Page 3 of Nightfire

But this woman showed signs of long-term abuse. If she screamed rape, they’d find his DNA on her if not in her and they’d be honor bound to take the whole sorry show down to headquarters and get the DA involved.

Sam and Harry would have to come bail him out.

There’d be an inquest, maybe a trial. RBK’s name dragged through the mud.

Jesus.

Mike shut the door on the screaming woman and looked around. If the apartment was bad, the hallway was worse. Every other light bulb was burned out and the whole place stank of piss. His feet stuck to the streaked and filthy linoleum. Now that the woman behind the door had stopped screaming and was only crying, Mike could hear another woman yelling behind a door further along the corridor.

The place reeked of sickness and violence and despair.

He made his way down the stairs, head down, holding his breath. Someone had puked on the landing on the second floor. He didn’t know what depressed him more—this sad dump or the fact that he’d been so drunk stumbling up the stairs, his brain in his pants, that he hadn’t noticed anything.

Pushing open the street door and coming out into the clean chill night air was like a calm hand stroking him. He finally breathed in as he checked out his surroundings.

The entire street was bad news. The few functioning street lights showed abandoned houses, human beings curled up on the sidewalk, one old geezer on a porch step drinking out of a paper bag, another one in lumpy rags, pissing against a wall, most of it splashing on his shoes as he missed.

It was probable that all the alcohol in Mike’s system was now making its way through the San Diego sewer system, but it wasn’t worth the risk being caught out in a DUI. He’d leave his SUV where it was. It had a tracking system if anyone stole it and anyway, he was insured up to his eyeballs. Tomorrow he’d have Barney drive him in. Tell him some lie about being on a stakeout. Barney wouldn’t even question it. He thought Mike and Sam and Harry were gods.

Mike snorted at the thought.

He looked up at the night sky, clear, a few bright stars penetrating the light pollution of the city night. When he went camping, far from the city lights, he could see a billion stars at night.

When was the last time he’d been camping? God, he couldn’t even remember.

And what was he doing here, in this godforsaken part of town, fucking a semi-deranged woman? A woman who wanted him to hurt her? Mike had fucked a lot in his life but he’d always steered clear of the crazies. The druggies and the married ones and the crazies. Iron rule, never broken, until now.

What was he doing?

He knew what he was doing. Running away from Sam and Harry and their families, that’s what.

Sam Reston and Harry Bolt. They’d been boys together and now men and they were closer than brothers. They’d all three of them grown up without families. Sam’s mom had thrown him away like garbage when he was a newborn. Harry’s mom and baby sister had been killed by his mom’s methhead boyfriend when he was twelve. And Mike—Jesus.

He rubbed his chest. How could it still hurt? The loss of his family had gone down twenty-five fucking years ago. He was a man. A Marine, a cop, a security expert. A sniper, one of the best there was. Tough as leather.

And it still fucking hurt.

Home. He needed to get home.

Why was he here and not at home? Well, besides the fact that home was big and empty, with nothing there for him, he’d seen his sisters-in-law give each other a Look.

The whole Christmas season they’d all eaten either at Sam’s place or Harry’s place. They all lived in the same building on Coronado Shores, where Mike had a large empty space he sort of called home because there wasn’t another one, so that was It. Home by default.

Sam’s huge apartment and Harry’s slightly smaller apartment in the condo had both been transformed into welcoming havens by their wives. It was a tossup which was nicer. Sam and Nicole’s place was huge, their housekeeper was a fabulous cook, and as an ambassador’s daughter, Nicole was a gifted hostess.

Four floors down, Harry and Ellen’s place was a little smaller with no in-house cook, though Ellen had a little band of fanboys who happened to be restaurant chefs and they vied with each other to send her gourmet meals. At any given time, they could be eating dishes prepared by chefs of the top restaurants in town.

There was another great thing about dinner at Harry’s. His wife was one of the finest singers in the world and dinner was often followed by little impromptu concerts that would have any music lover weeping with gratitude.

And the kids. Jesus.

Mike would walk over hot coals to play with Sam’s little girl Meredith. Merry was adorable, bright and beautiful. She loved her Uncle Mike and man, he loved her back. Another little girl was on the way and they were all looking forward to her. And Harry’s little girl Grace—she was only three months old and she already smiled when she heard his voice.

So it was real easy to fall into the habit of eating three, four and, now that he thought of it, even five nights a week either at Sam’s or at Harry’s. And of course the weekends they all hung out together. Barbecues on the terrace or take out pizzas and beer and ball games.

This year was the happiest Mike had ever been since his family had been slaughtered. He’d even lost a little weight because he was eating better, on a regular basis. Real food, too, not crap bar food.

His sex life had taken a hit, but if you held a blowtorch to his bare feet and pulled his fingernails out, he’d have to admit that he was more than a little sick of the bar scene and the impersonal sex that went with it.