Killing Fear by Allison Brennan Read Free Book Online

recognize Robin? Of course he did. Once a cop always a cop, he’d told her. “If it wasn’t for that gang initiation stunt, I’d still be a cop.”
    A beat cop in L.A., Hank had been shot as a test of gang loyalty. He’d nearly died on the street. He now walked with a limp and was missing three fingers on his left hand, but he could still load a magazine faster than she could with all ten fingers.
    He stared as she stepped out of her car. She tried to keep her pace light, her face calm, but the truth was she could hardly wait to hit the range and see if she’d lost her eye.
    Hank opened the door for her. “It’s been awhile.”
    She nodded, her smile genuine. For all the crap that had happened back then, she’d made a few good friends. A silver lining on a very dark cloud. “You’re looking good, Hank.”
    He pulled her into a hug, slapped her on the back, then stood back and looked at her critically. “You sure you’re good?”
    “I’m ready.”
    “Think shooting a gun is like riding a bike?”
    She smirked. “Sure do.”
    “Twenty bucks says you miss a perfect score.”
    “You’re on.”
    Hank pulled several boxes of ammo out of the cabinet and went with her into the range, leaving his assistant to man the front. Robin ran through all the safety checks, forgetting nothing.
    “When was the last time you cleaned your gun?” Hank asked.
    “The first Saturday of the month. I’ve never forgotten.”
    “Hmm.”
    “You heard?” she asked.
    “Who the hell didn’t?”
    Robin set up the target, and pushed the button to send it back. Fired. Again. Rapidly.
    She missed one.
    “Shit,” she mumbled, handing Hank a twenty.
    “You done good, girl. I didn’t think you’d still have it in you.”
    “I scored perfect last time.”
    “You’re still a great shot.”
    “Because you taught me. I owe you.”
    “You owe me nothing. I have some work to do. Why don’t you work on your technique?”
    “There’s nothing wrong with my technique,” she teased.
    He grinned, his brown eyes twinkling. “I know. I just like watching pretty women shoot guns. Stay as long as you like.”
     
    When Will learned Diaz had left a message on Robin’s machine but hadn’t spoken with her personally, he couldn’t help but worry. Will should have gone to her immediately, face-to-face. She deserved to hear about the investigation and what they knew—no matter how minimal—from him, not from someone he assigned to the task.
    He couldn’t find Robin at her new loft so he went to her club. It was closed, but when Will showed his identification, the assistant manager who was setting up for a retirement lunch told him that she was at the Solano Gun Mart. The girl scrunched up her nose in distaste, and Will wondered if she had a problem with Robin, a problem with guns, or both.
    Will glanced around the modern dance club. Minimalist with lots of sleek metal and high-end acrylic, lots of black, white, and silver. The recessed lighting appeared colorful—which would add dimension to the place when it was on. The only splashes of color were large murals hanging here and there, scenes hinting at the vibrancy of nature—bolder greens and blues in a mountain stream; vivid reds and oranges of a sunset. Deceptively simple paintings that drew the eye and the imagination.
    Robin had done well for herself. He’d followed her career from the periphery, both her business and her art. He couldn’t help himself, he wanted to make sure she was doing all right. And she was. She was living her dream: owning her own business, and next week she had her first major art show.
    Last year he had bought one of her paintings. At first glance it looked like the ocean on a hot summer day. Simple but vibrant. The few people populating the beach were like an afterthought. But he saw the detail from a distance, and realized she’d painted them, holding hands, watching a dolphin leap in the distance.
    He’d hung the painting in his living room. Every