The Rogue
Chapter 32

Three months later

Liam Hollister surveyed the crowded interior of the Crooked Angel bar and grill, where his unit-mates—as well as all of their mates, plus a bunch of firefighters and doctors—filled a half dozen tables around the bar. Garza had his arm slung over Delia’s shoulders, her engagement ring winking in the soft glow filtering down from the tiny white lights covering the rafters overhead. Maxwell, Frankie, and Isla were sharing a giant plate of fries with Isabella and Capelli, with Capelli trying to divide them evenly and Isla unrepentantly swiping from Maxwell’s pile. Further down the table, Shae sat beside Kellan, bouncing baby Elijah on her knees and telling him a bedtime story of how she rappelled over the side of a five-story building.

At the table beside theirs, Hale sat next to Dempsey, her head thrown back in laughter at something his sister, Chloe, had said. Dempsey simply grinned and shrugged one shoulder in response, so easily that you’d never know the body part in question had, in fact, been Swiss cheese a mere twelve weeks ago. Thankfully, Parker Drake, who was seated beside Dempsey with his daughter balanced happily in his lap and his wife, Charleston, on his other side, had done a bang-up job on Dempsey’s surgery. Of course, there had been a shitload of physical therapy and restricted duty involved, too, but in the end, the firefighter had healed up good as new.

Fantastic, really, since Hale would’ve been a nightmare to live with if any permanent damage had been done to the guy.

Liam sat back in his chair and took a leisurely sip of his beer. Of all the cops in the unit, Hale was the last one he would’ve ever expected to fall head over boots in love with anyone. Sure, Isabella was fierce, and Garza made Oscar the Grouch look like a cute and cuddly puppy. Capelli was logical to a fault, and Maxwell—good God, the big, broody detective was the king of Menace Mountain when he wanted to be. But Hale had dodged even the most casual of relationships until now. The fact that she’d fallen so obviously in love made Liam painfully aware of two things.

One was that even the world’s biggest commitment-phobes could end up catching feelings for someone if they weren’t careful.

And two was that he was the last commitment-phobe standing.

Giving himself a mental shake, Liam smoothed over the thought. He wasn’t against commitment. Seeing his closest friends happy made him happy. But Christ knew that dating, especially for someone in his line of work, was messy at best. If there was one thing Liam didn’t do, it was mess. Nope. He liked things nice and easy. Calm. Predictable.

No muss, no fuss. Relationships, with all their inevitable drama, need not apply.

He’d already experienced enough drama in his life to last until the day they put him in the ground. He didn’t want any more. Ever.

Liam’s phone vibrated in his back pocket, tugging his attention fully back to the bar. Putting his beer on the table in front of him, he palmed the thing, noticing out of the corner of his eye that Isabella had made a similar move.

“Damn it,” she muttered, lifting her gaze to meet his.

“It’s all good,” Liam said, which he might as well have tattooed across his forehead for how often he uttered it. “I can take it, if you want.” Not that he’d rather hang out at a crime scene than at the Crooked Angel, but Isabella had a family to go home with.

She also had a work ethic built like a titanium vault, because she shook her head as she stowed her phone and stood up. “And let you have all the fun? Never.”

Maxwell’s dark brows gathered over his stare. “What’s up?”

“Patrol responded to an assault call and Sarge wants us on scene,” Hollister said.

“Just you two?” Garza asked, and Isabella nodded.

“Looks like it.”

Garza’s expression veered toward concern, but Liam shrugged it off. “Probably means it’s no big deal if he only called in two of us. Plus, you guys took that robbery call two days ago while Isabella and I were in court. We owe you one.”

“That’s true,” Hale said, having swung toward them to join the conversation. “You guys got a cushy day of testifying.” She waggled her brows and laughed. “It’s still a little weird that he only called you guys.”

“Hey, I don’t pretend to understand the method to Sinclair’s madness,” Liam joked smoothly, although, yeah, he had to admit, it did feel a little weird.

“Me, either. But I’m not exactly blowing him off when he calls,” Isabella said. Turning, she murmured what was probably a quick explanation to Kellan, then k!ssed Elijah twice before looking back at Liam. “Ready?”

“Always,” he said. Leaving some cash with Hale to settle his tab, he led the way to his Ford F-150, glad that he’d stuck to his one-drink rule. Not that he didn’t enjoy cutting loose every once in a while, but overindulging usually opened the door for a whole lot of emotional chaos to rear its ugly head. Ninety-nine percent of the time it wasn’t worth it, and anyway, if he’d thrown back more than half a beer, he wouldn’t have been able to respond when the team needed him to.

“Okay,” Isabella said, pulling her seat belt into place and giving him the address for the GPS. “I’ll let Sinclair know we’re en route.”

Liam did his share by radioing dispatch to do the same. They made their way to the scene fairly quickly, the city streets having long since quieted down after rush hour. The June air had cooled after sunset, but was far from chilly. Liam was plenty comfortable in his T-shirt, and he made sure his weapon and badge were secure on his belt as Isabella let dispatch know they’d arrived.

They got out of the truck, both of them scanning the scene in a way that was as easy and familiar as breathing. Two patrol cars and an ambo sat parked in front of a block of older row homes, lighting the street up like a three-ring circus. A small crowd had gathered, with a patrol officer making sure the entryway to the second row home was cordoned off by bright yellow tape just as two paramedics rushed out with a gurney.

“Whoa!” Isabella jumped into step with the paramedics, one of whom Liam recognized as firefighter/paramedic Lucy deCosta, from Station Seventeen. “Hey, Lucy,” Isabella said. “You moonlighting?” Everyone else on A-shift was off tonight.

“Pulling a double,” she said. “But this guy’s hurt pretty badly. Nasty stab wound to the upper torso, and it’s not exactly fresh. He’s lost a lot of b***d,” she added as the man g*****d in pain past the oxygen mask Lucy had put over his face. “So we’ve got to hustle.”

Isabella looked torn, but Liam didn’t hesitate. “Go with him and see if he can tell you anything. I’ll check things out here and call you.”

“Copy that.” Isabella picked up Lucy’s brisk pace and headed toward the ambo. Turning toward the row home, Liam made his way up the crumbling steps and over the threshold. Nearly every light in the place was on, but it still didn’t do much to illuminate what had happened. There weren’t any signs of a struggle in the small front room or the kitchen beyond, although the b***d-soaked towel lying on the sofa didn’t point to anything good.

“Ah, Detective,” came Officer Lucinda Dade’s voice from the back of the kitchen. “Glad Sinclair was able to replace you. Is Detective Walker here?”

“She went with the victim,” Liam said, worry tingling at the back of his neck. “Why?”

“The victim’s name is Kenny Baxter,” Dade said. “Ring any bells with you?”

Liam took a run through his mental files and came up empty. “Not offhand.”

She nodded, jutting her chin at the front room. “Best we can tell, he was injured somewhere else. There’s some b***d here, but not enough for a wound that looks like that. Also, no signs of a struggle, either here or upstairs.”

“Okay.” Liam drew the word out, steeping it in his confusion. “So, what does this have to do with Intelligence?”

Dade pulled an evidence bag out of her pocket, passing it over to Liam. Nestled inside was a slip of paper with a phone number scrawled on it, bloodied at the edges. “Baxter had this in his hand when we got here. He also tried to call that same number three times in the last three hours. Each call lasted about thirty seconds.”

“So, not long enough for a conversation.” Liam looked at the number more closely, something familiar tugging at the edges of his memory that he couldn’t quite locate. “Do we know who the number belongs to?”

Dade’s black brows lifted. “Thought you’d be able to tell me that, Detective. Seeing as how she’s one of yours. Or, at least, one of Detective Walker’s, anyway.”

“One of…” Liam’s mind spun, catching like a record scratch a few seconds later.

No. No, no. It couldn’t be.

With hands he willed not to shake, he pulled his phone out of his back pocket, scrolling through his contacts. A…B…C…

Carmen Desoto. One of Isabella’s most trusted CIs. The only woman to ever, ever smash Liam’s composure. Carmen wasn’t just messy, she was her own personal hurricane.

And now, she was the number one person of interest in a stabbing.

The End

Need to know what happens next? Read The Renegade