Hard as It Gets Read Online Free PDF Page B

to the window. Clouds were rolling in, blotting out the remains of the evening sun.
    Too quiet. Too still. Too alone.
    Story of his mothereffing life these days. Goddamnit, he missed the guys. The ones who’d died and the ones who hadn’t.
    Nope. Not gonna go there.
    Becca . . .
    Rixey was up and out of the chair before he’d even thought to move.
    In his bedroom, he suited up just as he had the night before, a whole lotta déjà vu filling the space between his ears.
    Only one way to un-fuck his head. He had to put boots on the ground and eyes on the subject. Shit. And he needed more intel, which meant he was gonna have to talk to her this time.
    Keys, phone, and jacket in hand, he made for the living room.
    His brother walked in the apartment door just as Rixey reached for it. Jeremy’s gaze dropped to the holstered gun under Nick’s left arm, and he frowned. “You’re going out serving tonight?”
    “Nah,” Nick said. He usually had sufficient turnaround time on a service to avoid working at night, when things were more likely to get dicey quick. “Got something else.”
    “Something that requires your gun?” Jeremy’s pierced eyebrow arched.
    Not wanting to open up an inquisition about what he was doing—especially since even he didn’t really know—Nick ignored the question. “All done downstairs?” Rixey asked. Hard Ink didn’t usually close ’til nine.
    Jeremy shook his head, longish hair tumbling into his eyes. He swept it back. “Grabbing some food before my next appointment. And that wasn’t subtle at all, Mr. Spook.”
    Hand on the metal door latch, Rixey smirked. “Never a spook. That’s CIA.”
    “Whatevs.” Jeremy tugged the fridge door open, casting a yellow glow over that corner of the kitchen.
    Rixey stepped out into the hall.
    “Hey, Nick?” He ducked back in. Jer looked at him over the top of the refrigerator door, an unusually serious expression on his face. “Be careful.”
    The civilian version of Don’t get shot . Roger that. “Yup,” Nick said and closed the door behind him.
    As he turned onto Becca’s street for the second time in as many nights, he was struck by how close she lived to Hard Ink. Between the crosstown jaunt from the wrong Rebecca Merritt’s house and his brain-dead trip home the previous night, the observation hadn’t really sunk in before. Twelve minutes driving time was all that separated them.
    Oh, no, it was a helluva lot more than that physical distance.
    Lucky for him, the parking space directly across from Becca’s place was open. He eased the Charger into it, not worrying about stealth since he planned to talk to her. Somewhere nearby, a dog unleashed a series of high-pitched barks as Rixey shrugged into his jacket, cut across the street, and climbed onto the little stoop.
    He knocked—three solid raps. From the porch, he surveyed the street in both directions. The last gray light of day clung to the sky, casting shadows in front of buildings and under trees. He turned his gaze back to Becca’s house. Flowerless rectangular planters hung from the sills of both front windows. The door was solid wood, black with white trim, and had a Schlage dead bolt, he noted with approval.
    Rixey knocked again and looked down. The Baltimore Sun sat rolled up in a clear plastic wrapper on the little porch’s edge. Not home yet?
    Fine. He’d wait.
    Back in the Charger, he pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts. Without any real intention, he swiped the entry for Shane McCallan. Once, one of his closest friends. After they’d all been discharged and sent packing to the real world, his former teammate had called and emailed more times than Rixey wanted to remember. He’d been too buried in his own physical and emotional morass, though, and had ignored every one of them. Shit. Now it felt like too much time had passed. A pansy-ass excuse if he’d ever heard one. Coward.
    As the second in command, though, Rixey should’ve known.