“I’m sorry,” I answer, slowly. “But I don’t know anyone named Lety.”

She laughs a little. “You may not know her by name, but I believe you know her boyfriend, Brody Quaid Moore.” She clutches Killian’s arm. “Tess is the same girl Curran was willing to throw down for at that political fundraiser. That was you, wasn’t it?” she asks, turning back to me.

I can barely speak, warmth overtaking every inch of me. “Y-yes. That was me.”

It’s then Curran finally returns, three pitchers of beer gripped in one hand and a drink for me in the other. He’s followed closely by the waitress hefting a tray packed with food. “Move over, will ya, Finnie?” he says to him.

He places the pitchers down while Finn scoots out, and immediately sits beside me. Everyone then helps spread the plates of food across the large wooden table. Everyone but me. Curran pauses when he catches sight of my face. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing.” I shrug. “Your family here was just explaining your preference for psychopathic and avenging monkey-owning manicurists who wield scissors they purchase with their welfare coupons.”

He freezes before veering at his family. “I leave you alone for fifteen fucking seconds and this is what you tell her?”

Wren meets him in the eye, smiling. “Curran’s got a girlfriend,” she sings.

His brothers laugh, and I can’t tell who’s redder in the face, me or Curran. Sofia reaches across the table and pats my hand. “They mean well,” she assures me.

“Yeah, we do. She’s nice,” Finn tells Curran, laughing. “Not like that bitchy girl who tied you up in college….”

Chapter 19

Curran

“Available units to Stewart and Monroe. Suspect entered Old Mill Cannery. Officers O’Brien and Supreski in pursuit.”

Joey races ahead of me, cutting right. Goddamnit. What the hell are they teaching these recruits at the academy? He didn’t let me sweep first. Just charged in. I check right, then left, before springing forward and taking cover behind a stack of barrels reeking of stagnant salt water.

Joey crouches on the opposite side, behind another row of barrels. Even from where I huddle, and despite the darkness, I catch the gleam in his eyes. This rookie is raring for a fight. The first two we went to blows with hadn’t been enough to soothe his adrenalized rush. But he needs to settle down if we stand a chance of finding this perp.

I reach for my light, positioning it against my drawn weapon. “Philly PD,” I bark. “We know you’re in here. Step out with your hands up.”

Something metal hits the concrete and rolls to our far right. Joey whips around, aiming his gun and light in the direction of the sound. “Wait,” I snap when Joey lurches forward.

My guess is the perp tossed a can or something away from him—an old trick to lure us away—and I’m right. From the opposite side of the warehouse, something crashes. I prowl forward, keeping low, my gun pointed in front of me and my focus sharp.

It’s then I hear the subtle intake of pained breaths, 30 degrees to my left.

I turn toward the sound, keeping close to the barrels. My light nails the kid in the face. “Freeze. Hands where I can see them. Hands where I can see them, now!”

His wild eyes lock in my direction as his hands shoot above his head. Jesus, he looks twelve. “It’s okay, kid. It’s okay. Don’t move and keep your hands up, understand?” His head jerks toward the sound of screaming sirens. “Cover me,” I say to Joey. “I’ll cuff him.”

“I-I-I didn’t want to do this,” the kid says.

“Tell it to the judge, loser,” Joey mumbles.

“Zip it,” I tell him.

“I-I-I didn’t want to do this!” the kid stutters, this time louder. His entire body is trembling as bad as his voice, rattling the barrel pressed against his back.

The distant wails of sirens draw closer. “It’s all right, kid. No one’s going to hurt you,” I repeat, keeping my voice even. Judging by his tears, this has to be his first attempt at a felony. “Call it in, Supreski.”

“This is Officers Supreski and O’Brien. Perp located at the Old Mill Cannery on Stewart and Monroe. No need for backup.”

“Repeat, Supreski?” the dispatcher questions. It’s Gina, and she’s pissed. Like me, she’s probably figuring Joey has a lot of balls.

“Don’t tell them that,” I growl, taking over the call. “Perp located, appears to be unarmed. Immediate assistance requested.”

“I didn’t mean it—I had no choice, you hear me? I had no choice!”

“Kid’s scared shitless,” Joey says, like I’m missing something.

He’s right about the kid being scared. But a scared perp is a dangerous perp. I catch that familiar flash in his eye—the one you expect on cornered beasts. Fight or flight. I don’t want the kid to do either, or to force him to do something he’ll never be able to take back, so I keep my voice steady and my motions careful. “Easy, kid,” I say, edging closer. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The kid swears and starts bawling. He reminds me of the kids from my old neighborhood. Maybe that’s what makes me a little soft, and more than a little stupid. Any other perp would be thrown on the concrete, cuffed, and shoved in the back of my squad car.

“Just cuff him, already,” Joey mumbles, sounding annoyed.

“Shut up, and cover me,” I snap back. Joey expected more of a fight, and the adrenaline pumping through him is making him edgy. I know the feeling, and have felt it a thousand times over, but he needs to stay sharp.

“Turn around, kid. Hands against the wall.”

“I can’t go to jail!” The kid loses his shit, breaking down.

“I said turn around!” Another stupid kid from the street who ruined his life. Armed damn robbery. What a waste.

The kid shakes as he slowly turns and places his hands on the wall.

I tuck away my flashlight and house my weapon, using Joey’s light to see as I reach for my cuffs. Before I can blink, the kid snatches a gun lying on top of the barrel.

“Gun!”

I barely spit the word out. He spins out of reach and into the darkness. I dive as the first shot’s fired, the blast so loud it cuffs my ear.

Five more shots cut through the air. Pow, pow, pow, pow, pow. This time, I don’t hesitate. Kid or not, he wants us dead. I throw my arm out and over the old drum, shooting the kid dead center in his chest, narrowly missing his heart. He slumps to the ground, screaming.

I pounce on him and flip him over, wrenching his arm back and cuffing him. I ignore his agonized screams and yell into my radio, “Suspect shot and apprehended, need EMT at—”

A gurgling sound forces me to whip around. Through the funnel of light streaming from Joey’s discarded flashlight, I see Joey’s slumped form convulse as if seizing.

I kick the perp’s gun out of reach and bolt to Joey’s side. Blood seeps through his open wounds, his gun lying near his outstretched palm. He didn’t get one shot in. Not one. But he took at least three to the chest.

I yell into my radio, “Officer down. Repeat, officer down. Ambulance and immediate backup needed.”

The warehouse doors are kicked open, the voices of my brothers in blue and their racing footsteps echoing from all sides. I’m not alone, but it sure feels that way.