Burden (2 page)

“Is it done?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Had a bit of a complication.”

“I don’t want complications, I want results. He can’t be allowed to live.”

“I’m fully aware of this.” Did the group think he was a fucking shithead? If they went down, so did he. Or so they thought. “I’ll get it done.” What he’d get done they really didn’t need to know. It was time he held all the power.

“See that you do.”

The phone clicked dead. Pissed, he threw it down, ground it under his boot heel, and then kicked it toward a sewer. It took a few more nudges to get it down the hole, but then it was gone. No one would find it, and if they did, they wouldn’t be able to trace it back to him. No prints, no contract.

He wanted to put his fist through the brick wall next to him. Meddling motherfucker. If it wasn’t for the snooping asshole, he wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place, having to cover his own ass. He may have deviated from their plan and suited things to his own agenda, but in the end he’d come out smelling like a rose, and they could go to hell.

Where they belonged.

He had no qualms turning snitch. After all, the ends justified the means.

Chapter Two

Keegan watched the man through the one-way glass and for a brief second felt a twinge of guilt. There was something about him, something lonely, sad, sorrowful… He couldn’t put his finger on the exact word.

The guy—he’d been right on the money earlier when he’d called him a pretty boy—licked at the cut on his lip, wincing a bit. He also sported a scratch on his forehead and one on his nose that only made him more…pathetic looking.

Keegan wouldn’t let the action affect him. Besides, he had his own split lip from being leveled by the guy. He didn’t know what hurt worse. His pride for not knowing what was coming and letting the guy take him down, or the ribbing he was getting from his buddies at the station.

The man, Brennan McGuire based on his license, sniffed and curled his arms around his midsection as if fighting off cold air. Keegan knew for a fact it wasn’t cold in their interrogation room. Now, if he’d wiped sweat from his brow, that’d be a different story.

The door opened behind him.

“You’ve only been out for a week and already have someone taking potshots at you?” Captain Moretti dropped a thick manila folder on the table in front of Keegan.

“Guess so, sir.” And it fucking made him angrier than hell.

“So who’s this player?”

“No idea.” Which also ticked Keegan off.

“Hm. Looks sort of benign.” The captain scratched his head.

“So do a lot of serial killers. You hear all the time, ‘He was such a nice man…’ And then you find body parts of women he killed strewn over his garden as fertilizer.”

“Too true.”

Keegan shifted his stance, mostly to hide the bulge growing behind his button fly. Goddamn it.
The man might be part of a group trying to fucking kill you, and yet he stirs your gut.

“He lawyer up yet?”

“Called someone named Michael St. John. He’s on his way.”

“Perfect.” The captain’s sarcastic tone made Keegan smile for the first time since he’d met the concrete up close and personal. “I don’t like people going after my men, Keegan. Look through this file and find out which one of Carlos’s minions we didn’t get put away.”

Keegan nodded once. “Will do.”

“We’re running a check on him, but let me know if you get anything out of him.” He indicated Brennan, who hadn’t said a word since “Call Michael St. John” at the cafe.

“Yep.” Keegan shifted his weight and watched his captain leave the room only to be replaced by Tim.

“How you doin’?” His friend pulled out a chair and sat, not even bothering to look at the man waiting on the other side of the glass.

Keegan shrugged and touched his mouth. “He fucking split my lip.”

“Better than his buddy across the street splitting your head with a bullet.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“Got any ideas?”

“Nope.”

Now Tim turned to Brennan. “So take me through it.”

“Why? You think I didn’t tell the captain all the details?”

“Don’t be such a victim, Kegger. It doesn’t suit you. Sit your ass down and take me through it. I didn’t see it.”

“That’s because you were too busy naming your kid Horace.”

Tim shoved the chair next to him out with his foot and pointedly looked at it.

Keegan sighed and sat. “Fine. You were there, though. Not sure I can add anything else.”

“My best friend, the uncle of my child, just got shot at, you idiot. I wanna fucking know why.”

“You and me both, trust me, and you best start watching your language too.”

“Got the quarter jar out already. Talk.”

Keegan couldn’t resist taking another look at their subject. He’d turned around and was staring at a blank wall, his T-shirt partially untucked from the back of his too-big jeans. Keegan suddenly remembered something.

“He went into The Drip before.”

“Riiiight. That would be how he came out.”

“No, I mean, when I threw my water bottle away, he was going in. I noticed his butt.”

“Oh, my God. Stop. Stop right there.”

Keegan blinked and looked at Tim. “What?”

“I am so all for you finding a boyfriend, you know that, but I see that look on your face.”

He didn’t have a look on his face. “What are you talking about?”

“The look. The one that says, ‘I wanna have some of that.’ But this is a man we suspect of being an accomplice to a hit man, Kegger. Come on.”

“All I said was that I noticed his ass on his way in. That in no way implies I wanna have some, dipshit.”

“Whatever. Then what?”

“Then he came back out, he paused, he mumbled something, he looked up, he panicked, I swear I heard him say, ‘I can’t let him shoot you,’ which, you tell me, does that make him guilty? He jumped me, the shot went off, I kissed the ground, he got an eyeful of it, you tackled and shackled, people screamed, I stood, spit, growled, and he asked for St. John. How’s that?”

“Impressive.”

“Thanks.” But it was the
he panicked
part that had Keegan wondering.

“So you think he had second thoughts or what?”

“Why else would he have shoved me out of the way? Or fucking said, ‘I can’t let him shoot you’?”

Tim shrugged. “Maybe he saw the shooter.”

“Could be. Or he got cold feet. Won’t know which until we get him to talk.”

“Maybe that should be your job. You’re always good at getting the bad guys to spill their guts.”

Keegan eyed the slump of Brennan’s shoulders, the dejection. “Somehow I don’t think good cop, bad cop is going to work with this one.”

“I don’t give a shit how you do it, just find out if he’s fucking involved with someone shooting at my best friend.” Tim stood. “Oh, and the guy he called is here, waiting in the hall.” He turned and walked out.

“Nice.”

“No problem,” Tim called over his shoulder as the door clicked shut.

There were muffled voices beyond it, and then the door opened again. Brennan didn’t move. Keegan watched as a man in khakis and a button-down shirt crossed to their subject, dropped a wallet on the table and put a hand on Brennan’s shoulder. He whispered something in Brennan’s ear, got a nod in response, and then turned to the window and glared at Keegan, even though Keegan knew the man couldn’t see him.

“Hey.”

Keegan peered over his shoulder at Tim, who’d come back into the room and flipped the switch to turn off the mikes in the next room. Whoever Michael St. John was, he apparently wanted privacy with his client.

“Just got the background check back.” Tim’s voice was strained, which made Keegan tense.

“And?”

“He’s fucking IA.”

“Brennan, come and sit down. They’re working on the paperwork right now. I’ll have you out in a few minutes.”

Still teeming with embarrassment, Brennan pulled out the chair opposite Michael and sat. How many times had he been in a room just like this one? On the other side of the table, of course.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I f-froze, that’s what happened.” Brennan ground his teeth. He was an absolute fuckup.

“You saved a man’s life. Doesn’t sound to me like you froze.”

Brennan waved him off. “Not then, that was…in-inst—my job. I mean after.”

“After when? Here?”

“That too.” Brennan buried his head in his hands, still unbelieving of his reaction. “I couldn’t s-say anything. I just froze.”

“It was a traumatic situation, Brennan. I’m not surprised you couldn’t say anything.”

“I should have. I was a cop. I should have b-been able to tell them.”

“So tell them now.”

“They think I’m the village idiot.”

“No, they think you’re a suspect.”

Brennan jerked his head up. “I wasn’t the one shooting.”

“You just said yourself you were a cop. So take yourself back to those days. You’re at a café, sitting outside, a guy jumps you, throws you to the ground, shots ring out…”

Brennan slapped his hand on the table. “I’d think that person was saving m-my life.”

“Heat of the moment, Brennan. It’s going to take them a few sane minutes to sort out what really happened. Don’t worry. But you do need to tell them what you saw.”

Head hung low, Brennan swallowed back the nausea building at what seemed like such a monumental task. He’d known it was coming. In fact, he’d wondered why it was taking them so long to come to him. Probably had to do with them thinking he had something to do with it. The knowing didn’t make things any easier. He was used to being the one asking the questions, not having to answer them.

Oh how his life had changed.

“Fine. Let’s get it over with. I n-need to get home to the kittens.”

Michael smiled at him. “How are they?”

“Obnoxious. Annoying.”

“But helping, right?”

“Sure.” How the hell Michael thought kittens were a life skill, Brennan didn’t know. But he’d grown attached to the little shitheads, so it wasn’t like he could give them up now.

“Remember what we talked about. It’s the having to do for something else that’s helping. You have to feed them, water them, take care of them. I could have made you get a dog. Much more work.”

“Less scratches though.” Brennan swiped a hand across his chest, where one of the shitheads had pounced on him that morning, leaving six-inch-long claw marks on his bare skin.

Michael laughed. “Serves you right.” He stood. “Are you okay with telling them everything?”

“The cats?”

“Yes, the cats. That’s exactly who I’m talking about.”

“Then no, I’m not, but I g-guess I have to.”

“Then I’m going to get the detective so we can get you out of here.” He paused and looked seriously at Brennan. “Just do your best. I’ll explain what’s going on.”

Full of trepidation, Brennan could only nod. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn’t helping. He hated being so fucking helpless. And appearing like a moron.

He nearly choked when a stern-looking Muscles walked into the room, followed by the man he’d been sitting with at the cafe. Brennan really hadn’t expected to see the two of them again. He’d been cuffed and tucked into a squad car, and then shoved into this room with some very angry cops trailing him, treating him like a cop killer, but Muscles had disappeared.

Muscles turned the chair Michael had sat in around and straddled it, crossing his arms over the back. His eyes narrowed, and his jaw ticked.

Brennan’s breath caught. The man was beautiful. Which would make what Brennan needed to do that much harder. He couldn’t talk to the woman behind The Drip’s counter, for Christ’s sake. How did he expect to talk to a man who turned him on?

He glanced out the window and tried to slow his heart rate. Fuckup. Or fucked up. He was one of the two. Or both. Some days he couldn’t tell the difference.

“Gentlemen. Mr. McGuire has a few things to say.” Michael put his hand on Brennan’s shoulder and gave a squeeze before moving away.

“What are you, his mother?” Muscle’s words made Brennan wince because, yeah, Michael was kind of like his mother.

“No, Detective, I’m the man rebuilding Brennan’s life.”

Silence filled the room, but Brennan still couldn’t look at the man across from him.

“Brennan suffered a traumatic brain injury in a car accident a little over a year ago. He’s had to relearn a lot of things. Part of his job is to go to the coffee shop and buy something every day.”

Jesus. Michael made him sound like an imbecilic five-year-old. Which he guessed he sort of was.

“So he was there for therapy.” Muscles clearly didn’t believe Michael.

“Yes.”

“I don’t handle m-money well.” Fuck. What Brennan really needed to relearn was when to keep his mouth shut.

“Another consequence of the injury is stuttering, which I assure you is why he didn’t say anything to you earlier.”

“He didn’t have any trouble taking me to the floor.”

From the corner of his eye, Brennan saw Muscles touch his lip.

“Stuttering has nothing to do with physical reaction, and you boys didn’t have any trouble cuffing my patient.”

“He resisted.” This from the other man standing in the corner behind Brennan. The one who’d also been at the table.

The shift of cloth told Brennan that Michael had turned to face the man in the corner. “I find it hard to believe that if you’d been in the same situation, you wouldn’t have done some resisting yourself.”

Brennan guessed he should thank Michael for being his advocate while he sat there and acted like a little girl. An utter, useless shell of his former self.

He finally faced Muscles, ready to start defending himself. “I’m one of you.”

Corner man snorted. “No, you’re IA.”

“Used to be.” Brennan pinned his gaze on his fingers in his lap.

“Shut up, Tim.” Muscles snapping at his partner made Brennan look up at him. “Jesus. Just tell us what your version is. My back was turned; he was on the computer.”

“So you no longer think Brennan’s involved?” Michael crossed his arms over his chest.

“I’m reserving my opinion for later.” There was an intensity in Muscle’s eyes that made Brennan’s stomach do a little flip and his cock thicken.