Mine to Keep (Mine 2)

And Drake drove the knife into her heart. Anna Jean gasped. Her eyes widened. She turned her head to look at him.

His face was ashen. His eyes appeared sunken. “I didn’t…miss this time,” he told her.

Anna Jean’s lips trembled.

The nine-one-one operator came on the line.

Skye spilled out the emergency details as quickly as she could. When she looked back over at Anna Jean, the woman’s body was ominously still.

And Drake was slumped over her.

Skye scrambled to them. She rolled Drake over. Checked his pulse. Faint, thready, but he was still alive.

“Hurry,” she whispered into the phone. “Please, hurry.”

She ran back to Claire.

“T-tell me she’s dead,” Claire whispered.

If Anna Jean wasn’t dead yet, she would be soon. And will Claire be gone, too?

The phone in Skye’s hands vibrated.

Another call was coming in. Skye was still on the line with the nine-one-one operator, but she glanced at the screen and saw the note for—

Unknown caller. The message flashed across the phone’s screen.

The phone wasn’t hers. It had just been tossed on the table.

Was it Claire’s?

Or Anna Jean’s?

Anna Jean’s voice echoed through Skye’s mind. I did have a partner. And he’s waiting for a phone call from me. One that tells him Skye is dead.

Had the partner got tired of waiting?

Skye crouched next to Claire. She put one hand on the wound, keeping up the pressure. Her left hand held the phone. Her finger slid across the phone’s screen as she took the call. “H-hello?” Her voice was a rasp. Lower than normal.

Static, then. “Is she dead?”

A tear slid down Skye’s cheek because she knew that voice.

Frantic, she ended the call and immediately tried to get Trace on the line.

***

Trace bounded up the stairs. When he reached Reese’s apartment, he didn’t pause.

He kicked in the damn door.

Trace ran inside with his weapon ready, but he stopped cold at the sight of the body before him.

Detective Alex Griffin lay on the floor, face-down. Reese stood above him, a horrified look on his face. “I had no choice,” Reese muttered. “No choice.”

There was no weapon in Reese’s hands. No weapon near Alex, either.

“He did it,” Reese said. “He came here, with a knife, trying to kill me.” Reese lifted his head. “Boss, dammit, why?”

Trace’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He didn’t answer it. Not yet. Carefully, he bent next to Alex. The cop’s blond hair was matted with blood, and Alex’s pulse was weak, but steady. “He’s still alive. An ambulance is on the way.”

Reese hadn’t moved.

Trace looked up at him. “There was a shooter here.”

Reese nodded frantically. “Him. He had me tied up, I got loose, we fought—”

Trace’s phone kept vibrating. He rose to his feet. The gun was still in his hands. “We’ve been friends for a long time,” Trace told Reese.

Reese nodded. He rocked back on his heels. “A cop…I can’t believe…a cop…”

“I’ve trusted you with my life.” The phone stopped vibrating. “More importantly, I’ve trusted you with Skye’s life.”

Reese’s hand slid toward his waist. “You can always trust me,” he told Trace, the expression on his face stark. “I’ve got your back. You’ve got mine.”

Trace’s jaw locked. “Right now, I’m wondering what the hell you have behind your back.”

Reese’s hand stopped its slow glide toward his waist. “Boss?”

“Alex was hit from behind. His head is matted with blood—blood that’s already partly dry in his hair. If the blood had time to dry, that means he wasn’t shooting at me. You were.”