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.
