Chapter 2 #2
“Yes. He called me by name.”
“Hey,” Pen says, the cell phone still to his left ear. He takes Callum’s uninjured hand, raises it and kisses his knuckles. “The ambulance is on its way. Just hold on a little longer, sweetheart.”
“My father…”
“What about your father?” Pen asks gently, but he can’t hide the disdain on his face.
“He said… Brian…” Callum swallows hard and then chokes out a cry.
“If Brian has anything to do with this—I promise you, he will pay and the fucker who hurt you will too,” Pen conveys softly, but his face holds a wealth of fury.
A small smile sneaks across Callum’s face before he passes out.
“Callum,” I shout, before hearing sirens in the distance. The sound puts my teeth on edge, as it stirs old memories, but it also sends a measure of relief through me, knowing he will be getting help soon.
It’s a scramble of lights, sounds, and uniformed officers running around us. As I stand there helplessly and watch an EMT work on Callum, the fire of revenge is flowing through my veins like lava. I have to keep telling myself that Callum is in good hands.
“I’m going to see if Callum set up the security surveillance we recommended after the break in,” Pen whispers to me, before leaving my side.
His words jolt me out of my red haze and I follow him through the house. If he did, I know for a fact they will have captured the attacker.
Technically, we shouldn’t be inside the home at all, since it’s a crime scene now, but neither of us gives a shit. Pen and I are on the same wavelength—we need to see who attacked Callum and get to them first, before the cops.
“I swear, Dom, if Brian has anything to do with Callum’s attack—”
“I know,” I say, trying to remain calm for both our sakes.
As we go through the house, we see that the interior is untouched. It tells me this wasn’t an ordinary attack, and for sure not a burglary attempt.
“Head straight back,” I say, pointing toward the back of the house.
Pen quickly finds the office, except we’re met with absolute calamity.
Callum had apparently listened to us and had the surveillance and cameras set up around the property, but the security equipment is trashed.
The computer monitors are smashed and so are the two storage towers that hold the recordings.
“What the fuck?” Pen hisses. “How did they know?”
“Whoever did this is smart. The bastard had to have been watching Callum for a while to even know he was here. And he made sure to cover up his tracks,” I say as I use my left foot to move one of the busted monitors.
“Let’s get out of here. I don’t want shit from the cops for messing with the evidence. ”
Pen agrees and we are both heading back out to see how Callum is doing, when two detectives approach us with wary looks marring their faces.
“I’m Detective Jacob Longe and this is Detective Alaric Faller. We need to ask you two a few questions.”
After they separate Pen and me, the questions begin. Since they already know we’ve been in the house, there’s nothing to hide. So I explain quickly and plainly. I want to get back to Callum, who is still lying on the floor while the EMTs set up the gurney.
However, my explanation is apparently not clear enough because Longe repeats the same questions.
But I know this tactic well; I used it when I worked for the U.S.
Marshals many years ago. So once again I explain, but then quickly put a halt on the questioning when Longe asks me to go over what happened for the third time.
As I walk away from Longe, the EMTs are bracing Callum’s neck. They ease him onto a body board, then lift and secure him to the gurney. Straps click into place before they wheel him to the ambulance.
“Where are you taking him?” I demand as an EMT secures the gurney Callum’s laying on inside the ambulance.
“Lutheran General,” one of the EMTs calls out before he shuts the back doors and climbs into the driver’s seat. They take off, lights on and sirens blaring.
“I have more questions, Mr. Rossetti,” Longe says as he blocks my view of the ambulance.
“No, you don’t. You’ve asked twice already. I know the game, Detective, and I’m done playing.” I’m frustrated with the repeated questions, and restless. I need to follow the ambulance to the hospital.
“Just one more,” the detective says with a frown. “You mentioned Mr. Fitz was the victim’s father.”
“Callum Brian Fitz Senior. Callum says the attacker mentioned him. It’s all I know. Then Callum passed out before he said anything else.”
“And you and this other man are Mr. Fitz’s bodyguards?” The detective’s tone suggests that he doesn’t believe me.
“Yes,” I bite out. “Callum Fitz is the bassist for the rock band Warrior Black. We,” I point between Pen and me, “are Mr. Fitz’s security team.”
“Then why weren’t you two with your charge? Was there a fight between you three?”
“Am I under arrest?” I demand, disregarding the detective’s last question, which surprises the man.
“No, but…”
“Then if there’s nothing more, Pen Gallagher and I are heading to the hospital.”
As I turn my back on Longe, he grunts out, “Wait.” I pause, ready to continue this verbal battle, when the detective hands me a business card. “Don’t leave town. We will have more questions for you later.”
“Will do.” I whistle, grabbing Pen’s attention as I stride toward our rental. He catches up with me, looking as frustrated with Detective Faller as I am with Longe. He strides over to me. “We’re going to the hospital.”
“Detective Faller is a giant dick,” he spits out as he climbs into the Bronco. “He kept repeating the same question—asking just a little differently—like I’m some fucking idiot who doesn’t know what he’s doing. And his accusatory tone—I wanted to punch the asshole.”
“Same,” I agree as I start the vehicle.
Silence fills the space for a long moment, before I say what we both are thinking. “We have to call Tobias.”
“I’m not looking forward to it,” Pen imparts with a frown.
I groan. “And I thought we had finally settled back into the easy work.” Meaning, after the whole shitstorm that went down with Connor and his deviant uncle six months ago, I thought this year was going to be smooth.
“Maybe we should call Dante first,” Pen suggests. “They are, after all, the band’s manager.”
Dante Ross hasn’t been with the band long, not even a year. They were hand-picked by Ron to take over for him when he started his cancer treatment. Dante’s proven they’re capable, but they are prickly. I rarely initiate a conversation with them.
“Tobias will take the news better,” I say as I tap the screen on my cell phone for our lead’s contact, while trepidation and worry for Callum churns and settles heavy in my gut.
Please be okay.