Where the hell is Brown Shirt Guy?
“The team is here,” Reinaldo’s voice came through Bull’s earpiece. “So are the police. They’re on their way up.”
Right on time. He was getting tired of this cat and mouse game.
A thick arm slid around his neck from behind before he had a chance to respond.
Bull threw his head back with force. The hold around his neck loosened but didn’t release. He used his height advantage and bent forward, raising Mr. Brown Shirt off his feet.
The grip around his neck tightened.
Bull let out a roar, slamming back against a rooftop HVAC unit on one side and then the other, finally shaking the man off him and onto the ground. A quick reflection of light caught his attention as the man lunged toward him. Bull bowed his body just in time to avoid the first slice of the blade. The man swiped his arm in the air, left, and then right, up, and then down.
Bull swung a punch, avoiding each swipe of the blade. The punch landed smack in the middle of the man’s face, but the swinging didn’t stop.
Mr. Brown Shirt sneered, his grin bloody. Gritting his teeth, the man threw his body forward with a yell and enough force to knock Bull off his feet.
Color me impressed.
“Bull!” He recognized the detective’s voice, but it was too distant to make a difference. Bull twisted as Brown Shirt sliced through the air again with the blade. A flash of searing heat—maybe two—cut his arm but he refused to let it slow him down.
Bull kicked out and then hooked the heel of his boot back into Brown Shirt’s knee. The man fell but didn’t slow, quickly jumping off the ground and launching forward again. Bull threw a punch and then another while blocking a series of swings to his midsection. Brown Shirt did the same while still holding his knife in his grip. Another swing and then a slice.
Bull sharply inhaled as the blade finally made contact with his torso.
“Freeze,” Mick yelled with his gun trained on Brown Shirt. “Drop the knife and put your hands in the air.”
Brown Shirt stilled, pitching his knife to the side, sneering at Bull with a death glare as the detective grabbed the man’s hands and cuffed them behind his back.
Bull kept his gaze on the man, refusing to be the first to flinch.
Mick’s partner arrived and escorted Brown Shirt Guy off the roof toward the stairwell, bookended by a pair of uniformed officers.
Bull waited until the man was out of sight before releasing a deep breath. There wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to show an ounce of pain until that prick was gone. He bent forward, pressing his side with a wince.
“You’re bleeding.”
“I knew there was a reason you made detective.” He closed his eyes, pain spreading through his body as the adrenaline faded. A shower and an ice pack…maybe two…sounded good right about now.
“We’ve got an ambo downstairs. Let them take a look at you.”
It hurt to nod.
“Thanks for making things easier and not killing anyone.”
“You’re welcome,” Bull said.
Mick planted his hands on his hips, his expression pinched. He looked over to the half dozen uniformed officers escorting the cuffed men downstairs. “I’m guessing you could have banked a nice bonus tonight had you killed these men threatening Daddy’s Little Girl.”
Bull huffed out a pained breath. His client wasn’t an angel and would have easily paid an extra hundred grand for every dead target who had dared threaten his precious daughter. “I will neither confirm nor deny.”
“Smart-ass. Sit still. I don’t want you bleeding out. It’ll add more paperwork.”
“I’m feeling the love.”
Mick grabbed his radio and called down to one of the uniformed officers, requesting a paramedic to come up.
Bull blew out a tired breath. “My client is leaving the country in two days and I’m done. Please don’t tell me I’m going to get stuck here because of your paperwork.” He closed his eyes and winced when Mick patted him on the shoulder.
“Your client has diplomatic immunity. When he leaves, he leaves. I’m guessing you might have to wait a bit until you’re cleared to fly if that cut’s deep. Otherwise, I don’t see a reason you need to stay in town.”
He grunted his approval.
After this three-month assignment, he was ready to get back home. He just wished there was someone there waiting for him.
Ben jolted up in bed and looked to each side. He breathed a sigh of relief, recognizing the meticulously painted walls and clean blinds on the windows. He slid his hand under the pillow and retrieved his phone. Scowling, he swiped at the screen and realized he had forgotten to set his alarm.
Dammit.
First day at HH and he had slept through breakfast. His stomach wasn’t going to forgive him. One thing he remembered from his first stay at the house, Matt and Julian stuck to a schedule. And he’d just blown his chance at having his first home-cooked meal in years. He sighed. He missed Matt’s pancakes.
He missed a lot of things.
He rolled out of bed and made his way to the bathroom. After getting the basics out of the way, he fished through his duffel bag and pulled out a fresh shirt and pair of jeans. Finally dressed, he slid the phone into his back pocket and headed downstairs.
The lingering smell of bacon wafted in the air as another memory blindsided him. He stopped and glanced to his left at the living room, remembering the time when Shaw knelt on the floor and repaired his stuffed bunny, sewing together bits and pieces of fabric scraps until his bunny was whole again. He blew out a shaky breath. He wished it were that easy to piece himself together again.
He resumed his walk downstairs. The living room was pretty much the same but he hadn’t had much of a chance the night before to see if anything else had changed. Walking into the kitchen, a hint of a smile tugged at his lips as he followed the familiar line of cabinets against the wall opposite him. The kitchen had that U shape he remembered, starting with the entrance where he stood and hooking around to his left where the appliances resided and Matt did most of the cooking. The short wall section to his left that separated both sides of the kitchen remained the same, but the countertop and cabinets had all gotten a face-lift, likely from Julian’s need to ensure the house was perfect and welcoming. The dining table still sat to his right but was newer and larger. The big dry-erase board hanging on the right wall was new. A list of names set in a grid with the days of the week seemed to outline the daily tasks and responsibilities of each resident. He could handle that. The peace of having structure settled him and lessened the chance he would screw something up.
With a heavy sigh, he stared at the messy kitchen table, a clear sign he had just missed the meal. The single clean space had probably been for him. He groaned as his stomach tightened in protest. Used flatware rested on empty dishes and crumpled napkins were tossed haphazardly on the table.
He stacked the used dishes to help clean up the mess just as Julian walked out from around the kitchen U, holding two breakfast plates—one with scrambled eggs and bacon, the other with a short stack of pancakes.
Ben’s mouth salivated as Julian set the plates on the table’s empty space and pulled out the chair. “Sit,” he signed. “You need to eat.”
“I remember the schedule. I know I missed breakfast,” Ben responded, frowning with each motion of his hands. He looked away for a moment at the steaming food. He hadn’t eaten anything since the morning of his release the day before. And the house food slopped onto his paper plate for dinner last night hadn’t looked any tastier than the prison menu he had pushed down his throat for two years.