Page 101 of Under Cover
Garcia nodded, getting it. He looked at Pidgeon and said, “It’s a good thing our boy here is dedicated to his job, ’cause hereallyhates you.”
Crosby took a measured breath. “And for the record? I never did your fuckin’ drugs, asshole. If I had, Creedy wouldn’t have tried to poison me with it.”
Pidgeon blinked. “He what?”
“You heard me. Sent Junior to my room with some water to pay back for all the beer. One of the bottles was drugged. So there’s your hero, poisoning my fuckin’ water. Chew on that and wonder which fuckin’ supermax we’re gonna send you to, ’cause, buddy, I’m too pissed for you to have a family reunion at Rikers Island.”
Garcia took a breath and nodded to Crosby. “Go get your piece and make the call. Me and Pidgeon are gonna have ourselves a party.”
Maybe some sweats over his boxer-clad bottom would ease that sizzle of rage Garcia felt thrumming under Crosby’s skin. Or maybe Garcia could just let Crosby waste the guy. That might do it, but he’d rather not have it happen in his house.
Garcia took another breath. No, that might do forGarcia—Garcia understood revenge and hot-blooded fury—but not Crosby. Not his cowboy, who would talk family annihilators down and be the cool finger on the trigger when he was trying to save a child—and Garcia—with one shot. The guy who would calmly put himself between a scared kid and a slightly unhinged predator. That guy would never forgive himself for shooting this asshole in the back.
But that guy was still weak and recovering and angry and hurt, and this moron in the cuffs had quite literally raped his puppy. Crosby’s protectiveness over Junior had been understandable; Garcia had known the kid for barely an hour, but he’d seen the innate decency in Junior Creedy, and apparently Crosby had too because there was no doubt Junior had saved his life. It wasn’t that Crosby wasn’t justified in wanting Pidgeon dead—it was that he wouldn’t forgive himself if it wasn’t a righteous kill. Carlyle and Chadwick had the souls of assassins. Gail and Natalia were streetfighters. Harding and Swan were soldiers. Garcia and Crosby were, at their hearts, policemen—not the Sons of the Blood bullshit, but the kind of cops thatshouldhave been. The kind who saw communities and protected them.
It would kill something vital inside Crosby to take this guy’s life without extreme cause, and Garcia loved that about him. But it also made Crosby really fucking fragile right now, and he needed Garcia to save him.
He stood there, in his T-shirt and briefs, arms crossed, gun in one hand, and glared at Pidgeon.
“So,” he said calmly. “You gonna tell us about this warehouse you work at? ’Cause I get the feeling that’s really integral to how this story ends.”
At that moment, Garcia heard an unlikely sound. Carefully assuring himself that Pidgeon was too secure to run, he stood on his tiptoes and peered over the back of his couch.
The giant fucking cat—a gray-and-white monstrosity with enough fur to make a whole other cat—was stretched out across the center of the couch, making biscuits against one of the throw pillows. In the kitchen, up against the baseboards, Garcia could spot the now-empty can of tuna. In spite of himself, Garcia had to smile. Well, maybe Crosby wasn’tthatfragile.
After all, he’d managed to save the cat.
Minor Thugs and Major Scumbags
CROSBY HADcalmed down by the time he was dressed, and called Harding.
“You’ve got himwhere?” Harding demanded, sounding grumpy and out of sorts. Well, Crosby had neededhissleep too.
“In the living room, cuffed to a chair. Hey, I didn’t plan on going scumbag hunting in my underwear, but there you are.”
Harding grunted. “How do you think he found you?”
This part hurt. “He was tracking Talia’s department issue. I think we need to have the others swept, and we need to call themnow.”
Harding grunted, and a beeping sound emanated from what was clearly his phone. “Yeah, well, Chadwick and Carlyle just passed their contact deadline, so I agree.” He sighed. “Look, you need to interrogate him. If I can’t get Chadwick and Carlyle on the horn, weallneed to go to that fucking warehouse by Red Hook and bail their asses out of the fire.”
Crosby nodded. “Should we call for a unit?” he asked.
“I’ll tag the FBI for your scumbag. They should be there in fifteen minutes this time of night, so you don’t have much longer. Get all the info you can and leave something for them to throw in the slammer.”
Crosby grimaced. He could feel the rage and the weakness coursing through his body in equal pulses. He wasn’t physically ready to do this, but dammit… Garcia needed him.The teamneeded him.
He couldn’t let them down, and he couldn’t lose himself in the anger and the fear.
He could be hurt—he knew that. He got hurt on the regular. He couldn’t deal with the disappointment in Garcia’s eyes if he wasn’t the man Calix Garcia had fallen in love with.
The strength was in there. He had to remember where to reach.
When he walked out to the living room, he was decked out in full tactical, down to his Kevlar, boots, the hunting knife now strapped to his thigh, and the weapons he’d pulled from the safe.
“Feds are on the way,” he told Garcia as he strode into the living room. “Get set and get decked. There’s more going down tonight than this.”
Garcia nodded tersely and glanced from the knife on his thigh back to Crosby’s eyes. An evil little smile twitched at his full mouth, and he said, “You can make him bleed alittle, right, Cowboy?”