Risking it All (2 page)

Hogan’s operation down square on its

head.

As soon as she’d felt confident enough

that gaining possession of the ledger

would be the key to outing Colin’s

murderer, she’d taken a personal week

off of work, citing the upcoming three-

year anniversary of her brother’s death

as the reason. And she’d gone

undercover without a direct order from

her uncle.

When this was over, she’d never again

wear a badge. But she’d have bagged a

murderer.

And then she would disappear.

Sera set down both plates of meat loaf

in front of two burly male customers

whose earlier loud conversation had

devolved into subdued undertones with

Hogan’s appearance, never letting

Hogan out of her peripheral vision. Ever

since he’d arrived, Dooly’s lively buzz

had been switched off like a lightbulb,

customers poking at their meals absently.

Apparently unconcerned about the pall

he’d cast over the crowd, Hogan sat

with one arm draped over his chair,

focusing on the UFC match raging on the

ancient television.

Hogan’s four-man crew stomped into

the bar, making the sixth sense that ran in

her family
ping
. Hogan leaned against

the bar, gesturing animatedly as he spoke

to the bartender. His friends laughed on

cue and some of the customers began to

relax. Hogan, his youthfulness beginning

to fade along with his good looks, tossed

back a shot of whiskey. He turned as he

plunked the glass down on the bar,

catching her eye across the dining room

floor. Instead of cringing under his

interest, Sera smiled back and sailed

toward the kitchen, conscious of his hard

gaze on her.

Everything happened quickly after

that. There was a loud crack as Dooly’s

front door was kicked open. A man

walked in, sweatshirt hood pulled low

over his face, gun raised and pointed at

Hogan. Every patron in the bar hit the

floor as if it were a middle-school

earthquake drill. Sera reached toward

her hip for a weapon that wasn’t there.

Hogan threw himself behind one of the

four men who’d joined him, just in time

for the man to take the bullet in his stead.

The wounded man fell with a shocked

curse, still shielding Hogan, who

followed him to the wooden floor,

scrambling for his gun. Hogan’s other

men wasted no time removing their own

weapons, issuing threats at the already-

retreating gunman, who managed to make

it out the door before they could fire a

single shot.

What had she just witnessed? An

assassination attempt on Hogan? For a

moment, she felt frozen to the spot,

reeling at the fact that Hogan’s life had

almost been stolen from her. Justice for

Colin did not include such an easy way

out.

No,

it

would

have

been

unacceptable. Years

of

heartache,

months of work…all for nothing. It had

been so close. Too close.

The sight of blood broke Sera out of

her

stupor.

It

was

everywhere.

Splattered on the mirror behind the bar,

the ground, the man who lay on his back

clutching his upper chest. Before her

conscious mind processed her actions,

Sera moved toward the man, shoving

aside the group of useless bystanders.

She might have quit nursing to become a

cop, but the oath she’d taken wouldn’t

allow her to stand by while someone

died. Not when she could prevent it.

“Get me the first aid kit from behind the

bar.” As she knelt down beside the

bleeding man, she noticed no one had

moved. “
Now.
And call an ambulance
.
”

Feet shuffled around Sera, telling her

someone had actually listened. Briefly,

her eyes landed on the face of the

wounded man. Young, dark, startlingly

handsome despite the fact that his teeth

were gritted from the obvious pain. She

didn’t recognize him from the case file,

nor had she expected his type among this

crew. Hardened, yes, but he didn’t

appear as if he’d slipped beyond

redemption like the rest of them. With

brisk efficiency, she pried his hand away

from the wound, pushed open his leather

jacket and ripped his white T-shirt open

from collar to hem.

The first aid kit clattered down beside

her on the floor. “At least buy him dinner

first.”

Hogan. She’d deal with him later.

Relief moved through her when she saw

that the wound had missed the man’s

heart by about two inches. Still, it could

have hit his subclavian artery. She could

keep him alive long enough for help to

arrive, but it would need to be soon. As

gently as possible, she eased her hand

beneath his shoulder, relieved when she

felt an exit wound. At least the bullet had

gone clear through. She ripped off her

apron, balled up the starchy material and

pressed it against the wound. It had to

hurt like hell, but the man barely winced.

She glanced up, meeting Hogan’s

eyes. “Did you call the ambulance?”

He leaned against the bar, chewing a

cocktail straw. The utter lack of concern

on his face reminded Sera she was in the

presence of a monster. Her brother’s

murderer. Hogan shrugged, setting her

teeth on edge. “You’re doing a bang-up

job all on your own. No need to involve

uniforms.”

Sera failed to hide her horror. “He

could die without medical attention.

Look at how much blood he’s already

lost.” She wiped her bloody palm across

her uniform shirt, unwittingly making her

point.

Eyes narrow, he pointed at her with

his cocktail straw. “Why don’t you ask

him what he wants?”

She looked back down at the injured

man. “No ambulance,” he managed

through gritted teeth, face paling with the

effort. “I’d rather bleed out.”

Hogan’s face lit up with amusement.

“And there you go.” He signaled the

bartender for another drink. “You got a

name, Florence Nightingale?”

He’s colder than I could have

imagined.

Sera took a deep breath and focused

on his question. She’d planned her false

identity down to the last detail. The

name and cover story she would use if

she ever got close enough to Hogan to

actually employ it. She’d never expected

to use it this soon, though, especially in

this kind of situation.

“Sera.”

He threw back the shot of whiskey.

“Can you fix him up, Sera? He’s my

cousin. If he dies, it’ll piss off my

mother.”

Yes. She might be able to save him.

No, she
would
save him. Despite the

wounded man’s vast difference from her

brother, she wouldn’t let another person

die because of Hogan’s presence in his

life. Call it irrational, but in a way,

saving this man might in small measure

make up for her being two hundred miles

away as her brother died on the cold

sidewalk. None of this could be

portrayed to Hogan, however. Or she

risked her own neck. “Fix him?” She

gave a disbelieving laugh. “He needs

doctors…a hospital. I’m a waitress.”

“Yeah? You don’t talk like no

waitress.”

“You want to hear the specials or

something?”

Hogan’s laugh boomed through the

bar, but he sobered just as quickly. He

regarded her closely for a moment, then

nodded to his cohorts. “Load Connor

into the backseat. And for God’s sake,

put a fucking towel down first.” Almost

as an afterthought, he added, “She’s

coming with us.”

CHAPTER TWO

Bowen Driscol kept the lit cigarette

clamped between his lips as two police

officers jerked his hands behind his back

and shoved him forward onto the hood

of their squad car. A group of

neighborhood girls passing on the

sidewalk stopped to gawk, giggling

when he threw them a wink. The

officer’s hand between his shoulder

blades kept him in place, cold metal

clinking when the other uniform removed

the piece he’d had tucked into his

waistband and cuffed him. When the

hand on his back pushed a little too hard,

Bowen gave in with a sigh and spat the

cigarette onto the curb.

“Look, I like it rough as much as the

next guy, but we hardly know each

other.”

“Shut it, Driscol.”

“You going to explain why I’m being

arrested?” He swallowed a growl as the

cuffs bit into his skin. “Or is this just

how you get all your dates?”

“Your mother didn’t seem to mind.”

The officer heaved him off the hood and

stuffed him into the backseat, oblivious

to the sore spot he’d just poked with his

casual insult. “As for why I’m taking you

in?” With a shrug, he slammed the door.

“Pick something,” he called through the

glass.

Bowen

kept

his

unconcerned

expression firmly in place as the officers

drove through the streets of Bensonhurst

where he’d been raised. Where he’d

likely die. He knew every corner, every

alleyway, and the name of every shop

owner. This was his home. He hated it

as much as he loved it. Loved it for the

familiarity, hated it for the prison it had

become since he reluctantly accepted his

legacy.

Even though it was torture being

trapped in the back of a police car

without the use of his hands, he couldn’t

deny a sense of relief. Had they finally

caught him? Finally gathered enough

information to put him away? God, a big

part of him hoped they had, even if he

would die before admitting it to these

smug assholes. He was tired of looking

over his goddamn shoulder when he

walked down the street, wondering if

today would be the day someone tried to

end his reign as boss. He’d never

wanted the job, but with his father

awaiting trial at Rikers Island, it had

landed on his shoulders like a ton of

bricks. Yeah, he’d never been a saint to

begin with, but now people feared him

for reasons that had nothing to do with

his penchant for street fights. Now they

worried about their legs being broken

over unpaid debts. Turned tail and ran

when they saw him as if he were Death

himself.

He racked his brain trying to figure out

what had gotten him pinched. Sure they

were required to tell him, but the NYPD

never played by the rules. Not with him.

They knew he ran South Brooklyn, they

just hadn’t been able to trace any crime

back to him—a fact that pissed them off

in a big way. It warmed his heart exactly

how much. Would that all change today?

Their silence was unusual, to say the

least. Any other day, they wouldn’t

waste a chance to rib him.

Bowen frowned when they bypassed

the turn for the local precinct and

proceeded toward Manhattan. “Where

we headed, boys?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said the one

driving.

“Never said I was worried.” He

wished for a cigarette. “I’m just

wondering

if

I

need

to

make

arrangements for someone to water my

houseplants.”

The cops exchanged a glance. “
You

have plants.”

“What? I don’t strike you as the

nurturing type?”

Bowen caught sight of himself in the

rearview mirror and had to laugh. With a

purple-black eye and a cut bottom lip, he

looked like the opposite of nurturing. In

fact, he looked like shit run over twice.

Nothing new. He couldn’t remember

seeing himself reflected back without

some sort of injury on his face. The utter

exhaustion in his eyes, though…that was

new. Quickly, he looked out the window