Swat Standoff. Lena Diaz

don’t fit in with the team,” she teased. “Banana pudding is a staple of any well-balanced diet. Especially in the South.”

      “And yet somehow I’ve survived all these years without it.” He stopped and looked around. “This is about where I first spotted the guy I ended up shooting in the second floor of the barn.”

      “Larry. The second guy, the one you caught at the river, was Tim. Mike was the third guy. I don’t think you ever saw him though.”

      He supposed he should have known the first two men’s names. Maybe she and Dillon were right, and he really wasn’t making enough of an effort to fit in. He’d really never accepted the blame for how things were going, always thinking it was everyone else’s fault that they refused to accept an outsider. The truth, as with most things, was probably somewhere in the middle.

      “Were Larry, Tim and Mike with the team when you left?”

      She put her hand on his arm, her eyes widening as she pulled him to a stop. “Mike had to leave early. But Larry and Tim were still there. I didn’t even think about calling them. If one of them answers, maybe they know where the guys went. Or, heck, maybe for some reason, they all piled into Tim and Larry’s trucks and went to a bar somewhere, and it’s too loud to hear their phones. With the wives out of town, it makes sense. They’re having a guys’ night out. Why didn’t I think about that? Maybe Tim and Larry are the designated drivers. I bet we’re going to feel really silly in about one minute. I just know it.”

      “I’m all for silly. It beats the alternative.”

      She checked her watch and winced. “If they’re not in a bar, if they’re back at Larry or Tim’s house, sleeping off a binge, someone’s not going to be happy about being woken up at one in the morning. But no way am I waiting until a decent hour to call. Which unlucky soul gets woken up? Larry or Tim?”

      “I think Tim suffered enough being shot twice. I vote for Larry.”

      “Larry it is.” After tucking her flashlight under her arm, she scrolled through her contact list and punched the send button.

      A few seconds later, she crossed her fingers in the air and spoke into the phone. “Larry? Yeah, hi. This is Detective Waters. Donna, that’s right. Hey, I’m really sorry to call so late, but it’s important. What? Oh, yes. I’m fine. Sorry. You?”

      She made an impatient rolling motion with her hand as she waited for Larry to finish whatever he was babbling about.

      Blake didn’t wait. If it was taking this long to get anything out of Larry, and she had to call Tim, too, he could at least check the barn out, since it was visible through a gap in the trees up ahead. He motioned toward the gap, and she gave him a helpless gesture, pointing at the phone. He smiled and headed toward the barn, sweeping his flashlight back and forth.

      The dilapidated structure was just as he remembered it—a sagging collection of warped gray boards, which were partially covered in vines that should have given up the ghost a long time ago. He figured it was similar to many other old structures throughout the Smokies, like those found near Cades Cove. It was a relic of another century. But unlike its cousins that were protected because they were in the Smoky Mountains National Park, this one was clearly suffering from a lack of historical society preservation.

      If the building could talk, he imagined it would have some amazing stories to tell, the same way old men liked to rock on front porches, reliving the glory days with anyone who would listen. He smiled at that thought and pulled one of the large double doors open.

      And froze.

      Footsteps sounded behind him.

      “Blake? Larry wasn’t out in a bar with them. And Tim—”

      He whirled around to stop her, but it was too late. She’d already seen inside. Her eyes widened with horror at what was visible in the beam of her flashlight.

      “Oh, no. No, no, no. Oh, please, God. No.”

      She dropped to her knees beside the bullet-riddled body of SWAT officer and fellow detective Randy Carter.

       Chapter Six

      Donna tried to peel Blake’s hands off her arms. He was crouched beside her and wouldn’t let her touch Randy.

      “Let me go,” she pleaded. “I have to check for a pulse. Maybe we can still save him.”

      “It’s way too late for that. The blood’s already starting to dry. He’s gone.” He gave her a light shake. “Donna, look in my eyes, not at him. Trust me, you don’t want this to be the last image of your friend burned into your brain. You don’t want to remember him this way for the rest of your life.”

      She was still trying to pry his fingers off her, but the anguish in his voice cut through her own haze of grief and despair and made her pause. Part of her had known that Randy was beyond help. But part of her was in denial, or had been. Blake’s tone had snapped that second part back to reality.

      She shifted her gaze to his. The hollowness and pain in his dark eyes nearly stole her breath. What was he remembering from his own past? What kind of tragedy would put those shadows in someone’s eyes? Without even thinking about it, she cupped his cheek.

      He ducked away, forcing her to drop her hand.

      “Come on,” he said, his voice gentle but strained, all signs of whatever he’d been thinking about erased from his expression. “Let’s make that call to the station.”

      “But—”

      “But nothing. Randy was your friend. You shouldn’t be here, cop or not. The best way to help him now is to leave the crime scene to others to process.”

      He didn’t give her a chance to argue. He scooped her up in his arms and carried her out of the barn. She was so surprised that she didn’t think to protest until he was lowering her back to standing.

      She smoothed her shirt down and straightened her shoulders. “I’m a police officer first, a woman second. And I’ve spent half of my life working hard to ensure that I’m treated with the same respect that my male peers are treated. So don’t you dare ever try to carry me like that again unless we’re lovers and you’re carrying me to bed. Got it?”

      His eyes widened, and she could feel her face flaming over her poor choice of words. But in that one moment, with him carrying her from a crime scene, all her struggles, the fights to be treated with respect in a profession dominated by men, came boiling to the surface. She would grieve, bitterly, for her longtime friend later. But right now she needed to be the best cop—the best detective—she could be so they could catch the killer and find the rest of the team.