Harlequin Intrigue April 2021--Box Set 2 of 2 Carol Ericson (short books to read TXT) 📖

Since moving to Alaska, she’d become a loner. It was a trait many of her citizens shared, for myriad reasons. For her, it was partly because of her job. A chief of police didn’t fraternize with colleagues or civilians too much. Especially not a female chief of police who was new to Alaska and wanted to be taken seriously.

The rest of it, of course, was Juan. Although people in Desparre usually let you keep your secrets—because they often had their own they didn’t want to open up about—real friendship dictated honesty. After living here for six years, Keara still wasn’t sure if she was ready for honesty.

Now she glanced around the bar, wondering if all the small decisions she’d made to isolate herself had brought her right back to where she’d started. Sinking into grief.

She needed to go home. But there was something vaguely calming about having people around her, people she didn’t know, who mostly left her alone. The bar was closer to Luna’s lone hotel than it was to downtown. She didn’t recognize anyone, and the snippets of conversation that reached her said most of these people were outsiders.

There was a group of guys in jeans and T-shirts who’d been drinking since before she’d walked through the door and already hit on her more than once. A loner at the bar drinking soda water and eyeing the hard stuff. And a couple at the other end of the bar who’d jammed their stools as close together as possible while they flirted. She’d bet a week’s pay that none of them had been in Alaska longer than a few days.

Still, they weren’t immune to what was happening here. In between lewd jokes from the group of drinkers, the alcohol-tainted conversation beside her would shift to the bombing.

“I heard a couple more died in the hospital.”

“No one else died, man. But I think one of them had to have a leg amputated because it was blown mostly off in the explosion.”

“Someone was trying to kill one of those soccer players.”

“Nah, this is terrorism. You’ll see. They’ll start hitting bigger parks next, take out more people.”

Only the two men hunkered down near the door sharing a couple of pints looked like locals. One of them periodically patted his friend’s shoulder awkwardly and glared at the out-of-towners. The guy getting the sympathy had red-rimmed eyes, ruddy cheeks and a knocked-over pile of shot glasses beside him.

She’d recognized the look as soon as she walked into the bar and chosen a seat on the opposite end of the place. Against the wall, where she could see everyone, but she tried to avoid glancing their way. One of them had lost someone they loved tonight. Keara couldn’t bear to hear about it.

She dragged her gaze away from him and tried to focus on what she needed to do next. It was after eleven, well past the time when the Luna Police Department shut down for the night. But after the bombing—even with the FBI on the case—maybe someone would still be there. She could stop by on her way home, hopefully get some real answers she could share with her officers, with her town.

Setting aside her whiskey, Keara stood. She wasn’t ready to face the drive up and down the mountain, or the emptiness of her house that she knew would feel more lonely than usual tonight. But she was still the chief of police. And she had people who needed answers.

“Hey, at least there’s only six dead,” one of the guys at the rowdy table slurred. “Could have been way worse.”

Before Keara could maneuver free of her booth, the big guy who’d lost someone he loved was up and screaming.

Then he was diving across the small bar, leading with fists and grief. His punch landed, sending the guy who’d spoken to the floor. Then the guy’s friends jumped on his attacker, and suddenly, everyone seemed to be in the fray. Even the loner at the counter grabbed an abandoned beer bottle off the bar and chucked it. The way he swayed violently when he did it told her that although he’d been drinking soda water since she’d arrived, he’d imbibed plenty of alcohol beforehand.

Only the couple near the door leaped up and ran out of the bar, away from the fight.

The bartender reached under the counter and Keara knew what was coming. She tried to get ahead of it, holding up her badge and screaming, “Police. Stop!”

But the bartender was quick, yanking his shotgun up and over the top of the bar, racking it loudly.

Keara heard it and flinched, but no one else paid any attention, not even when the bartender yelled, “Stop it or I’ll shoot!”

“Sir, put the shotgun away!” Keara yelled at him, but the bar had gotten louder.

One of the men in the group closest to her spotted her badge and yelled, “Cop!”

Then the group was shifting, a furious mob coming for her fast.

She backed up, trying to protect her weapon as she pulled out her mace and sprayed it across the group. The noxious fumes spilled back toward her, clogging her throat and making her eyes water.

The group kept coming, too drunk or unthinking.

Keara backed up another step, but then her back slammed into something protruding from the wall and there was nowhere left to go. The four men who’d been hitting on her were rushing her from one direction. The two men who’d been grieving got in the mix, too, still going for the drunken group.

She was about to get overrun by them all.

CHAPTER THREE

Twelve hospital rooms, filled with pain and fear and disbelief. Twelve victims, trying to recover from burns and deep cuts and in one case, an amputation. Twelve families, furious and scared and feeling helpless.

Jax and Patches had visited them all this evening. Some as briefly as five minutes, when the victims or the family didn’t have the energy or inclination to talk to the FBI. Others as