Designed for Murder (Killer Style 4)

He stopped in front of her door and held out his hand. “Keys.”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

“You hired me for my expertise, so let me do my job.”

She rolled her eyes but handed over her keys.

The metal slid silently into the lock, so much easier than when he’d tried to unlock his own front door last night. He turned the knob with more force than necessary.

Focus, ’Los

. You can’t fail again because you can’t stop thinking with your dick instead of your brain.

The door swung inward, but only halfway. One quick glance inside and he knew why. A chair had been tossed to the side and blocked the door’s path.

Glad he’d thought ahead, he drew the nine millimeter from his shoulder holster. “Go to a neighbor’s.”

“Why?”

“Do you have to argue about everything?” he asked in a harsh whisper.

She smirked unapologetically at him. “Yes.”

“He could still be here.” And with all the time he was having to spend arguing with her, the mugger had plenty of time to arm himself with a kitchen knife or something else to replace the gun he’d lost in the alley.

Mika squeezed through the small space between Carlos and the doorjamb. He hustled in after her and found her pulling a two-and-a-half-foot-long curved Japanese tachi sword from a display rack on the wall. “I sure hope he’s still here.”

He scanned the loft, glad for the first time that it was one open, airy space. “We don’t have time—”

“Exactly.” She didn’t even bother to look his way. “So are you going to lead this sweep or am I?”

“This isn’t Magic Battledome.” Her impulsiveness could get them both hurt. He knew the truth of that a little too well. “This isn’t make believe.”

“No shit. It’s my life.” The sword sat light in her grip, and her stance spoke of her mastery with the weapon. “So let’s do this.”

Due to the small loft’s design, the sweep took about two minutes. Unless Mika’s attacker from the alley was clinging Spiderman-style to the ceiling, he wasn’t here. But he had been. The formerly neat interior was trashed.

“What. The. Fuck.” A familiar voice sighed.

Carlos whipped around, gun at the ready.

Reggie stood in the doorway, his own gun drawn and angled down so the muzzle pointed at the floor. He picked his way through the debris-strewn floor of Mika’s loft. “This guy is starting to really piss me off.”

“Welcome to the club,” Mika said as she hung her sword back up on the display case.

Reggie used his radio to call in the break-in, then returned to Carlos and Mika. “Okay, bring me up to speed.”

He and Mika did, interrupting each other and finishing each other’s sentences like this was their normal routine. By the time they’d reached the end, Reggie looked a few decades older and Carlos had popped his knuckles so many times they were starting to ache—even on the hand he hadn’t used to punch Mika’s attacker.

“You have somewhere else you can stay?” the detective asked.

“My studio space,” said Mika. “I signed the lease a few weeks ago. I moved my materials in there, but I haven’t unpacked. I haven’t even told anyone I have the space.”

“Sounds perfect.” Reggie nodded. “You’re staying with her, ’Los?”

“Of course,” he said without hesitation.

“No,” she said at the same time.