She tucked her hands under her thighs, but still they trembled. She stared down at the little bits of glass embedded in her knees.
Kira took a deep breath to steady herself and got a whiff of chlorine. Logan must have just had his pool shocked. She looked out over the blue expanse, and again she felt like she was on a movie set.
As she watched the group of police officers, the patio door opened, and a tall woman with short blond hair stepped out. She wore pants and an HPD windbreaker, and she towered over her male counterparts, including the heavyset uniform who’d interviewed Kira earlier. Hanson? Hamlin? Kira couldn’t remember his name. Her brain was only minimally functioning, and her answers to his questions had come out garbled and disjointed. Embarrassed, she’d asked him for some water, and he’d given her a look of disapproval before he’d flipped shut his notebook and walked off.
The woman turned, and her gaze rested on Kira. She broke free from the others and walked over.
“You’re Kira Vance?”
“Yes.”
“Detective Spears, HPD.” She took a notebook from her pocket. “Can you tell me what time you arrived at the residence?”
“Where’s Ollie?” Kira sat up straighter and squared her shoulders. “Oliver Kovak. He had a pulse when they took him out of here. I heard the paramedics talking.”
The detective looked her over. “He’s been transported to Hermann Hospital. That’s all I know.”
Kira’s chest squeezed. A tremor went through her, and she broke out in a cold sweat.
“We should know more soon,” the detective said. “Can you tell me what time you arrived at the residence?”
Kira took a deep breath. “Around six forty.”
“And you were coming from . . .?”
“Work.”
The detective nodded. “Where do you work?”
“I work for myself. Not, like, for a company. I’m a licensed PI.” The woman’s eyebrow tipped up as she scribbled in her notebook. “And you were coming from . . .?”
“Downtown,” Kira said. “I had some papers for Ollie that I knew he’d want for tonight’s meeting.”
The detective flipped a page in her notebook. “Officer Hanlin tells me you got a look at the shooter.” Her eyes locked with Kira’s. “Can you describe him?”
“It was a blur, really. I didn’t see much.”
“Was he white? Black? Tall? Short?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you get a look at his clothing?”
“He wore a gray sweatshirt. He—” Kira halted. Her throat went dry.
“Ms. Vance?”
“I saw him before.”
The detective’s gaze sharpened. “When?”
“When I pulled up. He was jogging. He had a gray hoodie and shorts, and he was jogging down the street right in front of the house.” The words spilled out of Kira’s mouth, and she was sweating again. “I had a fleeting thought about how that takes discipline, jogging in the rain like that, but maybe . . . I don’t know.”
“You think he was casing the house?”
Kira nodded.
Spears eased closer, her gaze intent now. “What else do you remember?”
“He was white.” Kira visualized the jogger. “Caucasian but . . . tan. He was tall. And he was wearing these tinted glasses. Amber-colored.” Which was odd, now that she thought about it, given the weather. “I didn’t notice his hair because of the hoodie.”
Officer Hanlin was back, and he looked Kira over as he handed her a bottle of water. Spears motioned for him to step away with her, and they spoke together in low voices.
Kira twisted the top off the water and took a gulp. It felt cool on her throat, and she realized how thirsty she was. She guzzled half the bottle. Then she poured the remainder over her fingers, trying not to think about Ollie’s blood as she wiped her hands on her jeans.
Another cop approached. He talked to Spears, and Kira overheard the words “Kovak” and “hospital.” She held her breath as the detective stepped over.
“Ms. Vance? We just got word about your friend.”
One look at her eyes, and Kira knew.
CHAPTER THREE
THE WHINE of the Cessna’s engine made conversation impossible as the plane banked and descended, and that suited him fine. Jeremy Owen didn’t like small talk, and he had a special aversion now, as he closed in on hour forty-two of a trip that had bounced him around the globe. He’d started in Jakarta and been through three airports before getting waylaid in San Jose and catching a lift home on a client’s jet.
Jeremy was on edge. He needed food, a shower, and about three days of uninterrupted sleep before he was fit for human contact. He glanced at his teammate across the aisle, who was in worse shape than he was, dealing not only with extreme fatigue but with a dislocated shoulder that was going to knock him out of active duty for the foreseeable future. It had been a grueling job. Things had started out crappy and gone shitty from there, and Jeremy was ready to put the entire op in his rearview mirror.
He scrubbed his hand over his itchy beard and looked out the window. The morning sun gleamed off the bayou, and he squinted at the glare. Last time he’d had a bird’s-eye view of Houston’s Buffalo Bayou, he’d been in a helo packed with veterans en route to a staging area. It was two days after a hurricane had dumped fifty-two inches of rain on the city, stranding thousands of people in flooded houses until a volunteer army had pulled them out in skiffs, airboats, and kayaks—anything that would float. Jeremy had been drained that week, too, but not nearly as exhausted as he was right now.
The Cessna swooped low over the trees, and Jeremy tried to shake off the daze as the ground loomed closer. It was a pissant airfield with a too-short runway, but the pilot coasted in for a perfect landing, and Jeremy wasn’t surprised, because he was a former Marine.
At the end of the runway was a twin-engine Otter. Catching sight of the familiar pickup parked beside it, Jeremy went from dog-tired to alert in less than a heartbeat.
The plane taxied to a stop. Jeremy grabbed his duffel as his teammate exited ahead of him. Jeremy shook hands with the pilot, then trudged down the stairs, his attention locked on the man waiting beside the truck.
Erik Morgan was dressed as usual in black BDUs and boots, with a SIG P220 on his hip. But the look in his eyes made it clear something unusual was up.
Jeremy crossed the tarmac and stopped in front of him. “Tell me you’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
Jeremy tipped his head back. He wanted to howl at the sky. Or punch something. Or turn around and walk away.
“Fuck,” he said.
“Get in.” Erik nodded. “I’ll explain on the way.”
Jeremy tossed his duffel in back and slid into the truck. Erik quickly got moving, veering around the Otter and speeding across the tarmac to the exit.
“The rest of Bravo Team is in Los Angeles, and Alpha just started a training rotation,” Erik said.
“What about Lopez?” Jeremy asked. “Special assignment in Aspen.”
“What about Keith?”
“He’s in already.”
“Trent?”
“In already. So is Joel, and Cody’s sidelined with the shoulder injury. That leaves me and you.”
“Five agents?”
“Six, including Liam.”
Jeremy stared at him. “Who’s the client?” Not that he gave a damn, but it had to be someone big for their CO to be directly involved.
“Brock Logan.”