Make Me Up (Killer Style 3)

Knight laughed, and the sound came out more like a honk thanks to the gauze wrapped around the thug’s broken nose. “That was a lucky shot.” He pulled out a black handgun. “But it looks like I’ll get the lucky shot today.”

Everything slowed down, and ice solidified in Cam’s veins. It wasn’t the first time he’d faced down the business end of a gun, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. He’d be damned if he met his fate at the hands of a two-bit thug with a shitty tattoo.

His mind was so busy going through attack options, it took him a second to realize Knight wasn’t pointing the gun at him. He was aiming it at something behind Cam. He forced himself to turn around, and his heart stuttered to a stop.

Drea stood just inside the doorway.

Knight chuckled. “Ladies first.”

…

The tattooed thug’s words were as loud as a thunder crack in her ears. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away from him. Her entire world shrank to the muzzle of that black gun. A shot rang out.

A flash of black crossed her vision. Pain exploded in her side, and she was knocked to the ground, barely able to breathe. Cam lay on top of her for an instant, then jumped to his feet. He grabbed the pewter globe on Fergus’s entryway table, whirled around, and winged it at Knight.

The orb hit the thug square on his bandaged nose. He went down without so much as an anguished groan.

Cam kneeled down and gathered Drea in his arms. “You okay?”

“I am now.” She laid her cheek against his chest, felt the furious beat of his heart, and realized she really was okay. Finally.

Footsteps thundered behind her, and the room filled with cops in full tactical gear.

“You two up against the wall,” one officer yelled.

The next twenty minutes were a flurry of paramedics, pat downs, and confusion until Reggie came in looking tired and bedraggled. A few days ago, his hound dog look would have puffed her up with schadenfreude. What a change a few days made. She glanced over at Cam being questioned by another officer and wondered just how much things really had changed.

Paramedics, escorted by a uniformed cop who looked all of twelve, wheeled Diamond Tommy’s unconscious muscle out of the apartment.

“All right. I want them over here,” Reggie called out.

The officer next to her grabbed her arm and guided her to the kitchen, where she stood between Cam and Fergus.

“I’m done chasing you all over this fucking city.” The detective slumped down into one of the chairs. “I don’t know what you’ve got as far as this case goes, but I want it all. Now.”

“Diamond Tommy Houston is running a blackmail scheme,” Cam said, disgust heavy in his voice. “The butler here is involved up to his neck in shady business and murder.”

Fergus inspected his shoes. She didn’t know whether to smack him silly or cry over his stubborn silence.

“You have to tell them Fergus, or we’ll all be dead.” She begged as if her life depended on it, which it did. “Diamond Tommy isn’t going to give up as long as we’re walking around with his little secret in our pockets.”

Blood dripped from the corner of Fergus’s mouth. One eye was swollen shut and his shoulders sagged. “I want immunity.”

Drea squeezed Cam’s hand, and an almost giddy excitement swept through her. They were going to make it out of this.

“I can talk to the prosecutor, but I can’t promise anything,” Reggie countered.

A pathetic sigh shook his shoulders. “I never dealt with Diamond Tommy directly—only Isaiah Knight. He was the one who told me if I didn’t shut up Mrs. Orton, he’d silence me for good.”

Reggie pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket and flipped it open on the table. “And the blackmail?”

Fergus shook his head and immediately winced. “Knight was my contact. I told him everything.”

“Do you have anything to back up your claims?” Reggie continued to scribble notes.

“Yes.” The butler didn’t move his head this time. “I have a safe deposit box at the Harbor City Bank and Trust. I kept copies of texts, e-mails, reports, records of deposits to my offshore account. I collected everything from the other employees at Grayson Domestic, made copies for myself and gave the originals to Mr. Knight. What he did with them, I don’t know.”

“And your decision to pin Mrs. Orton’s murder on Miss Sanford?” Reggie asked.