An angry male voice could be heard yelling obscenities upstairs. I caught “fucking bitch” in among the rambling, followed by loud sobbing broken by intermittent, garbled screaming.
Autry looked at me, face grim, and my hand went to my holster.
I nodded.
He turned the handle on the front door and it opened.
As we moved into the cramped hall, to the stairs leading steeply up to the next floor, I followed Autry and took out my gun. The occupants of the apartment no doubt couldn’t hear us over their argument. As we climbed the stairs, it became apparent, from what I could make out, that this altercation was about drugs. He seemed to think she was skimming money off the top while selling his product. Not an average domestic disturbance call after all.
I steeled myself.
The stairs led to a hallway with two doorways opposite each other. We peeked in one and saw it was the bedroom; it appeared empty. Then we moved just beyond the door into the other, which took us into a small kitchen/living space. The place was trashed. Coffee table on its side, TV smashed, photographs falling out of broken frames and glass littered in their midst. A stool at the mini breakfast bar lay on its side.
A young woman huddled on the sofa, face streaked with mascara, fear in her liquid eyes as she stared up at a tall, skinny guy who held a handgun in her face.
We raised our guns.
“Boston PD. Lower your weapon,” Autry demanded.
The man looked at us without doing as warned. He scowled. “What the fuck are you fuckin’ bastards doing here? This ain’t your business. Did that nosy cunt downstairs call the cops?”
His pupils were dilated, his speech slurred.
The guy was high.
This situation just got better and better.
I repeated, “Sir, lower your weapon.”
“Or what?”
“If you do not lower your weapon, it will be construed as a threat and I will shoot you,” Autry warned.
“I didn’t understand half that shit.” The gun wavered dangerously in his hand.
“Davis,” I murmured and turned my head ever so slightly to look up at my partner—
Movement flashed in my peripheral. Adrenaline shot through me as another guy came charging into the room, handgun raised and pointed at Autry’s back, finger on the trigger.
There was no time for anything but to move in front of my partner.
To shield him.
With threats front and back, I had no choice but to fire at the threat from behind. Two gunshots sounded, louder than a clap of thunder above the building. The sound ricocheted through my head at almost the same time that the sharp, burning sensation ripped through my chest.
Another bang. Another burn. And another.
I slumped into Autry as more gunfire sounded above my head.
There was noise. Groaning. Screaming.
Autry’s voice calmly telling me I would be okay.
“Three people with gunshot wounds. We got an officer down. She’s been shot multiple times. I need ambulances to 302B Lexington Street.”
The pain in my chest seemed to spread through my whole body as I felt pressure on my wounds. “Shit, Robyn, shit,” Autry murmured in my ear. “Why, why?”
I understood what he asked.
I wanted to answer, but I couldn’t make my lips move, and there was something wrong with my vision. Black shadows crept around the edges, growing thicker and faster.
“Stay with me, Robbie. Stay with me.”
I wanted to.
I did.
I wanted to reach out and grip tight to him and not let go.
But my body and mind felt disconnected, my mind pulling me farther and farther away …
1
Robyn
Present day
Ardnoch, Sutherland,
Scotland
For once, I wasn’t thinking about my camera or the scenery or the perfect shot. Amazing, really, when I was in one of the most beautiful places I’d ever been in my life.
Yet, it was difficult to see it right now when I was minutes away from meeting my father.
A man I hadn’t seen since I was fourteen years old.
People called the nervous flutters in their stomach butterflies. Butterflies didn’t cut it. Surely butterflies were when you were excited-nervous? What was happening in my gut right now made me feel physically ill. Even my knees shook.
And I hated that my birth father, Mac Galbraith, had that power over me.
I got out of my rental and forced my shoulders back, taking a deep breath as I strode down the gravel driveway toward the enormous security gates built into brick pillars. Those pillars flowed into a tall wall. On the other side of the gate, the drive continued, fading into the darkness of the woodland that shadowed its edges.
As I grew closer, I searched for a call button or cameras. Nothing. Stopping at the gate, I gave them a shake, but they were made of solid iron and immovable. Eyes narrowing, I searched beyond into the trees, trying to listen past the chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves in the wind.
A slight whirring to my left drew my attention, and I caught the light glancing off the movement of a lens. Ducking my head to look closer, I saw the security camera camouflaged in a tree.
I saluted the camera with two fingers off my forehead to let whoever was behind it know I’d seen them.
Now all I could do was wait.
Just what my nerves needed.
I turned, leaned against the gate, and crossed my arms and legs in a deliberate pose that said, “I’m not going anywhere until someone comes out here.”
Not even a few minutes later, I heard an engine and the kick of gravel. Pushing off the gate, I turned and watched the black Range Rover with its tinted windows approach from the other side.
My nerves rose to the fore with a vengeance.
Why oh why did my father have to be head of security at one of the most prestigious members-only clubs in the world?
Oh right.
Because of Lachlan Adair.
Jealousy and resentment that I hated I felt burned in the back of my throat. Ignoring the sensation, I crossed my arms over my chest and tried to look nonchalant as the Range Rover stopped. The driver door opened, and a man wearing black pants, a black shirt, and a leather jacket approached the gate.
I noted the little wire in his ear.
He was security.
But he was not my father.
“Madam, this is private property,” the guy said in a Scottish brogue much like Mac’s.
“I know.” I stared him down through the gate bars. “I’m here to see my father.”
“I’m afraid only members and staff are allowed entrance onto the estate. I’ll have to ask you to return to your vehicle and leave.”
Like I could give a rat’s ass that Ardnoch Castle and Estate was home to actors and movie and TV industry types who paid a fortune in annual fees just to say they were a member. “My name is Robyn Penhaligon. My father is Mac Galbraith. Could you let him know I’m here?”
The security guard was good—he didn’t betray his reaction to this news. “Do you have identification?”
Knowing they’d ask for it, I’d stuck my driver’s license in the ass pocket of my jeans. I whipped it out and handed it over.
“One second, please.” The guy returned to the vehicle and opened the driver’s door. He got in without closing it, and I heard him murmuring.