“The FBI is working closely with local law enforcement, and they figure it’s the work of the same assassin,” Striker added. “I heard they anticipate he’ll go after someone on the jury next.”
“Which is why I called the three of you here. There was a woman on the jury who I want protected. It’s personal.”
“Personal?” Striker asked, lifting a brow. He knew Roland dated off and on, but he’d never been serious with anyone. He was always quick to say that his wife, Becca, had been his one and only love.
“Yes, personal. She’s a family member.”
The room got quiet. That statement was even more baffling since, as far as the three of them knew, Roland didn’t have any family...at least not anymore. They were all aware of his history. He’d been a cop, who’d discovered some of his fellow officers on the take. Before he could blow the whistle he’d been framed and sent to prison for fifteen years. Becca had refused to accept his fate and worked hard to get him a new trial. He served three years before finally leaving prison but not before the dirty cops murdered Roland’s wife. All the cops involved had eventually been brought to justice and charged with the death of Becca Summers, in addition to other crimes.
“You said she’s family?” Striker asked, looking confused.
“Yes, although I say that loosely since we’ve never officially met. I know who she is, but she doesn’t know I even exist.” Roland then closed his eyes, and Striker knew he had to be in pain.
“Man, you need to rest,” Quasar spoke up. “You can cover this with us another time.”
Roland’s eyes flashed back open. “No, we need to talk now. I need one of you protecting her right away.”
Nobody said anything for a minute and then Striker asked, “What relation is she to you, man?”
“My niece. To make a long story short, years ago my mom got involved with a married man. He broke things off when his wife found out about the affair but not before I was conceived. I always knew the identity of my father. I also knew about his other two, older sons, although they didn’t know about me. I guess you can say I was the old man’s secret.
“One day after I’d left for college, I got a call from my mother letting me know the old man was dead but he’d left me something in his will.”
Striker didn’t say anything, thinking that at least Roland’s old man had done right by him in the end. To this day, his own poor excuse of a father hadn’t even acknowledged his existence. “That’s when your two brothers found out about you?” he asked.
“Yes. Their mother found out about me, as well. She turned out to be a real bitch. Even tried blocking what Connelly had left for me in the will. But she couldn’t. The old man evidently had anticipated her making such a move and made sure the will was ironclad. He gave me enough to finish college without taking out student loans with a little left over.”
“Good for him,” Quasar said. “What about your brothers? How did they react to finding out about you?”
“The eldest acted like a dickhead,” Roland said without pause. “The other one’s reaction was just the opposite. His name was Murdock and he reached out to me afterward. I would hear from him from time to time. He would call to see how I was doing.”
Roland didn’t say anything for a minute, his face showing he was struggling with strong emotions. “Murdock is the one who gave Becca the money to hire a private investigator to reopen my case. I never got the chance to thank him.”
“Why?” Quasar asked.
Roland drew in a deep breath and then said, “Murdock and his wife were killed weeks before my new trial began.”
“How did they die?”
“House fire. Fire department claimed faulty wiring. I never believed it but couldn’t prove otherwise. Luckily their ten-year-old daughter wasn’t home at the time. She’d been attending a sleepover at one of her friends’ houses.”
“You think those dirty cops took them out, too?” Stonewall asked.
“Yes. While I could link Becca’s death to those corrupt cops, there wasn’t enough evidence to connect Murdock’s and his wife’s deaths.”
Stonewall nodded. “What happened to the little girl after that?”
“She was raised by the other brother. Since the old lady had died by then, he became her guardian.” Roland paused a minute and then added, “He came to see me this morning.”
“Who? Your brother? The dickhead?” Quasar asked with a snort.
“Yes,” Roland said, and it was obvious he was trying not to grin. “When he walked in here it shocked the hell out of me. Unlike Murdock, he never reached out to me, and I think he even resented Murdock for doing so.”
“So what the fuck was his reason for showing up here today?” Stonewall asked. “He’d heard you’d gotten shot and wanted to show some brotherly concern?” It was apparent by Stonewall’s tone he didn’t believe that was the case.
“Umm, let me guess,” Quasar then said languidly. “He had a change of heart, especially now that his niece’s life is in danger. Now he wants your help. I assume this is the same niece you want protected.”
“Yes, to both. He’d heard I’d gotten shot and claimed he was concerned. Although he’s not as much of a dickhead as before, I sensed a little resentment is still there. But not because I’m his father’s bastard—a part of me believes he’s gotten over that.”
“What, then?” Striker asked.
“I think he blames me for Murdock’s death. He didn’t come out and say that, but he did let me know he was aware of the money Murdock gave Becca to get me a new trial and that he has similar suspicions regarding the cause of their deaths. That’s why, when he became his niece’s guardian, he sent her out of the country to attend an all-girls school with tight security in London for a few years. He didn’t bring her back to the States until after those bad cops were sent to jail.”
“So the reason he showed up today was because he thought sending you on a guilt trip would be the only way to get you to protect your niece?” Striker asked angrily. Although Roland had tried hiding it, Striker could clearly see the pain etched in his face whenever he spoke.
“Evidently. I guess it didn’t occur to him that making sure she is protected is something I’d want to do. I owe Murdock, although I don’t owe Frazier Connelly a damn thing.”
“Frazier Connelly?” Quasar said, sitting up straight in his chair. “The Frazier Connelly of Connelly Enterprises?”
“One and the same.”
Nobody said anything for a while. Then Striker asked, “Your niece—what’s her name?”
“Margo. Margo Connelly.”
“And she doesn’t know anything about you?” Stonewall asked. “Are you still the family’s well-kept secret?”
Roland nodded. “Frazier confirmed that today, and I prefer things to stay that way. If I could, I would protect her. I can’t, so I need one of you to do it for me. Hopefully, it won’t be long before the assassin that Erickson hired is apprehended.”
Striker eased out of his chair. Roland, of all people, knew that, in addition to working together, he, Quasar and Stonewall were the best of friends. They looked out for each other and watched each other’s back. And if needed they would cover Roland’s back, as well. Roland was more than just their employer—he was their close friend, mentor and the voice of reason, even when they really didn’t want one. “Stonewall is handling things at the office in your absence, and Quasar is already working a case. That leaves me. Don’t worry about a thing, Roland. I’ve got it covered. Consider it done.”
MARGO CONNELLY STARED up at her uncle. “A bodyguard? Do you really think that’s necessary, Uncle Frazier? I understand extra policemen are patrolling the streets.”
“That’s not good enough. Why should I trust a bunch of police officers?”
“Why shouldn’t you?” she countered, not for the first time wondering what her uncle had against cops.
“I have my reasons, but this isn’t about me—this is about you and your safety. I refuse to have you placed in any danger. What’s the big deal? You’ve had a bodyguard before.”
Yes, she’d had one before. Right after her parents’ deaths, when her uncle had become her guardian. He had shipped her off to London for three years. She’d reckoned he’d been trying to figure out what he, a devout bachelor, was to do with a ten-year-old. When she returned to the United States, Apollo remained her bodyguard. When she turned fourteen, she fought hard for a little personal freedom. But she’d always known the chauffeurs Uncle Frazier hired could do more than drive her to and from school. More than once she’d seen the guns they carried.
“Yes, but that was then and this is now, Uncle Frazier. I can look after myself.”
“Haven’t you been keeping up with the news?” he snapped. “Three people are dead. All three were in that courtroom with you. Erickson is making sure his threat is carried out.”
“And more than likely whoever is committing these murders will be caught before there can be another shooting. I understand the three were killed while they were away from home. I have enough paperwork to catch up on here for a while. I didn’t even leave my house today.”