Jeremy rubbed his eyes. “I’ve heard that name.”
“He’s an attorney in Houston. Involved in some big murder trial that’s about to start.”
“The doctor who killed his wife. I read about it.” Jeremy shook his head.
“Someone tried to take out his legal team last night, killed one of them,” Erik said. “Now his law firm’s scrambling to hire protection. They’ve got an in with Liam, so everything’s code red, rapid response.”
Jeremy leaned his head back against the seat. Physically and mentally, he was whipped. He was in a black mood, too, and the dead last thing he wanted any part of was a hastily organized op for some VIP client. A well-connected attorney, no less. Shit, shoot him now.
He looked at Erik. His friend was tense. Determined. And he hadn’t budged a millimeter on anything.
“Our entire op went to shit,” Jeremy reminded him. “We haven’t even done a full debriefing yet.”
“Liam’s aware. He wants you anyway.”
“Then he’s getting a compromised agent.”
Erik looked at him. “Are you?”
Was he?
Deep down, Jeremy knew he was solid. He had four tours in Afghanistan under his belt and five years with one of the world’s most elite security firms. He was trained to take a hit and get right back in the fight. Plus, he wasn’t the one who’d made the mistake that screwed everything up. But still, he felt rattled. Pissed off. Morose. And all that was in addition to being tired beyond belief.
“I’m not a hundred percent,” Jeremy said. It was the closest he could come to admitting he had some work to do to get his head straight.
“Get there.” Erik looked at him. “We need you on this one.”
Kira awoke with sun in her face and a screaming headache. She closed her eyes, trying to quiet the noise, but it only grew louder, and she sat up, wincing.
She hadn’t felt this hungover since . . . when? Her brother’s wedding? The World Series? But she wasn’t hungover. She’d banged her head on Logan’s table when she’d dodged a bullet last night.
A hard lump formed in her throat. She wished it was merely a case of too many tequila shots.
Kira swung her legs out of bed and glanced at the clock. Ten fifty. She’d come home at two and fallen into bed without even pulling the covers down. The crumpled jeans on her floor brought back a flood of memories, and the noise in her head intensified.
Kira turned the shower to cold and jumped under the spray. Three minutes later, she was wide awake. Wrapping herself in a towel, she hazarded a glance in the mirror.
“Crap,” she murmured, leaning close to the glass.
She looked—and felt—like she’d been in a bar fight. Her hazel eyes were bloodshot and puffy, and she had a cut on her cheekbone where a chunk of porcelain had grazed her. Her hair concealed the ugly goose egg on the side of her head, but it hurt like hell.
A low sound pulled her attention to the bedroom. Her jeans were buzzing. She grabbed them off the floor and dug a cell phone from the back pocket.
Ollie’s phone. One of them, anyway—he had at least three. In the chaos of last night, she’d forgotten stuffing it into her pocket. Kira sank onto the bed and stared at the blood-smeared device. She didn’t recognize the number, and she wouldn’t have answered it if she did. God, what if it was his daughter? Had police notified his next of kin?
Kira pinched the bridge of her nose. She needed to turn the phone over to investigators. She’d do it when she went back to the station later. Despite five long hours of interviews, they wanted her back today.
She found a clean pair of jeans in her closet. In deference to the humidity, she layered a thin white blouse over a tank top and slipped her feet into sandals. Her phone chimed from the charger in the kitchen, and she rushed to answer it.
Dread tightened her stomach as she read the caller ID: LOGAN & LOCKE. Was it more bad news?
She closed her eyes. “Kira Vance.”
“Kira, it’s Brock Logan.”
She breathed a sigh and leaned back against the counter. “Hi. How are you?”
“I’ve been better, actually. How are you?”
“Fine.” The pounding in her head started up again, calling BS on that.
“Listen, we need to meet with you. How soon can you get down here?”
“You mean downtown?”
“Yes, here at the firm. We’re having a meeting at noon. Can you make it?”
Kira glanced at the coffeepot and felt a bone-deep yearning. She ignored it as she processed Logan’s request. He wanted her downtown. She’d assumed he’d spent the night at the hospital, where he’d been treated for a gunshot wound to his arm, but evidently he was out and about and organizing meetings.
“Kira?”
“Absolutely. I’ll be there.”
“Good. And bring your case files. Everything you have.”
He clicked off, and Kira stared at her phone. Her “case files” consisted of a few slim folders she’d left at Logan’s house last night. Plus a spiral notebook jammed with research she’d gleaned online. But whatever. She’d wing it, like she always did. Her more pressing issue was transportation. A detective had given her a ride to the police station, and Kira had caught an Uber home, which meant her car was still parked in River Oaks.
Cursing, she glanced at her watch. Maybe she could get Gina to drive her. Kira went to the window and parted the mini blinds to check out Gina’s side of the duplex. The windows were dark, and their shared carport was empty. Kira scanned the street and didn’t see Gina’s car there, either. But she did see her landlord’s shiny black pickup.
“Damn it,” she muttered.
Bruce Garvis owned four properties on this street and made house calls when rent was late. He’d probably seen the empty carport and assumed Kira wasn’t home.
Kira grabbed her keys and picked up her messenger bag. She stepped through the back door into the muggy August air and instantly began to sweat. It was going to be one of those days.
Kira poked her head around the corner of the house. No Bruce. She quickly unlocked the storage closet at the back of the carport and disentangled her bike from a strand of Christmas lights. It was a Specialized Sirrus Comp with an aluminum frame, and her Lazer helmet dangled from the handlebar. The seat was dusty, but the tires looked fine. She went straight for the back fence, wedged open the gate, and cut through the neighbors’ side yard. They’d already left for work, and only their yappy terrier noticed her squeezing past the trash cans.
Kira hadn’t been on her bike in months, maybe a year. Her head pounded, and her system pleaded for caffeine. But at least she was alive.
A lump lodged in her throat as she walked down the driveway. You gotta work when the work’s there. It was one of Ollie’s mantras, and she wasn’t sure why it had popped into her head right now.
Kira reached the street and looked for any sign of a black pickup. She looped her messenger bag over her head so that it crossed her body. Then she pulled on her helmet, fastened the chin strap, and took off.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE RIDE did her good. Not as much good as a greasy breakfast would have, but better than nothing, and she felt better by the time she reached downtown. She coasted down Allen Parkway. This was the easy part, but it was about to get rough.
Kira hit the incline near Tranquility Park and pulled herself out of the saddle. She pumped the pedals for two blocks, then hung a right onto Rusk, where she hit bumper-to-bumper traffic. Peering ahead, she spied orange cones and a utility truck, so she hopped the curb and cut over to McKinney, where traffic was slow but moving.