Chance Collision (6 page)

What is wrong with you? You saw someone get
shot
.

“Nikki-baby, are you all right?” Gram’s voice pulled her out of her head.

I don’t know.
“Me? It’s
you
I’m worried about.” Jolting, Nikki squared her shoulders. How had she not realised she’d walked all the way to her grandmother’s room already?

Get it together, Nikki.

Gram shook her head, her pale blue eyes misty. “That poor girl.”

Nikki took both of the elderly woman’s hands in her own. She pressed kisses to her grandmother’s gnarled knuckles. “She’ll be okay.”

“Thank God
you’re
okay.” Gram pulled her hands away and cupped Nikki’s cheeks like she had so many times when she was a child. After Pulling her close, the woman who’d raised her covered her face in warm kisses.

Nikki’s soft laugh took her by surprise, considering what had happened tonight. “I’m okay, Gram. Promise. Thank God you’re okay, too.”

Keys jangled and someone cleared their throat politely. Nikki glanced over her shoulder and offered a smile to Sergeant Chloe Stein.

Probably in her forties, the petite, attractive woman didn’t pull any punches. She kept the younger—mostly male—officers on her shift in order. They respected the hell out of her, and so did Nikki. She was a good cop.

Sergeant Stein smiled back, coming into the room, small notebook in hand. “Detective Crane asked me to talk to your gram, Nikki.”

By
talk to
she meant
interview,
but Nikki appreciated the kid gloves. Even though a part of her was disappointed Pete wasn’t the cop in Gram’s new room. Detective Jared Manning had said they needed to head to the hospital.

Maria. Please… God, let her live.

Nikki took a seat in the chair next to Gram’s bed, reaching for one of her hands and entwining their fingers. Nikki sat taller as Chloe came closer and introduced herself.

“I know you, Chloe Stein. I know your father, your family,” Gram said, one delicate white brow arched.

The sergeant’s cheeks actually went pink and Nikki relaxed, biting back a smile. Who knew the tough cop blushed?

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Just because I had a stroke doesn’t mean I lost my marbles.” Gram frowned and Nikki had to cover a half-laugh with a cough.

Blue eyes wide, Chloe shot her a look that shouted she didn’t know how to take the elderly woman.

Nikki flashed an encouraging smile and shrugged, leaning back in the chair.

When the sergeant took a breath and flipped her notebook open, Gram fluffed her blankets.

“Well, let’s get this over with,” her grandmother said, giving a curt nod. Her pale eyes met Nikki’s before she looked back at Chloe.

“Yes, ma’am,” Sergeant Stein said. “Just tell me what you remember.”

* * * *

Berto raced down the hallway, his heart thundering, hands wobbly. He’d had to leave the girls with his ranch foreman, Brody. There’d been no time to call someone else, and Brody lived on site. Good thing his daughters adored the foreman.

He’d kissed his sleeping twins and raced to the small hospital right outside of Antioch. The forty-five-minute drive had racked his every nerve, but the damn nurse wouldn’t tell him what had happened. Only that he needed to get there
now.

An officer will meet you.

It was a wonder he hadn’t been pulled over for reckless driving.

His voice had shaken when he’d made it to the nurses’ station and uttered his cover name. Numbly, he’d followed a nurse to the waiting room.

Maria was in surgery. The doctor would find him afterward.

Not one, but two of Antioch’s finest had met him. Uniformed cops who had introduced themselves, but their names hadn’t registered. Still, they hadn’t said much. Asked a few questions.

Shot twice. Lost a lot of blood. Ongoing investigation. The detective on the case would be there shortly. Wait here. They wouldn’t be far if he needed them. Although it was left unspoken, he was not permitted to leave.

Berto’s ass hit the chair and he cradled his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

His fault. The
entire
fucking thing.

He’d been a fool to think Caselli wouldn’t make a go for Maria. The man was a ruthless bastard. Trying to kill Berto’s wife—almost succeeding—was a move right up his former boss’s alley. Hit him where it counted. His heart. His life.

Trembling from head to foot despite the hard surface underneath his ass, Berto fought the pain in his chest along with the rising sob. He was about to lose it like a pussy. Bawl like a baby.

The old Berto would hunt down the bastards Caselli had sent to do the hit. Kill them. Beat the ever-loving shit out of them first. Shoot them in the arms and legs to watch them suffer before the final head shots.

Now… Those two little girls, with their mother’s big brown eyes… They
needed
him. Maria, too. His wife would need him more than ever.

He couldn’t risk prison.

Even if murder would be just. Could he stand going through legal channels? Would it be enough to see them locked up instead of bloodied, broken, dead?

I can’t lose her. I just…can’t.

I’m next.

Caselli’s roses were a promise. Only a matter of time. Kill Maria. Come after him. Checkmate.

Leave the girls orphaned, if alive at all. Caselli had no scruples about killing the children of enemies
.

“Son of a fucking bitch!” Berto shot to his feet, pacing the small room and thanking God he was the only one in it. He buried his hands in his hair, gripping the short dark length and tugging.

Helpless was putting it mildly.

The bastard had accused him of talking to the Feds. Berto hadn’t. But… He was going to have to make one call in particular. The choice had been made after Caselli’s final promise tonight.

He’d hedged on the idea from the moment he’d stomped his cell. Thought about it more on the frantic drive to town. Made up his mind when the automatic doors to the emergency room had opened, even before the hospital rent-a-cop had directed him upstairs.

Berto had never been a rat, even long after leaving New York. Not even when that female detective—MacLaren or something—had come with Cole Lucas to question him about Maldonado last year.

To save his family, he’d sing like a choir of birds.

Berto glanced up when the door to the waiting room opened. The guy offered a head-nod like you did to acknowledge a stranger, then did a double-take. Their eyes locked as the very tall T-shirt and jean-clad man froze.

No. Fucking. Way.

“Berto?”

“Are you here for my wife?” They spoke at the same time.

Cole Lucas had just walked into the waiting room. Like he’d answered the call Berto had yet to make.

The FBI agent-turned-local-police detective came closer, dark brow furrowed.

“Are you here…to talk to me…about my wife?” Berto croaked.

Lucas shook his head. “Your wife? No.” The guy shrugged and thumbed the Coke machine in the back of the room. “Just looking for a soda. Damn near had to search the whole hospital.” He looked like he was about to say something else, but didn’t.

Coins jingling in hand, Lucas headed to the vending machines lined against the wall of the waiting room. Then there was the click of a depressed button followed by the
thunk
of the can falling. He bent to grab it.

Berto swallowed hard. Wanted to demand what the hell was going on, but words dissolved on his tongue.

The pop and hiss of Lucas opening the can took Berto’s attention. He stared at the red and silver aluminium. As the man brought the Coke to his mouth, a glint of gold caught his eye. Left hand. Wedding ring?

“What’s going on, Berto? You’re jittery.”

When he managed to look back at the former FBI agent’s face, the guy actually appeared concerned.

What happened to the SOB who’d blackmailed him into cooperating when Carlo Maldonado had come to town?

Words fell from Berto’s lips. Rushed. Shaky. “He ordered my wife killed. I’m next.” He clenched his jaw until pain shot through his teeth.

Cole Lucas’ grey eyes sharpened. He squared his broad shoulders. “Caselli.” It wasn’t a question.

The waiting room door opened again with a creak, stopping any answer Berto might’ve been planning. What the hell could he say, anyway? He needed Lucas’ help. But he wasn’t going to beg for it. Even if the guy was a cop.

He glanced to the doorway, gritting his teeth when he took in who’d joined them. Though both men were dressed casually, they carried themselves as only cops did. Detectives.

The shorter one—but only because the other guy had to be six-three—was fair-haired and wore a pale blue button-down tucked into his jeans. His demeanour screamed
cowboy
. All he needed was a Stetson and a buckle, because he already wore the cowboy boots.

Not unlike the way Berto often dressed in his
role
as Mateo Mata, owner-operator of the successful cattle ranch, the Circle Bar B.

“Cole.” The detective’s voice was deep, eyes wide as his gaze went from Lucas to Berto. Obviously he was surprised to see his colleague here, too.

The dark-haired man slid around, shaking Lucas’ hand and muttering congratulations. Lucas nodded and flashed a grin, showing dimples. The former FBI agent’s stance relaxed, but only for a second.

What’s that about?

The third detective was younger than Lucas or the blond guy, baby-faced. But he looked hard in a way, regarding Berto with a sober expression after dropping his smile and squaring his shoulders. He stood next to Cole Lucas. Partners?

“Hey, Pete,” Lucas said, inclining his head.

Shaking hands, the two exchanged low greetings, then three sets of eyes bored into Berto.

He squirmed but tried to stand taller, ignoring the fact that these three men towered over him. For once, these guys were here to help. Right? He wasn’t being arrested or hauled to jail—yet. They always suspected the spouse first, after all. Though Berto would off himself before he hurt Maria. Then again, it was his fault she’d been shot.

Fuck.

“You caught his case?” Lucas thumbed towards him.

The blond detective nodded. “Are you Mateo Mata? Husband of Maria, a nurse at Health Solutions?”

Berto nodded and met a pair of very green eyes.

The man put his hand out for a shake. “Detective Pete Crane. This is Detective Jared Manning. You know Detective Lucas?”

“Yes.” Berto shot a look at Lucas, shifting on his feet.

“Don’t worry, Berto. Detective Crane will have your back. Tell him
everything,
” Lucas said, his steel gaze intense.

“Berto?” Detective Manning asked.

“This is Alberto Carbone,” Lucas said before he could speak. “You might remember his name in my Maldonado report last year. We managed to keep him out of the courtroom, but only because we had a hell of a prosecutor.”

Detective Crane nodded.

The cop’s last name triggered a memory of the prosecutor Lucas had just referred to. The Assistant District Attorney who had handled Carlo Maldonado’s case in court. Nathan Crane. Berto had seen his name in the papers. Was he related to the detective who had apparently picked up his—Maria’s—case?

He’d rather have Lucas.

“The shooting definitely wasn’t random then,” Detective Manning said, dark brow furrowed.

“No,” Berto and Lucas said at the same time.

Detective Crane ran his hand through his short hair, suddenly looking as haggard as Berto felt. “Might as well start at the beginning.”

Numbness spread over his limbs, but Berto managed a nod.

Then he opened his mouth.

Chapter Seven

“What are you doing here?” Pete asked, frowning as he strolled to his cubicle, steaming Styrofoam tall of fresh coffee in hand. Not that Starbucks crap, either. Good, old-fashioned, cheap grounds the city paid for were his fave. Good coffee
was subjective.

He swallowed back a yawn. He hadn’t been able to hit the sack until well after two. Five hours of sleep and only one cuppa Joe? Nowhere close to cutting the day he was in for. He needed a caffeine IV.

“I just stopped by to look at the initial report from Neil. Good thing he’s so fast. It was here waiting for ya.” Perched on the corner of Pete’s desk, Cole sipped from a travel mug with Ethan’s picture on it. The kid was dressed as a cowboy, an adorable grin on his face the size of Texas.

“When’s my partner getting discharged?”

“I got some time, promise.”

“You really need to look up the word
vacation
,” Pete said, arching a brow.

“Damn, you’re giving me a harder time than Andi did. I’ve only been here about five minutes. Besides, Cass is with her. My sister’s helping out.”

“
You
need to be there for her and that baby right now, Cole.”

“No shit. Now, then and the rest of their lives.” His partner’s husband put the stapled bundle of papers down and met Pete’s eyes.

He couldn’t fault the guy for wanting to know CSI’s take on things—see what actual evidence they had. Didn’t doubt Cole’s loyalty or work ethic. Nor did he
want
to say no to the assistance. Pete just didn’t want Andi upset. His partner needed her husband right now. Wrangling a rambunctious four-year-old was bad enough without adding a new-born into the equation.

He sighed. “Sorry. Not tryin’ to ride ya.”

Cole cocked his head to one side and crossed his arms over his chest. “Just trying to help out. Believe me, I know where I need to be, and I
want
to be there. I’ll go in a few.”

After sliding into his chair, Pete set his coffee down, reaching for the report.

“How’s Nikki?”

Gorgeous as ever.
He cleared his throat, refusing to think about their kiss. “I talked to her a few minutes ago, she was fine. Good even. She’s stubborn and strong. Insisted on coming to work today. Trying hard for normal
.
Sergeant Stein talked to the grandmother last night. I have her report already. BOLO’s still out. So far, no sign of the Hummer.”

“Dude, this is Caselli. Nikki and her grandmother
saw
Guido-squared,” Cole said. “You need to get her to a safe house, and slap a cop on Mrs Jenkins twenty-four-seven.”