Joe Petrecelli drew in a lungful of cold December air and checked his watch. He’d run the two miles from his condo in fourteen minutes. Not his personal best, but decent and a strong indication he’d max the annual PT test again this year. Unless some dirtbag perpetrator decided to do a little target practice with Joe in his sights.
Seven years on the force, and he’d been lucky. A flesh wound to the shoulder and a broken collarbone. Not bad, when he considered the odds.
Joe had the holiday weekend off, but he’d be back at his desk by 9:00 a.m. after he jogged home to shower and change out of his sweats. Not that anyone expected him at work.
He glanced up and down the street. Quiet. No traffic. He’d been right. Lazarus House was a safe hideaway. God willing, the Exterminators wouldn’t find their man here. Not that the Lord had much control over the gang of extortionists ravaging Joe’s part of the metro area. Still, he wouldn’t turn down help no matter where it originated, even from a God he’d shoved aside years ago.
Pulling open the front door and stepping into the warm interior, Joe made a mental note to call headquarters for more security. The nursing home was out of the way, but he wouldn’t underestimate the Exterminators.
One nurse on duty. Joe flashed his badge, and the woman pointed him toward the side corridor, not realizing he’d been there in the middle of the night when the patient transported over from Grady.
Joe’s footsteps sounded on the polished hardwood. He spied Phil Rogers, pulling duty at the end of the hallway. Glancing beyond the cop to room 10, Joe’s gut tightened. Theo’s room.
He still couldn’t forgive his older brother. Joe had been thirteen when their parents died. He’d expected Theo—twenty-one and living on his own—to be his guardian. Instead, Theo had moved on with his life of carousing and drunkenness and abandoned Joe when he’d needed his brother the most. Forced into foster care, Joe had vowed to cut all ties with his self-centered sibling, and to this day, the two brothers had never met face-to-face again.
Acknowledging the officer on duty, Joe stepped into the patient’s room and closed the door behind him. Movement caught his eye. He turned.
A woman stood in the shadows. White lab coat, swarm of black curls, alabaster skin. Troubled blue eyes captured his gaze.
Joe’s gut tightened and warmth flooded over him. He spied the tourniquet in her clenched fist and tried to override the conflicting signals pinging against his heart.
Glancing at the patient, he asked, “Is the kid okay?”
“He…he appears stable.” She stepped into the light.
Pretty, in a fresh, wholesome way, the woman stared back at him with an intensity that made his world shift.
Instantly aware of his own less-than-stellar appearance, he glanced down at his sweats, wishing he’d already showered and shaved. Needing to introduce himself, Joe pulled out the leather case he carried on his waistband in lieu of a wallet and held out his badge and police identification.
“Atlanta PD,” he said, as if that would explain the reason he’d ventured into the patient’s room.
She took the case.
A name tag hung from her lab coat. Callie Evans, MT(ASCP). Magnolia Medical.
Atlanta’s state-of-the-art laboratory complex. Joe hadn’t expected their techs to work at the home.
“Joseph X. Petrecelli.” She read his name off the ID then glanced up as if seeing him clearly for the first time. Her eyes appeared almost turquoise.
“Joseph Xavier Petrecelli?” Her forehead wrinkled. “You’re Theo’s baby brother?”
Now Joe was the one to furrow his brow.
“Room ten,” she continued. “Three doors down on the left.”
Before Joe could respond, a scuffle sounded in the hallway. Joe hesitated for a second too long. The door crashed open.
Callie’s eyes widened and the badge fell from her fingers and slipped under the bed.
Joe stepped in front of her. His hand searched for the service revolver he’d left back at his condo. Stupid mistake. Dropping to the floor, he pulled Callie down with him and reached for the .38 strapped to his calf.
Not fast enough.
Three men stormed into the room armed with automatics. Black ski masks covered their faces. Latex gloves encased their hands.
The tallest of the three kicked Joe beneath the eye.
“Augh!” Thrown off balance, the gun flew from his grasp. Joe grabbed the bedrail, pulled himself upright and lunged, crashing into the torso of the lanky guy who belonged to the boot. He followed with a fist to the guy’s gut.
Callie screamed. The shortest of the three men wrapped his arm across her chest and jammed an automatic to her head.
“Let her go.” Joe went for the gun.
A stocky guy slammed the butt of his pistol into Joe’s neck.
Callie’s mouth opened, but the ringing in his ears muffled her screams. Joe gasped for air.
The tall guy twisted Joe’s arms behind his back, forcing him upright and opening his airway.
The patient’s eyes blinked open. He struggled to rise off the bed.
“No,” Joe warned, earning a knee to the small of his back. He doubled over, his face close to the kid’s ear. “Don’t move!”
Hands jerked Joe away.
The stocky perpetrator appeared in charge. He pointed his gun at Callie. “Rocky needs medical care. You come with us.”
“What about the jock?” the short gunman asked. Deep voice, Latino accent.
The leader turned his eyes—piercing slits in the otherwise faceless mask—on Joe.
“Kill him.”