Chapter Twenty

Cade

Present day

"Michael Kincaid?"

I glance up from the gun safe I'm trying to wrestle out Kaleo's front door to see an LAPD detective standing at the bottom of the steps with the same beat cop from the night of the break-in…the one who looks like he's twelve.

The detective standing next to the patrol officer with his hands on his hips makes the kid's inexperience glaringly obvious. The kid is baby-faced and full of hope. The detective is hard and unyielding, years of doing this job hanging in the air around him. He's got hard-ass stamped all over his face. He's maybe thirty-five, with dark hair and piercing eyes that blaze with intelligence. He's familiar, but I'm too fucking tired to place him.

"Standing right here," I mutter and finish shoving the safe out the door. "But you already knew that because I definitely know you somehow, so how about you stop wasting my time and tell me why the fuck you're asking?"

Like I said, I'm fucking tired. It's been over a week since January kicked my ass out, and I'm not in the mood for bullshit. My girl is hiding out with Mariah. I don't know if she's okay or not. All Mariah will tell me is that she's in good hands…whatever that means. Kaleo's gone MIA, and I'm fed up with picking off the low-hanging fruit he left behind.

Two days after January kicked me out, Liam came through with the names of the girls Kaleo's been pimping out. The youngest is fourteen fucking years old. It didn't take me long to convince her to tell me what I needed to know to have a search warrant signed. We raided his clubhouse at dawn. We've since moved onto his house.

He's done. His reign is over.

Burning his shit to the ground would be a lot more enjoyable if he was around to watch it happen.

The fact that he thinks he can hide from me would be laughable if I were in a better mood. This city isn't fucking big enough to keep me from finding him. But I'm not in the mood to have to hunt his sorry ass down. I just want to deal with him so I can get back to more important things. Like figuring out how I'm going to spend the rest of my life taking care of January when she won't even come home.

"I need you to come with me, Agent Kincaid," the detective says. His deep voice is soft, almost as if he's trying to keep it from carrying to the ATF and DEA agents currently crawling all over Kaleo's property.

As soon as he speaks, I know why he's here. My crimes have finally caught up with me.

Before I can respond, Luke Santiago and Roman Gregory step out onto the porch behind me.

Fuck. I'd rather not do this in front of them, but it doesn't look like LAPD is going to give me that option. I'm guessing whoever is in charge of this particular case started flipping shit when he found out I was here, taking Kaleo's house apart. They don't want me anywhere near his shit right now.

"What are you doing here, Octavio?" Roman barks at the detective, looking equal parts confused as hell and suspicious as shit. He's not the kind of man who enjoys being in the dark.

"Octavio Hernandez!" I say, snapping my fingers. "Fucking knew we were acquainted." I met him on Tristan's case. No wonder he looks like he'd rather be anywhere but here right now.

"Not something I want to be doing," he mutters to Roman, rubbing his palm over his dark crewcut hair and glancing at the guys casting furtive looks in our direction as they bag and tag all of Kaleo's property. He actually looks like he regrets what he's about to do.

I take pity on him and step away from the safe. Last thing I need on my conscience is for Roman and Hernandez to come to blows over my stupid ass, and the ATF agent does not seem happy right now. I'm pretty sure he and Hernandez are friends, but Hernandez wouldn't be here to do this now if he didn't have to do it. It is what it is.

My gaze shifts to the kid at his side, who looks like he's ready to shit himself.

"Roman, I need you to take my badge and my gun," I mutter to him and hold my hands up in the air.

"What the fuck?" he grits out.

"What the fuck?" Santiago says at the same time.

"Your boy is here to take me in for questioning," I say and glance at Hernandez, who nods regretfully.

"For fucking what?" Santiago asks, confused as hell.

Not Roman, though. He looks pissed…and resigned, both emotions roiling in his blue eyes. Seeing that expression on his face makes me wonder how much he knows about me and the shit I did way back when. Enough to not be surprised about what's going down now, by the looks of it.

"For the murders of Jace Adams, Tully Adcock, and Sean Cortez," Hernandez says.

"Yeah, for that shit," I agree and take a step toward Roman. "You going to take this? I'd surrender it myself, but I don't want to chance Carrot Top there pissing himself or fucking shooting me if I reach for my gun."

Santiago snorts, shooting the kid a derisive glare that probably has his balls climbing toward his throat. The fact is, out of everyone standing here, the kid is the one who looks least like he belongs, yet most like a cop. Roman is massive, and Santiago and Hernandez are as big as I am. They all appear about as likely to play by the rules.

Roman shakes his dark head like he doesn't want anything to do with this, but he unlatches the holster at my hip before taking my gun out and handing it over to Santiago. Once the gun is out of play and the kid has no reason to get excited and shoot me, I tug the chain from around my neck, surrendering my shield, too.

"Tear this shithole apart and take everything," I tell Roman and Santiago before turning back to Hernandez. I ain't even mad at him. He's doing what he's got to do. The timing sucks, but it's not like I didn't know this was coming. I honestly expected it a few days ago.

"Let's get this shit show on the road," I mutter and jog down the steps, ignoring the curious stares of Roman's team, and then head for the LAPD squad car parked behind the SWAT van we used to roll up on Kaleo's crib.

The kid follows behind me, reaching for his handcuffs.

"If you think you're putting those on me, you're going to be sorely disappointed," I tell him before popping open the door to his patrol unit and climbing into the backseat. "I'm into the kinky shit, but not with you, dude. My girl is the only one who gets to tie my sexy ass up."

Laughter ripples around the yard. Carrot Top's face turns red. He mutters something under his breath but drops his hand from his duty belt, leaving the handcuffs where they are.

"I'll call Ames," Roman calls out to me before Carrot Top slams the door closed.

"You know," I muse, looking around once he climbs in the driver's side, "I figured I'd see the cage from this side of the zoo long before now." I've seen more than my fair share of squad cars, but somehow, I've never actually had the displeasure of riding in the back.

"Maybe you shouldn't talk," he says, making it sound more like a question than a statement.

"Settle down. I'm not saying I did it," I mutter, even though I did actually do the shit I'm being hauled in to discuss. "I'm just saying, I grew up poor, leading an MC. I expected to see the back of a police car a long time ago."

Had it not been for January, I'm sure I probably would have, but I kept my nose as clean as possible so I wouldn't disappoint her or have to leave her. Not that it mattered much in the long run since I'm pretty sure I managed to destroy us both, but I tried like hell to make her proud of me.

"You from around here?" I ask the kid. "Shit. I don't even know your name."

"Alex Stanton. Officer Stanton."

"Officer Stanton, you from around here?" I tip my head back against the seat and close my eyes as we make our way through the neighborhood, headed toward the local precinct with Hernandez following behind in an unmarked Tahoe. It's barely after noon, but it feels later. We've been sifting through Kaleo's house for the last hour. He's no cleaner now than he was back then. The fucker still lives like a pig. No pun intended.

"I grew up in West Hills."

"Damn," I chuckle, not surprised Stanton grew up where boys like him are the right kind of white…the kind that has money in the bank and parents with connections. "How'd you get assigned to this beat?"

He shrugs instead of answering.

"No offense, but this neighborhood is going to eat you alive," I mutter, shaking my head.

"Like it did you?" he asks.

Is that what happened to me? Maybe. Maybe that's what always happens to kids in places like this. We're all paddling the same goddamn boat around here.

"Nah," I decide, kicking my feet up on the bench seat and getting comfortable. I'm too tired to function, but I don't think sleep is in my immediate future. Call me crazy, but I don't think LAPD would be cool with me asking for a nap break like this is kindergarten and I'm tired of playing with the other kids. "This neighborhood didn't chew me up and spit me out. It's still choking on my fucking bones."

The kid snorts like he thinks I'm being funny, but I'm not. I may have fled seven years ago, but I never really left. Mentally and emotionally, I've been here the whole damn time, trapped like every other motherfucker inside the invisible lines that make up South Central. It just took me a little longer than most to figure that shit out. It took me a little bit longer to come to terms with it. Funny thing though…I don't regret being stuck here. So long as January is here, I'll never regret it.

By the time we get to the station fifteen minutes later, I've decided the kid isn't half bad. He's still too fucking green to be working this neighborhood, but he has a good head on his shoulders. The job will probably grind that ambition and positive attitude right out of him, but in another life, I could have been just like the poor son of a bitch. If, you know, I wasn't a murderer and worse.

"Kincaid," Hernandez says once they've got me settled in an interview room. Like most interview rooms, this one is complete shit. The floors are scraped to hell, it's stuffy, and the table is about two good pushes from collapsing. The room is clean, though, almost like the guys who call this station home actually give enough of a shit to slap some Pine-sol on the floor and run a mop through it every few days.

"Hernandez."

He drops a case file onto the table in front of him and then straddles a chair. He eyes me for a minute like he's trying to get a read on me. Octavio Hernandez isn't sure what to make of me. I don't think he likes that much.

Sucks for him, though, because I'm not even sure what to make of myself most days, and I've lived with my sexy ass for twenty-nine years. If I haven't figured myself out by now, I don't think an hour or two in this room will do it for him, either.

It frustrates me that he's trying. Most people don't bother. They see what I want them to see and move along. Not Hernandez though. He's peeling back layers with those eyes like I'm Shrek and he's Donkey.

"Let's get this over with," I mutter and kick back in my chair, taking a power position. Nobody does chill like a teenage gangbanger. They perfected that shit decades ago, and I was a quick study.

"We received a tip that you were involved in the murders of three members of the Southside Diablos seven years ago," he says, cutting to the chase.

"Good ole' Curtis Kaleo," I say with a chuckle, giving nothing away. "That motherfucker never did know when he was beaten. I'm guessing since I'm here, you actually believe his bullshit."

Hernandez cocks a brow but doesn't acknowledge that Kaleo's the one who passed along their tip or that he believes him. I know the drill, though. You don't pull cops into interview rooms without a damn good reason…and Curtis Kaleo isn't exactly a reliable witness. Hernandez has something else on me.

"Where were you the night of February 3 rd , 2017?"

"No clue," I admit, leaning my forearms on the table. "My girl kicked me to the curb at some point that week. I spent a few days stumbling around this fine city like a lost puppy. Don't know where the fuck I was or what day it was until about three days after that."

"Can anyone confirm that?"

"Nah, but Nazario Leyva didn't know what to make of my stupid ass when he had to tell me the date on February 7 th ," I say. It wasn't exactly a proud moment in my life. But I don't actually know what day I killed those motherfuckers. I never cared enough to find out.

"Were you aware that Adams, Adcock, and Cortez were suspects in the murders of Titan and Jana James?"

"Nope. Last I heard, Detective Whitten was too busy stressing me to actually find out who murdered Titan and Jana. Matter of fact, the day January kicked my ass to the curb, he was on my doorstep, asking me the same bullshit they'd already asked me," I confess, holding his gaze. "I believe I told him to go fuck himself and get off my goddamn lawn."

Something like amusement rolls through Hernandez's gaze before that hard-ass mask snaps back into place. "Do you remember breaking into Curtis Kaleo's house?"

"Nope," I say, only half lying. Truth is…I don't remember much from that night. I know what I did, but I don't remember the particulars. As far as I'm concerned, I did what I set out to do, and then I walked away. Kinda like that Rehab song. My girl hated me, I was choking on my own guilt, and I was done letting people like Kaleo and the Diablos destroy innocent people. I had no fucks left to give. So I did what I had to do, and then I stepped away.

I've done what I've had to do ever since because someone had to do it. Most cops do the best they can with what they've got, but it's not enough. And cops like Detective Whitten damn sure weren't going to get their hands dirty.

"Do you recognize this?" Hernandez asks and slides a piece of paper across to me.

I glance down, studying it for a moment. It's a crime scene photo of a receipt for a little over six thousand dollars. My chest aches at the sight of it. I have to fight to keep from pressing my hand to my heart to try to rub away the ache.

"Yeah," I mutter and then clear my throat roughly. "I recognize it."

The day before Jana and Titan's funeral, I found Titan's drug money and the evidence he'd compiled against Kaleo. I took all the money and donated it to a gang prevention program. January wasn't ever going to touch it, and I didn't need it. I figured the best thing to do with it was to give it to someone who might actually be able to make a difference with it.

"The receipt was located in Adcock's backyard," he tells me.

Fuck. I don't even remember having the damn thing on me that night.

"Whitten was shit as a detective," Hernandez says softly. "He never even attempted to find out who made the donation. No one around the program now remembers who came in to donate back then, but they keep pretty detailed records. Whoever made this donation did so anonymously, in memory of Titan James. Seems strange to me that the Diablos who killed him would make a donation to gang prevention in his honor."

I stare at him, keeping my expression impassive.

"I'm guessing you're the one who made that donation."

"Never denied it, but feel free to check my bank statements. I'm sure you'll find them enlightening."

"Care to explain how the receipt ended up in Adcock's backyard?"

"Not a clue," I say, still only half lying. Maybe I had it on me and dropped it. "Maybe Kaleo planted the shit. Maybe Disney birds picked it up and carried it there. Who the fuck knows?"

"Hire a lawyer, Kincaid," Hernandez suggests, keeping his voice soft. He actually sounds like he feels sorry for me, sorry that he has to do this. Swear to God, I'm surrounded by good guys. "You're a good cop. I don't have anything against you, but I'm not Whitten. I can't just let this go and look the other way. If I find out you were the one who killed them, you'll be charged with three counts of capital murder."

"I'll do that," I lie. I'm not hiring a lawyer. I'm not going on the defensive. If they nail my ass to the wall for this, so be it. I knew it was a risk back then, and I accepted it. That hasn't changed. But if I go down for this, I'm not going down alone. I'll drag Kaleo with me, kicking and screaming the whole goddamn way.

"You good?" Roman asks me two hours later, eyeing me from the driver's side of his truck as he drives me back toward Ma Lucia's. A thousand questions roll through his eyes and then parade across his face, but he doesn't ask them.

"I'm straight." My leg bounces up and down, giving away my lie. Truth is, I'm real fucking worried Hernandez is going to take me down for this. It's what I deserve, but I'm not exactly sure how I'm supposed to take care of my girl from inside a prison cell.

I made a promise to her, and I plan to keep it.

"I need a favor."

"Talk to me," he says instantly.

"If I go down for this shit, I need you to make sure January is taken care of," I mutter, looking everywhere but at him. I'm not good at asking for favors. It's not something I do often.

"I'll make sure she's looked after," he promises.

"I'm a millionaire."

He snorts and shakes his head, an amused smile twitching at his lips. "You think I didn't already know that?"

"You never brought it up."

"Not my business what you do with your own goddamn money." He shoots me a look that tells me he's not lying. He genuinely doesn't give a shit if I'm the poor son of a bitch everyone thinks I am or not. Makes me wonder who else in our circle knows about the money and just doesn't care.

Growing up, I was na?ve. I assumed if people knew, it'd change things or make me like the grandparents I never knew. Now, I see things a little differently. Tristan has a trust fund of his own but never let it change him. Hell, if anything, he works harder than anyone else. It's not money that changes people. It's greed. And that's one thing I've never felt about anything except January.

"She's stubborn as hell and will fight you on it the whole goddamn way, but if I go down for this, the money is hers. All the paperwork is in order. Make sure she gets it."

"You aren't going down for this," Roman practically growls at me, pegging me with a hard glare. "Not fucking happening, Kincaid. You aren't a killer."

"You clearly haven't seen my personnel file," I snort, ignoring my phone as it buzzes in my pocket. It's been blowing up all day, but I haven't answered. It's Ames, and I don't know what I'm going to say to him when he asks me if I did this shit.

"Fuck that," Roman snaps. "You think you're the only one who's killed someone in the line of duty? My file is about as long and storied as yours. You and I aren't normal cops dealing with normal fucking criminals. We deal with the worst of the worst—the people who poison everything around them and feel nothing. The way I see it, you did what you had to do to get home at the end of the day."

"Not always," I murmur. "Sometimes I did what the fuck I wanted to do."

"Two sides of the same shield," he tosses back at me, pulling to a stop at an intersection near the elementary school where January works.

My eyes immediately turn in that direction like I can see her in there or something. I can't though. I haven't set eyes on her in over a week and it's slowly driving me out of my mind. I just need to see her so I know she's okay. I'll give her space for as long as I can stand it, but I need to know she's not torturing herself with guilt that doesn't belong to her.

"Karma is a bitch for some of these motherfuckers," Roman murmurs as he pulls off. "The three who murdered Jana and Titan James deserve to rot in hell for what they did. You though? Different fucking story, Kincaid. You may think you're some monster, but you've saved more people in seven years than most cops could in two lifetimes. And we both know you did it to keep some other family from going through what your girl went through because of Adams, Adcock, Cortez, and Curtis Kaleo." The way he puts all their names together makes it pretty clear he knows a hell of a lot more about my past than he's let on.

"How much do you know?" I ask him, grinding my palm against my chest like always. You'd think I'd have learned by now that it doesn't make shit hurt less. You'd also think I'd know not to confess my sins to another cop, especially one like Roman, bound by duty and obligation and his own sense of responsibility…but I want to confess anyway, lay all my sins out so they stop weighing so goddamn heavily on me.

"Enough," he says, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

"How long have you known?"

"Since Curtis Kaleo hit my radar about six years ago." He turns onto my street, and we creep past the park.

The grass is green and inviting. The equipment is still in working order. January's worked her ass off keeping trash off this street. I'm proud as hell of her for it. She thinks she isn't strong, but she's fierce when it comes to defending what's hers. She always has been.

"He kept trying to get into the gun game," Roman says, "but no one would deal with him. He's a fucking moron, and everyone knows it. He went running to Bennie Bones, offering to trade him girls for guns."

"That shady motherfucker," I growl, pissed he was back in the game that soon after I left. I should have been checking in on him, making sure he was playing by the rules.

"Said he needed firepower in case the Diablos came after him for some shit that went down," Roman continues like I didn't say anything. "He was convinced they were going to kill him, but they never even spared him a second glance. I did some digging, found out enough to convince me to stop fucking looking."

"Why?"

"Like I said, some people get what the fuck is coming to them," he mutters. "You were already doing your thing in Seattle, taking down people like the Diablos and Kaleo. Seemed to me justice was served."

I open my mouth and then close it, losing what I was going to say when my gaze falls on January's house. She's home.

Mariah's car is in the driveway. They're standing beside it, talking. January looks good. She's dressed in a pair of jeans and a red t-shirt, her hair pulled up in a ponytail. She doesn't see me at first. I stare at her, too greedy to move my eyes away. She looks like an angel, so fucking perfect.

My chest pulses, and my cock stirs. Christ, I miss her. I just want to hold her. Kiss her. Never fucking let her go ever again. But I can't do that. Not yet. Not until I know whether or not I'm going to prison for murder. Until then, I have to keep my promise and keep my distance.

She turns like she feels my gaze on her. Our eyes lock, those bright emerald eyes stripping me bare. She appears stronger, less fragile. Like maybe she's been facing some demons of her own and has finally realized she's always been strong enough to do it.

I'm so goddamn in love with her that it borders on obsessive. I don't even care, though. For her, I'll gladly be a lovesick puppy. I'll follow her anywhere, anytime. All she has to do is crook her finger, and I'm hers. I always have been. I'm pretty fucking certain I always will be.

Not yet, I remind myself. Not yet.

By some miracle, I manage to tear my gaze from hers. As soon as she's no longer in my sights, I feel cold and adrift. She's always been the sun, anchoring me in ways I still don't understand.

Yeah, I miss her like crazy.

"Don't do anything stupid, Kincaid," Roman urges me when he pulls to a stop in front of Ma Lucia's house. "You aren't going down for this. Just trust me, and don't do anything you can't take back."

"Okay," I agree easily enough. I don't plan on doing anything stupid. If I go down for this, it certainly won't be because I was stupid enough to stroll into Hernandez's office and confess. They're going to have to work for it if they want my head on a pike because my girl is standing not even ten yards away, and there's no fucking way I'm willingly going anywhere she isn't.

That's just not gonna fucking happen.