and set his feet up on the heavy oak coffee table. He had to appreciate a décor designed for living as well as style. “What’s on your mind, boss? Problems?”