Witness to Passion (Entangled Ignite) (Guarding Her Body) by Naima Simone Read Free Book Online Page B

Shane said, returning the friendly pound. “We’re good.”
    Releasing him, Tristan ran his dark green gaze over Shane’s face. “As good as it is to see you, somehow I doubt this is a how-the-hell-are-you? visit. What’s up?”
    “Jonah Michaels,” Shane stated, getting right to the point. He didn’t have time to beat around the bush. In the hour since he’d followed Fallon to her job and left her under Maddox’s watchful eye, a relentless itch had settled between his shoulder blades. The sense of urgency hadn’t abated but had grown more insistent. He couldn’t explain the feeling, but he didn’t question it, either. It’d saved his ass too often to count both in Afghanistan and on the job here in Boston.
    A frown creased Tristan’s brow. “Jonah Michaels,” he repeated. His eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking me about him? What do you know?”
    “I know a couple of his boys nearly killed Fallon last night.”
    A cold mask dropped over his friend’s features, and in that instant, he transformed from best friend to hardened cop. “Where?” he quietly demanded.
    “Her apartment. They were lying in wait for her to arrive home.” Shane relayed what’d occurred the night before.
    “Shit. Where are these two now? Why didn’t you call the police?” Tristan snapped.
    “Because we handled it.” A small, nasty smile curved his lips as he recalled the early morning phone call from Ciaran and Khalil.
    After some…persuasion, the two assholes had spilled everything they knew. Which admittedly, hadn’t been much. Low in the pecking order, they’d been told to take care of Fallon and make it seem like a mugging gone bad. Nothing more. Shane silently snorted. That assignment had been an epic fail, and in a couple of hours, those two would find themselves with room and board courtesy of the Boston PD.
    “You. Handled. It,” Tristan bit out. “You had no business ‘handling it.’ You’re not the cops. Are they alive?”
    “They’re alive.” Damn, he was the second person to ask him that. What? Did he and Fallon believe he’d devolved into a bloodthirsty savage? He snorted. “All we did was transport them to a secure location to ask them some questions.”
    “And?” Tristan pressed.
    “And nothing.” Truth. The two thugs were low-level gang members following orders and hoping to gain more status by killing the woman responsible for their leader being locked up. Shane cocked his head, a burgeoning anger simmering in his chest and rising like the mercury in a thermometer. “You don’t seem surprised to hear Michaels’s and Fallon’s names linked. Why is that?” he asked, his tone as deadly soft as Tristan’s.
    A pause. “Because I’m the lead detective on the case.”
    You can’t punch him. You can’t punch him. He’s not just your friend but the police . Screw it. Shane crowded into Tristan’s personal space, his chest bumping the other man’s. “You mean to tell me you’ve known all along that Fallon was in danger, and you didn’t think to mention it to me?”
    “Back off,” Tristan snarled, fire leaping in his eyes. “We offered to place her in a safe house, but she refused. And since Michaels was locked up and her identity kept under wraps, we didn’t force the issue. Besides, you know damn well I couldn’t tell you. It was— is —a police matter. Only a few of us were aware of her name, and the fewer people, the better chance she remained anonymous.”
    Logic didn’t cool the rage seething inside him. “Well, that ship has not only sailed but been blown to hell and back. Still, it begs the question,” Shane continued, unease skulking through his veins and sending the itch between his shoulders into a full-out rash, “why are you being so forthcoming now when you’ve been close-lipped for the past three months?”
    Tristan shifted back a couple a steps and dragged a hand over his short, auburn hair, glancing over his shoulder as if ensuring no one overheard him.