man. Were they talking about her?
Liza broke eye contact as she neared his position. A distinct feminine awareness hummed beneath the surge of temper. But both energies fizzled as an all-too-familiar panic crept in. Maybe she had more than her sanity to worry about. Did he recognize her? Did he know why she was here? Dr. Jameson and Detective Grove had reached the hallway leading to the interview rooms. Another few steps and she’d be there as well.
Two more steps. One more glance.
Enough.
“What?” she exclaimed, turning and taking a step toward the armed man, realizing too late that he was several inches taller and a heck of a lot broader up close than he’d been with the length of the room between them. But guts and bravado spurred her past the unnerving observation. “Do I have lunch in my teeth? You think I’m some kind of circus sideshow? Why are you staring at me?”
Without batting an eye or missing a beat, he grinned. “You started it.”
“I did not.” Snappy, Liza.
“Holden…We need to walk away.” The caution from the detective beside him went unheeded.
Tough Guy faced her, looking as calm and bemused as she was fired up. When a man was armed for battle and built like a fort, he probably didn’t feel the need to lose his cool. “Maybe I’m just admiring the view.”
Liza scoffed at the flirtatious remark. Right. Like her freckles and attitude had turned his head. “And maybe you’re just full of it.”
An elbow in the arm from the man standing beside him made the tough guy raise his hands in surrender. “My apologies. Can’t help it if I’ve got a thing for redheads.”
“Uh-huh.” Liza hadn’t expected the apology. Didn’t trust it. Wasn’t quite sure how to handle it, either.
She nearly jumped out of her skin when she felt a hand at her elbow. She calmed her reaction before it reached her face and looked up into Dr. Jameson’s indulgent expression. “Liza? It’s not the time for chatting. I want to pursue this while the dream is fresh. Come along.”
“Who’s chatting?” Liza grumbled. Grateful for the opportunity to escape, she allowed Detective Grove to usher her into a room stuffed with a conference table and chairs. Before the door closed behind her, she gave one last look over her shoulder. The tough guy with the smooth lines and eerily familiar countenance was still watching her. Her reaction to his intense scrutiny was still sparking through her veins. Something about those probing blue eyes was as spellbinding as it was unnerving. Turning away from his inexplicable fascination and determined to dismiss her own, Liza let the door close behind her.
“Who was that man staring at me? I’m sure I’ve never met him, but he looked…familiar.”
Detective Grove glanced toward the door as if her ghost had followed them into the room. “The big guy in the S.W.A.T. vest?” As if anyone else had zeroed in on her through the midday crowd like that. “That’s Holden Kincaid.”
Liza sank into the nearest chair. “As in Deputy Commissioner John Kincaid?”
“Yeah.”
That explained the resemblance. A thing for redheads, my ass.
So much for anonymity. If she could figure out who he was, then he had probably identified her as well—the woman who’d reputedly witnessed John Kincaid’s murder. Behind that smart-alecky charm, he was probably wondering why the hell she hadn’t come forward with the entire story and fingered the killer already.
She’d get right on that. Just as soon as she could remember.
“Holden Kincaid, um…how is he related to the man who was killed?”
Grove spread open the case file at the end of the table. He could make that bulldog face of his look pretty grim when he wanted to. “He’s John’s youngest son. And you need to stay away from him.”
Chapter Two
“Got him.” Holden Kincaid framed the target in the crosshairs of his rifle scope, blinking once to make sure his vision was clear.
Clear like crystal.
His mind and body followed suit, blocking out any distraction that might interfere with the execution of the task at hand. The crisp October air lost its chill. The rough friction of the roofing tiles against the brace of his elbows and thighs vanished. Emotions were put on hold as months of training calmed the beat of his pulse.
Every observation was now made with cold-eyed detachment. From his vantage point atop the neighbor’s roof across the alley, he could look right over the privacy fence into Delores Mabry’s trashed kitchen. There was a cloudy spot on the window glass, a greasy hand print from the last time the perp had looked out into the back yard. But the smudge didn’t mask the gray-haired woman cowering behind a chair against the refrigerator. The window’s curtains hung wide open, indicating the target hadn’t given much thought to how the police would react to this hostage situation. Holden’s target was big enough to make this a relatively easy shot—if his orders had been to shoot to kill.
But as the pudgy stomach in the bright white T-shirt passed by the window again, Holden knew there would be nothing easy about this shot.
Al Mabry was armed. He was moving. And the poor SOB probably had no clue to the danger his delusional state had put his mother, himself, and a dozen cops into. Going off his meds did that to a schizophrenic. Mabry was ill. Suicidal. If possible, KCPD wanted to end this standoff with everyone alive. But if Mabry decided to obey the voices in his head and suddenly start shooting up more than the living room furniture, then Holden’s orders would change and a life would end.
No emotions allowed.
Static crackled across Holden’s helmet radio and Lieutenant Mike Cutler, his S.W.A.T. team leader and scene commander, came online. “You can take that shot?”
Holden rolled his shoulders and neck, easing the last bit of tension from his body before going still in his prone position. “Yes, sir.”
“Molloy, can you confirm?”
Dominic Molloy, Holden’s lookout, backup and best friend, adjusted his position on the roof beside Holden and peered through his binoculars. “I wouldn’t want to take it. But I’m not the big guy.” Holden sensed, rather than saw, the teasing grin around the steady chomp of Dom’s gum. “The hostage is on the floor,” continued Molloy. “Scared out of her mind, maybe, but she doesn’t appear to be harmed. Mabry’s pacing the kitchen with his gun to his head. Hasn’t pointed it at Mama yet. He does lower the weapon when he stops to drink his coffee.”
Mabry had ordered his mother to brew a fresh pot earlier. After spending the better part of the past night on this call, Holden longed for some hot coffee himself. Or a hot breakfast. Or a hot…No. He couldn’t afford to feel anything right now. Focus.
“The perp’s routine hasn’t varied for the last forty minutes,” Holden reported. “The next sip he takes, I could drop him. I think I can even neutralize the gun.”
“You think?”
Cutler’s skepticism
