Chapter Nine
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The office smelled like old paper, stale coffee, and disinfectant. Kincade sat stiffly in one of the two chairs across from the county sheriff’s desk, his hands resting on his knees, his mind working overtime. Cassidy paced behind him, her boots soft against the worn tile floor.
They’d just finished giving their statements. Every detail of the shooting, every move leading up to it. Of course, they’d left some things out such as finding the phone near the quarry.
Now they waited.
Sheriff Becker had left them in his office while he went to coordinate the crime scene response. That was what he said, anyway. Kincade wasn’t so sure. He wasn’t sure of anything when it came to the county sheriff.
The office was quiet except for the tick of the wall clock and the occasional creak of Cassidy’s footsteps.
“Becker shot him in the back,” she said suddenly, voice tight.
Kincade nodded. “Yeah.”
“He must have done that to shut him up,” she muttered.
Kincade leaned forward, elbows on his thighs, eyes fixed on the blotter across the desk. “Wouldn’t be the first time a guilty man put a bullet in a cleaner’s chest to tie off a loose end.”
Cassidy didn’t answer. But he could feel her tension from across the room.
There was still no ID on the shooter. No name. No prints. No indication of who he was or where he came from.
But Kincade didn’t need the full report to make his guess.
“Whoever he was,” he said, “he wasn’t here for himself. That was a job. A paid hit.”
“Hired thug,” Cassidy added. “Professional enough to hit a truck engine at a distance, but not smart enough to make it out alive.”
Kincade nodded slowly. And maybe that was the point. Someone hadn’t sent him to escape. They’d sent him to finish the job or to die trying. Which meant whoever was behind this wasn’t just desperate.
They were ruthless.
Unfortunately, the shooter’s death left them with a whole bunch of unanswered questions.
It didn’t help that there was still no word from Travis.
That chewed at Kincade more than he wanted to admit.
Travis was good, careful, and always had a contingency plan.
But no follow-up after telling them the meeting was compromised? That wasn’t like him.
Cassidy leaned against the wall near the file cabinet, arms crossed, jaw tight. She hadn’t looked away from the floor in the last few minutes.
She was clearly worried. And not just about Travis. Someone had blown their meeting wide open. Someone with eyes on their movements.
Jericho was already working that angle. He’d given his statement and ducked out fast, heading back to Maverick Ops’ headquarters to start pulling every piece of drone footage and surrounding surveillance feeds he could get his hands on. Maybe, just maybe, he’d get some of those answers they needed.
Cassidy let out a low groan, tilting her head back and pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes.
Kincade pushed up from the chair and walked to her, slow and steady. She dropped her hands when he reached her, and he didn’t hesitate. He pulled her in, arms wrapping tight around her shoulders.
She didn’t resist.
In fact, she leaned in, the tension bleeding out of her inch by inch.
“How bad is the adrenaline crash?” he asked.
She gave a soft, humorless huff against his chest. “On a scale of one to jumping out of my own skin?”
“Yeah.”
“Somewhere around ‘Don’t talk to me unless you’re handing me a weapon,’” she grumbled.
He held her tighter.
It wasn’t just the shooting. It was everything. The uncertainty. The fear. The betrayal. Travis still missing. Becker possibly dirty. A shooter now dead before they could get a single name.
And every path they followed just seemed to twist into another dead end.
But they weren’t done.
Not yet.
Cassidy didn’t move, her cheek resting against his chest, breath slowing as the crash worked its way through her system. But after a moment, she spoke, voice low.
“How’s your adrenaline crash?” she asked.
Kincade gave a half-smile, still holding her close. “Manageable. Only seeing two of you now instead of three.”
She huffed a laugh against his shirt. “That’s comforting.”
“I thought so.”
She leaned back just enough to look up at him, her expression soft despite the shadows under her eyes. The edges of her lips lifted, just a hint of the woman he remembered from before all of this. Before it got so personal.
Her smile made something shift in his chest.
So he kissed her.
No warning. No asking.
Just leaned in and pressed his mouth to hers, slow and firm, anchoring them both for one breath-stealing second in something that wasn’t fear or strategy or survival.
Something real.
She didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into him, and the kiss changed.
What started as something steady and grounding turned sharp and hungry in a breath. Cassidy’s hand slid up his chest, gripping the front of his shirt, and Kincade’s control slipped like sand through his fingers.
A fistful of heat slammed into him.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t slow.
It was a punch that scalded, fast and fierce, like everything they hadn’t said was boiling over in a single second.
Her lips opened under his, and he took the invitation without thinking.
His hands slid to her hips, then her back, pulling her tighter, anchoring himself to the feel of her, to the taste of her.
Too hot. Too much. Especially here. Especially now. In the sheriff’s office, after a shootout, with the stink of gunpowder and blood still clinging to their clothes.
But Kincade didn’t stop.
Because for a moment, with her pressed against him and the world locked out, none of it mattered.
And he needed that.
Just like she did.
The sound of footsteps in the hall broke through the heat like a splash of cold water. Cassidy eased back first, her breathing a little unsteady, her lips still parted. Kincade took half a step away, running a hand through his hair as the knock came, followed by the creak of the door opening.
Sheriff Becker walked in, stone-faced, and right behind him was Marlene.
She looked smaller than before. Shoulders hunched, hair pulled back messily, no uniform today. Civilian clothes, pale and wrinkled like she hadn’t slept. Her eyes were red-rimmed with puffiness.
Crying.
Or trying to make it look like she had.
Becker nodded toward the chairs. “Have a seat.”
Kincade didn’t move. Neither did Cassidy.
Marlene did. She sank into one of the chairs with the weight of someone carrying something heavy.
Kincade stayed quiet, arms folded as he studied Marlene. The red eyes. The slumped posture. She looked broken.
But he still wasn’t sure he bought it.
Becker closed the door behind him with a solid thunk, then crossed to the front of the desk and planted his hands on it.
“Marlene’s told me everything,” the sheriff said, voice flat. “About her mother being taken. About forcing Travis to that safe house with a gun. About the text messages. All of it.”
Marlene didn’t lift her eyes. She just stared at her lap, hands clenched together.
Becker let out a slow, frustrated breath. “She should’ve come to me sooner.”
Kincade said nothing, but his jaw tightened. Or maybe you already knew, he thought. Maybe you knew every detail and just wanted to hear her say it out loud.
He watched Becker carefully. The man was hard to read, and every expression he made felt like it had too much polish. Kincade didn’t trust that kind of control, not in a man who’d killed the shooter just hours earlier.
“Is Marlene under arrest?” Cassidy came out and asked.
Becker turned to her, brow furrowed. “No. Not at this time.”
“She obstructed justice,” Cassidy reminded him. “Kidnapped my brother at gunpoint. That’s unlawful restraint at the very least.”
Becker exhaled like the weight of the department had settled on his shoulders. “I’m considering the charges. She’s already on administrative leave. There’ll be a review.” He paused a heartbeat. “And there will be discipline.”
Across the room, Marlene’s head snapped up. “Travis was a fugitive.”
Kincade didn’t move. “Not when you put a gun on him.”
That shut her up. Her jaw worked for a second like she wanted to argue, but the words didn’t come. Her gaze shot away from his.
Becker straightened and turned toward them. “I need to ask you both something, and I need you to be straight with me.”
Cassidy crossed her arms but didn’t speak. Kincade just waited.
Becker looked from one to the other. “Do either of you know where Travis is right now?”
“No,” Cassidy said immediately. “We don’t.”
Becker’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And what about this backup file? The one he supposedly found that ties everything back to Alisha’s murder? You know where that is?”
Kincade shook his head once. “No. And we’d like to find it just as much as you would.”
That part, at least, was true.
But Becker didn’t nod. He just stared a second too long as if he was trying to decide if they were lying.
Kincade held his stare, cool and unreadable. He wasn’t giving Becker a damn thing more.
“Why’d you shoot the gunman?” Kincade asked, and he fixed Becker with a level stare.
Becker’s jaw worked. “Because he was trying to kill you.” His tone was clipped and defensive. “I was saving your asses. It was obvious that guy wasn’t firing warning shots. He wanted you both dead.”
Cassidy stepped forward. “And it would’ve been nice to ask him why.” Her voice was calm, but the edge in it cut deep.
Becker’s eyes snapped to her, irritation flaring. “He wasn’t in the mood to chat. You saw that rifle. You think he was just going to put it down and confess? He wasn’t just a threat to you. There’s a ranch fifty feet behind that screen. Families. Kids. I did my job.”
Kincade didn’t say what he was thinking. That Becker’s shot had been too convenient. Too well-timed. The shooter had been cornered. Close to being taken alive.
And then, suddenly, he wasn’t. Because he was dead.