Skin Deep (17 page)

“Make it happen,” Julian said, his heart beating faster and filling him with anticipation that bordered on arousal. What better way to get the message across to both Detective Moreno and Mr. Walker that he wasn’t to be trifled with than to show them what he was capable of, and ensure that there was nothing they could do about it?

Speaking of which… “Make certain when the nine-one-one call is placed that Mr. Walker’s home station is routed to the scene. I also want Detective Moreno notified, anonymously, of course. But first things first. I’ll need that word with Angel. And Vaughn?” Julian waited to be sure they held eye contact before continuing. “Do tell Franco I hope he’s saved some energy. He can fuck the truth out of her any way he likes, just so long as she talks.”

Julian would find out what Isabella Moreno knew. And then he would silence her in the most painful way possible.

I
sabella sat back
against the corner booth at the Fork in the Road, scanning the busy diner around her even though she’d memorized the description and location of every last occupant fifteen minutes ago. The layout of the place itself was already a gimme. She knew the diner’s bright blue high-backed booths, silver-flecked white Formica counter, and fifties-style checkerboard floor tiles as well as she knew her own apartment.

The Fork was as standard a hangout as the Crooked Angel for the cops at the Thirty-Third, although Isabella had known the place by heart far before her first day at the academy. The throwback diner had been Marisol’s favorite place to eat—besides Isabella’s family’s home in south Remington, anyway.

She glanced at the chrome-and-vinyl bar stools lining the front counter, her mind giving up the image of a girl caught firmly in adolescence, with long dark braids and a trusting smile and quarters for the jukebox in the corner. God, Marisol had loved that jukebox, poring over song after song to make sure she’d considered them all before making her selections, then the two of them would sing along with the words, laughing as if they’d had all the time in the world.

Oh, Mari. I miss you
.

Isabella straightened, rubbing one hand over the center of her black and gray top to snuff out the bone-deep ache blooming there. Yeah, the thought might be true, just as it had been yesterday, and the day before, and for the last eleven years before that. But she didn’t have time to go skipping through her memories. Angel would be here in five minutes, and Isabella was going to need every last ounce of her focus to take the girl’s statement and figure out the best plan of attack from there.

She needed to clear her head. To breathe. To relax, just as she had when she’d fallen asleep in Kellan’s arms last night, then again when she’d had out-of-body-experience sex with him this morning.

Annnnnd just like that, Isabella’s thoughts leaped right from the frying pan to the firefighter.

Oh, come on, she thought, taking a sip of the tea in front of her even though it was lukewarm at best. So she’d had sex with Kellan (really,
really
good sex. Holy hell, the man’s stamina and attention to detail were practically awe-inspiring) and taken a four-hour power nap on his couch. So what? She hadn’t exactly been virgin material, and anyway, he’d been clear that their night together had been no big deal, just like she’d wanted.

Except now, sitting here with the bright morning-after sunlight pouring into her booth through the window beside her, all Isabella could think of was that what she
really
wanted once this meet-up was said and done was to sleep with Kellan again.

She returned her teacup to its saucer with an ungainly clink. She had a job to do, for God’s sake. A woman in peril, who had promised to meet her and give a statement that would have the FBI crawling up every last one of DuPree’s orifices by sunset. Isabella needed to channel all her energy into keeping Angel safe.

Provided the woman showed up.

A minute ticked by, then another, before Isabella checked the time stamp on her iPhone. Okay, so Angel was two minutes late. She’d said getting through her window might take some doing, and Isabella would rather Angel be cautious and late than get caught slipping out.

Her chest constricted as if it had been wrapped in steel bands, but she forced herself to inhale. No. Angel hadn’t gotten caught, and she hadn’t backed out. She was coming. Isabella had sworn to keep her safe.

You worry too much, Marisol. It’s twelve blocks, not twelve miles! Just walk over here. If I come pick you up, I won’t have enough time to take a shower before we go to this party, and Connor Washington is supposed to be there. Come on, please? I promise you’ll be safe…

Isabella slid her clammy palms over her denim-clad thighs, slapping the memory from her brain. But the two minutes turned into four, then became a full ten, and come on,
come on
. Where the hell—

Isabella’s phone buzzed a good three inches across the Formica at her elbow, sending her pulse rocketing through the stratosphere. But intelligence wasn’t on call this weekend, and she could count the number of personal calls she’d gotten this month on one hand, minus five fingers.

Unknown caller
.

Her throat went dry and tight, the combination doing nothing for her calm. Under any other circumstances, she’d send the call to voicemail with a muttered curse about stupid telemarketers. But Angel was now eleven—she checked her watch—no, twelve minutes late.

Oh God. She’d promised to protect her. She needed Angel safe.

Isabella needed her here.
Now
.

She flicked the phone to life, making her way to the alcove by the restrooms in the back of the diner for better privacy. “Moreno.”

“Detective Moreno.” The voice was male and unfamiliar, and the air in the narrow hallway seemed to grow thicker.

Still, she strong-armed her voice into smoothness. “Who is this?”

“You might want to think less about who this is and more about who I have here with me. Or more specifically, who isn’t with you at the Fork in the Road right now.”

Adrenaline punched through her lungs in a panicked substitute for breath. “Where’s Angel?”

The man laughed. “It wouldn’t be very fun if I gave you all the pieces to the puzzle, now would it? Can’t lead you to any conclusions beyond the shadow of a doubt.”

“Okay.” Isabella’s mind raced. The longer she kept this guy on the phone, the more information he might give up, and even the smallest detail might help her find Angel. “What is it that you want?”

“Aw, your police tactics to keep me talking are so cute. But you’re not going to catch me now that I know you’re a cop. I know all your little tricks.”

Her chin snapped up. “And how’s that? Are you a cop, too?”

The man’s laughter curled over the line as he thoroughly ignored her question, and damn it, she should’ve known he wouldn’t take such easy bait. “I just called on the boss man’s behalf. He wanted me to tell you he’ll see you real soon. Oh, and sorry you’ve got to work this weekend. Dead-end cases are so tough. Bye, now.”

The line clicked once and went dead.

No. No, no, no,
no
.

Fear cemented Isabella’s boots to the black and white floor tiles for only a second before her adrenaline surged, propelling her back to the table she’d abandoned. With her thoughts moving at warp speed, she yanked the paper placemat from beneath her cup and saucer, whipping a pen from the pocket of her leather jacket and writing down the entire conversation in all the exact words she could remember.

All the pieces to the puzzle…beyond the shadow of a doubt…now that I know you’re a cop…dead-end cases…dead…

No.

Panic grabbed her chest, sinking its nails in and gripping without mercy, but she crammed a breath into her fear-choked lungs. She couldn’t get emotional. She couldn’t break down, not now. She’d already gotten this far, and on her own at that. She had to think. To
work
.

She had to find a way to save Angel before it was too late.

K
ellan worked
up his very best poker face before walking through the side door leading to Station Seventeen’s engine bay. True, he hadn’t taken so much as a nanosecond off in the pair of years he’d been on the RFD’s payroll, and true again, he’d only missed the first two hours of his twenty-four-hour tour, plus he’d covered said hours in advance with one of the guys from C-shift so his engine-mates wouldn’t have to run light. But if anyone Kellan worked with caught so much as the tiniest glimmer of post-coital satisfaction on his face, he’d have to field a never-ending ration of shit from every last person in the house.

Although considering how hot the sex had been, not once but twice, the ribbing might be worth it.

“Hey, you guys.” Blanking the idiot grin threatening the corners of his mouth, Kellan lowered his duffel to the scuffed concrete of the engine bay floor, turning toward the equipment room to grab his gear and get it prepped in case they got a call on the fly.

Shae’s laughter stopped him a few steps shy of the door. “Heyyyy! Look what the cat dragged in.” She looked up from the inventory clipboard in her grasp, arching one light brown brow. “You all caught up on your beauty sleep, Walker?”

“He does look nice and refreshed, doesn’t he?” asked their head paramedic, Parker Drake, from the spot where he was restocking his first-in bag at the back of the ambo. He ran a hand over his short black hair, striking an exaggerated pose like a cover model. “Practically
GQ
.”

Kellan swallowed the urge to dish up the good-natured
fuck you
the guy deserved. He needed to dodge the topic, not shine a spotlight on his tardiness—or worse, the reason for it. “Thanks, Ace. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sleeping in. But clearly McCullough here was kind enough to get enough beauty sleep for the both of us.”

The smartass deflection struck a bulls-eye, prompting Shae to give him the finger and Parker to laugh, and Kellan exhaled in silent relief. Ducking into the equipment room, he grabbed his bunker gear from the oversized cubby where he’d stored it just before he’d clocked out after last shift. The sharp scent of smoke and soot invaded his nose despite the fact that both the gear and the equipment room where it was always stored off-shift got very regular, very thorough cleanings. But some things simply couldn’t be blotted out or washed away.

Stifling heat, scorching his lungs with every inhale. Rectangular patterns of merciless sunlight burning in through the glassless windows. A shift of unexpected motion, the pinch of dread that arrived in his gut just a second too late.

“If you move, I will kill your friend…”

Kellan’s chin snapped up, his heart going Mach 2 against his navy blue RFD T-shirt. Dammit, all the intensity of last night’s recon mission was really cooking his composure. Thank fuck Isabella was going to get what she needed from Angel in order to put DuPree’s bastard ass in a federal prison.

Isabella, with her iron will and her gorgeous face and her deliciously wicked smile. Isabella, who’d opened up to him this morning, giving him a taste and making him want more. Isabella, whose tight, sweet body had trembled beneath his as the sun rose, and yeah, he needed to get all these emotions locked up right now.

Walking back out to the engine bay, Kellan stored his gear in his regular spot in Engine Seventeen’s back step, checking, then double-checking his SCBA tank and mask before securing them in the compartment behind his well-worn seatback. He stuck his head into Bridges’ office to officially check in with the captain and start his shift, but he hadn’t even made it six steps out of the man’s office before the shrill sound of the all-call turned his pulse into a playground.

“
Engine Seventeen, Squad Six, Ambulance Twenty-Two, Battalion Seventeen. Structure fire, hazardous materials, forty-two fourteen Oakmont Boulevard. Requesting immediate response.”

Kellan moved toward the engine bay out of pure instinct, and he was far from alone.

“Woohoo, looks like they’re playing our song, y’all,” Hawk drawled, hustling his way into the hall from the fire house’s common area with the rest of the rescue squad on his heels.

“Nothing like a hazmat call to make your dick nice and hard in the morning,” Faurier said, tacking on an apologetic shrug as he caught Shae’s eye roll from the doorway to the engine bay. “No offense, McCullough.”

But Shae just smirked in response as she beat feet to Engine Seventeen and grabbed her bunker pants from the operator’s seat. “All good, Sammy boy. If you’ve got to apologize for your dick, you’ve got bigger problems than offending me.”

Faurier laughed and lifted his hands in concession before quickly hoisting himself into Squad Six’s vehicle. Although the conversation seemed relaxed, maybe even to the point of being inappropriate considering the potential seriousness of the call they were about to go on, Kellan knew better. Every single one of their adrenal glands was pumping out a fucking truckload of go-go-go right now. Letting the conversation crank that tension even higher wouldn’t do them—or the people they were hustling to help—any favors. Keeping cool was an absolute imperative if they wanted to get their jobs done right. One split second of panic could be the difference between life and death.

Focus. Block out everything that isn’t right now
. Kellan set his shoulders around his spine and rounded the back side of the engine, where Gamble greeted him with a single lift of his chin.

“Nice timing. You fucking slacker,” his lieutenant added, toeing out of his plainclothes work boots and yanking his turnout gear over his navy blue RFD T-shirt in a well-practiced move.

“Yeah, yeah.” Kellan was tempted to jaw back, but he’d already ducked the radar with McCullough and Drake. Plus, something out there was on fire, and from the all-call, it didn’t sound like a family barbecue gone awry. Hazmat was no joke.

Pulling himself into the back step, Kellan sucked in a few rounds of inhale/exhale to meter his pulse as he slung his headset into place and began to gear up. Gamble swiveled a lightning-fast three-sixty through the engine’s interior, his eyes landing on Kellan, then their rookie Slater beside him before giving Shae the signal to haul balls out of the engine bay.

“Okay, boys and girls. Let’s see what we’ve got,” Gamble clipped through the mic, hitting the words with enough volume to be heard over the wail of the sirens and the rattle and whoosh of the interior vehicle noise. He turned his attention to the display screen on the dashboard, scrolling through the updates from dispatch. “House fire, and from the sound of things, not a small one. Dispatch has a report of flames showing on the entire first floor and some kind of explosion. Huh,” he added, his voice hitching in surprise. “That’s weird. Only one nine-one-one call.”

“Really?” Slater asked, pausing with one arm halfway through his coat. “On a Saturday morning? With an explosion?”

The rookie was right. That wasn’t just weird. It was fucking crazy.