Loyalty Under Fire (Operation: Hot Spot Book 3) Read online

  With a final goodbye, Becca hit the End Call icon on her cell phone and dropped it in the side pocket of her purse.

  Dammit.

  She’d promised herself—promised—that she wouldn’t get dragged back into Adele’s complicated life. A promise that had lasted less than an hour after her half sister had bulldozed her way into Becca’s hotel room.

  Why in the world had she agreed to have dinner with Adele and her fiancé? Joining them for a meal certainly didn’t mesh with her intention of keeping her estranged family at a distance. She should have ignored the call once she’d realized Adele was on the other end. At least then she would have avoided this latest mistake.

  The internal complaining was half-hearted at best though. She knew perfectly well why she’d picked up the call. She’d felt compelled to. That odd terror vibrating in Adele’s voice and glazing her eyes when she talked about her fiancé or coming nuptials was a cry for help. Becca was incapable of turning her back when someone needed assistance. Even if that someone was the woman who’d once betrayed her.

  With a frustrated sigh—directed mostly at herself—Becca glanced out the driver’s window for oncoming traffic before thrusting open the sedan’s door and exiting the car. And here she’d thought she’d escaped the brunt of the reunion. There hadn’t been time for an in-depth catch-up session thanks to this late-afternoon appointment with Detective Wilbanks. After accepting the meal she’d ordered from room service, she hustled Adele out the door and into the elevator with the promise to chat soon. She’d barely had time to gulp down a couple of bites of the hamburger the hotel staff had brought her before she had to freshen up and head down to her car.

  The promise of a chat had been a throwaway comment, meant to get Adele out the door. She certainly hadn’t expected her half sister to cash in on it so soon.

  She closed the car door, beeped the locks, and glanced both ways before stepping into the street. Other than an older white pickup idling noisily half a block away, the boulevard was empty. On her third or fourth step, the squeal of tires against asphalt split the air to her left. She glanced over her shoulder and frowned. The pickup had pulled away from the curb with so much force its tires were still protesting.

  Someone was in a hurry.

  She bumped her walk up to a jog, crossed into the oncoming traffic lane, and slowed back to a walk. No sense in arriving for her meeting all sweaty and disheveled.

  “Hey, lady,” an elderly man on the sidewalk across from her hollered. “That truck is headed right for you.”

  She looked over her shoulder again. The pickup was much bigger, the driver a blue blur with the hood of his sweatshirt pulled up over his head and shadowing his face. And sure enough, it was about to cross the center line on a collision course with her.

  Her heart hiccupped. She broke into a run, racing for the two-foot space between the closest cars parked along the curb.

  “Faster!” the man on the sidewalk shouted.

  He yelled something else too, but the words were jumbled by the roar of the truck. He raised his arms above his wispy white head and waved them like he was trying to ward off the truck.

  It didn’t work. The truck roared closer. So close she could feel the vibration of its engine through the soles of her shoes.

  Becca surged forward, her heart pounding hard enough to hurt. She leaped for the space between the cars, flew through it, only to trip on the curb. Her momentum carried her—knee first—onto the sidewalk.

  Just in time too.

  A horrendous crash filled the air behind her. Glass exploded, the fragments drumming against metal and cement. She wobbled up from where she’d hit the pavement and turned to face the destruction behind her while her heart tried to rip its way out of her chest and up her throat.

  The shriek of metal against metal quickly drowned out the tinkle of falling glass. Becca bent, propped her skinned palms on her knees, and drew in deep, gasping breaths as the pickup pulled away, or tried to. Its front bumper had tangled with the driver’s door of the hatchback, and the shredded metal was serving as an anchor. With a final gun of its engine, the truck tore itself free, taking the door with it. A few feet later the door hit the pavement with a metallic clatter.

  Becca straightened and dug into the purse her elbow had locked against her side.

  “Well, hell,” the man beside her said, dropping his arms. He glared after the truck with a disgusted scowl. “He didn’t even stop.”

  Becca was too busy memorizing the license plate while it was still visible to respond. Pulling a notebook and pen from her purse, she studiously jotted the plate number down. When she looked back up, the pickup was a white haze in the sunlight a couple of blocks down.

  “You okay, miss?”

  “I’m fine,” Becca said slowly, staring in shock at what had once been a good two feet of width between the hatchback’s rear bumper and the sedan’s front end.

  The collision had shoved the hatchback into the sedan behind it with enough impact to pop and squish the car’s hood. The space she’d darted through was gone.

  Her “I’m fine” response suddenly sounded like a miracle. If the truck had hit while she’d been in between those cars, she wouldn’t be fine at all.

  Chills swept through her, along with a moment of vertigo. If she’d been a second or two slower, she would be as mangled and crushed as the cars in front of her.

  “We better call the police and an ambulance.” The elderly gentleman reached into his back pocket and pulled out a cell phone. He shot her a surprisingly piercing look out of cloudy blue eyes. “You hit the ground pretty hard. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  Now that he mentioned it, her hands were starting to sting. Her gaze shifted to the tangled mountain of metal in front of her, and the stinging felt like a gift. Her injuries could have been much, much worse. “I’m fine. Really. No need for an ambulance.”

  He gave a judgmental huff as though he didn’t believe her. “Did you know the driver? I’d swear he was aiming for you.”

  Becca shook her head as the chill sank deeper. “I didn’t get a good look. But I’m sure it was an accident. He must have lost control of the truck.” Still… her eyes gravitated back to the mangled metal where the two cars merged.

  If she’d been even a second slower…

  Chapter Five

  Rio left the captain’s office on a burst of static. Fuentes must have already turned the scanner back on. No doubt he’d gone back to picking the dead leaves off his plants too. Rio mentally shrugged as he crossed the bull pen. To each their own. At least the captain was concerned enough about his city to keep tabs on it through the scanner.

  “Addario.”

  Rio halted and turned, backtracking when Fuentes waved him forward. What now? As soon as Rio joined him in the office, his CO shut the door.

  “What did you say the daughter’s name was?”

  He had to mean Rebecca; she was the only daughter they’d been discussing. Rio cocked his head and frowned. “Rebecca Blaine?”

  “That’s what I thought.” Fuentes raised his voice, competing with the sudden blast of static, names, and codes erupting from the scanner. He walked behind his desk and turned the volume down. “There’s been a hit-and-run on Aero Drive. The eight thousand block. A Rebecca Blaine was mentioned.”

  Rio froze, his blood, heart, and respiration sluggish with shock. “Vehicle or pedestrian?” He forced the question out his tight throat.

  “Vehicle.” Fuentes turned away from the bookcase, scanned his face, and frowned.

  What did he see?

  Rio shook his head, breaking the spell. There shouldn’t be anything for the captain to see. Rebecca meant nothing to him. Nothing. His concern for her was no stronger than it would be for any civilian who’d come to him for help.

  “Find out what’s going on,” Fuentes ordered, pulling back his desk chair and taking a seat. “Make sure this hit-and-run has nothing to do with her mother’s death.”

  “Any detai
ls?” Rio asked as casually as he could manage, ignoring the raw, sledgehammer strike of his heart. “Who caught the call?”

  She’s just a case, dammit. Nothing but a case. This reaction makes no fucking sense.

  “No details yet. The call just came in. Herrera and Simmons have been dispatched, along with a meat wagon.” Fuentes picked up a pen and pulled a batch of papers closer. “Check it out.”

  “Yes, sir.” His blood suddenly sprinting through his veins, Rio turned back to the door.

  If an ambulance had been called, someone was hurt. Was Rebecca the victim of the H&R? Was she hurt?

  The thought of her in pain. Maybe even dying. It ripped at him. Which shocked the holy hell out of him. Until today, he hadn’t seen her in years, hadn’t thought of her in months. She meant nothing to him beyond an uncomfortable memory and a sexual itch.

  Back at his desk, he took a couple of deep, deliberate breaths and tried to reconcile his reaction.

  She’s a case. That’s all. Just a case.

  But his rapid pulse and unsteady breathing told him otherwise.

  He might not know exactly what she meant to him now. But his overblown reaction had proven one thing. She wasn’t merely a case.

  Pulling Becca’s intake form closer, he found the contact number she’d listed, but his call just rang and rang and went to voice mail. He left a message. After a few minutes of waiting, he called again. Another voice mail.

  Looked like he wouldn’t know the circumstances of the H&R or how she was involved until the patrol officers arrived on scene and assessed the situation. In the meantime, sitting here waiting for news to roll in was about as appetizing as waiting to get tased during a Taser display. Might as well head out to the accident scene and track the details down for himself.

  The eight thousand block of Aero Drive was a solid twenty-minute drive in rush hour traffic. He made it in ten thanks to the flashers and siren.

  He flipped the emergency signals off as he closed on the two black-and-whites already on scene. The broad-shouldered, black-haired form of Tomas Herrera was on the sidewalk, notebook open, pen in hand, as he patiently listened to a white-haired, grandfatherly type. Behind and to the right of Herrera, a medium height, dark-haired woman spoke with Simmons.

  Becca.

  He scanned her intently as his vehicle crawled past. She looked okay. No blood. She was standing square, not favoring either leg. Nor was she cradling either arm. He glanced up the street and then looked in his rearview mirror. No meat wagon either.

  The muscles of his chest loosened. For the first time in forever he managed a deep, natural breath. Hell, judging by her behavior, she must not have been directly involved in this incident, otherwise she’d be crying hysterically. He compulsively scanned her again, and his whole body relaxed.

  She was fine.

  He couldn’t say the same for a couple of the parked cars. He glanced over the mangled metal and broken glass as he cruised past. What a mess. After pulling alongside the curb several spaces behind the mangled cars, he exited the Crown Victoria that had come with his shiny new detective’s shield.

  Simmons had finished his interview with Becca and moved on to the next witness. A few feet behind the officer Becca stood alone, her dark gaze locked on Rio’s face. Judging by her frown and the lift to her chin, she wasn’t happy to see him. Her irritation at his arrival hit him like fingernails down a chalkboard.

  He’d spent the better part of fifteen minutes worrying himself into a stupor over her welfare, and she didn’t want him around?

  Too fucking bad.

  “Addario.” Herrera stepped away from the wan-faced teenager he’d been talking to and greeted Rio in a rumbling baritone, his dark eyes shrewd as he scanned Rio’s face. “What brings you here?”

  What the hell. Tomas would figure it out the moment he took Becca aside. “One of your witnesses. I have some questions for her concerning another case.” Rio stopped beside the blue-suited officer and half turned to scan the shredded hatchback. “Anyone get a plate?”

  “It came back stolen. Which witness?”

  “Rebecca Blaine. She came into the station earlier with questions about her mother’s suicide.”

  The reason for her visit wasn’t a secret either. Too many people had handled the request as it made its way up the chain. No way to keep it private now.

  “No shit?” Something shifted in the guy’s dark eyes, as though Rio’s explanation had clicked. “Would her questions make anyone nervous?”

  Ah hell…

  Rio tensed. Tilting his head, he narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  “Because witnesses say the truck targeted her. It idled along the curb while she was in her car. Didn’t pull out until she stepped into the road. They say it crossed into the oncoming lane on a direct bead with her changing trajectory. The truck”—he dropped his gaze to consult his notes—“a white, Ford F-250, hit the first parked car seconds after she ducked behind it.” He nodded toward the mangled mass of metal sealing the two cars together. “The impact shoved the Honda into the Buick. If it had taken her a second or two longer to make the sidewalk, she’d be in bad shape right now.”

  Rio went cold. Slowly turning his head, he studied the two cars Herrera had indicated. The space between the two was nonexistent. Hell, the two vehicles looked like they’d been welded together. The ice sank deeper, the chill penetrating down to the soles of his feet.

  She was damn lucky to be standing there, glaring at him. If she’d been between those cars when the truck had struck… Hell, she was damn lucky to be alive.

  He forced his voice to steadiness and turned back to Herrera. “Did you get a description of the driver?”

  “Sure. A dark blue hoodie.” Frustration flashed across Herrera’s square, deeply tanned face. “It covered his hair and most of his face. Hell, nobody can say for sure that the driver was even a he.”

  Great. Just fucking great.

  Rio released a tight breath. “You said the plates came back stolen?”

  If someone wanted to commit murder with an automobile, they’d need a vehicle that couldn’t be traced back to them. A stolen truck would make a perfect weapon.

  “The owner reported it stolen today, noonish.”

  Not long after she’d left the police station.

  Son of a bitch…

  Yeah, it was possible that someone had targeted her.

  What the hell was going on?

  First the missing files and autopsy reports and now this? No question there was something rotten going on, and Becca was smack in the middle of it.

  Rio shifted slightly, studying her. Her composure was off, considering the circumstances. Someone might have tried to kill her, and she wasn’t hysterically venting? Instead, she stood there calmly, even tranquil—except for the irritated glitter that lit her dark eyes whenever she looked at him.

  Where was the drama? The angst? The hysteria? Three things she’d excelled at back in the day.

  “Did you mention your suspicions to her?” Rio shot Herrera a quick glance.

  Tomas shook his head. “Haven’t talked to her. Simmons had that pleasure.”

  Maybe she didn’t realize someone had tried to kill her. That would explain her calmness.

  “Do you think this incident has anything to do with her mother’s death?” Herrera asked. His brown eyes distant as though he was thinking.

  “I don’t know… but I intend to find out.” Rio’s tone was a grim promise. “Keep me in the loop on this, okay?”

  Tomas simply nodded.

  He glanced at the skid marks blackening the cement. The fading color of the tracks and the stutter marks of the treads indicated the truck had been accelerating, possibly even targeting her. Hell, maybe the driver had simply been some kid out for a joy ride who’d lost control of the vehicle. In the meantime, it wouldn’t hurt Becca to hire a couple of bodyguards. With a final look at the crushed cars, he turned toward the woman who’d occupied his thoughts far too much over the
past few hours.

  She watched him approach with a neutral expression and stiff shoulders. It wasn’t until he was almost upon her that he noticed her abraded palms.

  “You’re hurt.” The realization sharpened his tone, which she apparently took as an accusation since she scowled back at him.

  “Nothing that won’t heal,” she told him, her flat tone at odds with the animosity glittering in her dark gaze. “What are you doing here?”

  He could sense her antipathy toward him. Well, tough shit. She’d asked him to check into her mother’s death. He had. She could damn well put up with his presence long enough to answer some follow-up questions.

  “I need to talk to you.” He glanced around the scene. Another batch of black-and-whites had arrived. “In private.”

  “Why?” She didn’t budge.

  He blew out a frustrated breath and glared down at her. Nothing was ever easy with the damn woman. “Because I did some digging into your mom’s case, as you asked, and I have some follow-up questions.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “About what?”

  He wasn’t going to discuss anything more within earshot of SDPD’s finest, not with his CO’s order to keep his mouth shut about the missing autopsy report still ringing in his ears.

  “In private.”

  Her eyes narrowed. Cocking her head, she studied his face intently. “Why not right here, right now?”

  “Because right here, right now, is not private.” He turned and headed back to his vehicle. The interior of his car was about as private as it was going to get. He’d taken a step or two before he realized she wasn’t following.

  Halting, he closed his eyes and counted to five. Clearly the woman was determined to be a pain in the ass. Once his frustration was under wraps, he turned back to Becca’s inflexible figure, which was doing a fine job of mimicking a statue.

  “If you want an update on your mom’s case, you need to come with me,” he told her.

  Her chin shot up an inch or two. “I’ve hired a private investigator. I don’t need your help.”

  Wasn’t that just fucking peachy? She didn’t need him anymore. His teeth clicked together hard enough to hurt.