Johnny bit out a bitter laugh. “Dude, you’re a cop. You have to follow the rules. What the hell can you do to me?”
“Funny, I remember the last time someone told me I didn’t scare them.” Ty unbuttoned his shirtsleeve. “I was in the Navy back then. Crazy mission. Had to take out some armed insurgents that were holding a whole village hostage. My team took care of most of them, but it came down to me and one nasty son of a bitch just at the edge of town.”
Johnny’s jaw fell open as he watched Ty slowly roll up his cuff.
“Dude, what happened?”
“He used his last bullet on me. He got lucky and hit me in my shooting arm, disarming me completely.” Ty held up his hand, showing a puckered scar in the dead center of his right forearm. “Then he rushed at me with a knife.”
“Holy shit. What’d you do?”
Ty flicked his thumb and shattered the pen.
“I snapped his neck with my good hand.” He tossed the remains across the desk. “I’ll let you know when your lawyer gets here.”
Chapter Two
Morgan Kincaid didn’t claim to be the best accountant in the world. Hell, she didn’t claim to be any kind of accountant. She had many passions in life—Superman, a couple of sci-fi television shows, any movie with a robot—but numbers were not one of them.
But she could add. Or, more to the point, tell when something wasn’t adding up.
That didn’t keep her from leaning forward and squinting at the spreadsheet on her computer screen.
Strangely enough, the move didn’t make the numbers change. There was more money in the club’s bank account than there should be. Far more.
But it wasn’t just the inflated balance that had her worried. There was always the chance—slim as it was—that the bank had made a mistake somewhere along the way. There were other problems as well.
Like the record of deposits she hadn’t remembered making, or the line in the budget that said the club had made twice the amount off liquor sales last week than their inventory would allow, or the inexplicable withdrawals for reimbursements she couldn’t find receipts for.
Something was wrong. Really wrong. And the thought of what she had to do next was making Morgan sick to her stomach.
She had to talk to her brother.
Gregg Kincaid was an accountant. More importantly, he was in charge of the club’s books. So if there was a mistake then he was the one who had made it.
And Morgan was praying that it was just a mistake.
Of course, there was only one way to find out.
Morgan groaned as she stood up from behind her desk. She didn’t want to do this. She’d already fought with her brother four times this week—a new record. They hadn’t even been at each other’s throats this much when they were working on opening Kincaid’s.
Then again, maybe if they had been, Morgan wouldn’t have found herself in this awkward situation.
Morgan loved her brother. She really did. But sometimes he drove her crazy.
After being banged up by the bad job market a little over a year ago, the siblings had agreed to pool resources and go into business as partners. Morgan had always dreamed of having her own place—a little pub with lots of tables and room for people to hang out and do their own thing.
Of course, Gregg had other plans. More hip plans. And as time ticked by, Kincaid’s became less Morgan’s cozy pub and more Gregg’s ultra-modern nightclub.
Morgan knew it was her fault for not fighting him harder over the changes, but he’d always given her the sad puppy dog eyes and told her that they could always open her place next, that this was his dream, his chance to be the man he’d always dreamed of being.
As kids, neither one of them had really fit in. Not that it bothered Morgan much. Somewhere between the distinctive Kincaid schnoz and her love of all things nerdy, she’d accepted that she was never going to be voted prom queen. And that was fine. She was comfortable in her own skin.
Gregg, on the other hand, never seemed to grow into his. The truth was, Morgan worried about her brother. A lot. He always seemed to be trying to prove himself and falling into trouble along the way.
Morgan had hoped that the club’s success would change him. Would save him in a way that she’d never been able to manage.
It hadn’t. If anything it had only strengthened his need for power and approval.
And that was before he’d started hanging out with the creepy guys.
Creepy wasn’t exactly the right word. Creepy was for guys who catcalled from street corners and alleyways. These guys were scary as hell.
They’d started hanging out in the club about a month ago. Always at the same table in the back. Always dressed in the same finely-tailored black suits. Always with a wall of bodyguards between them and the rest of the club.
And Gregg was always there with them.
Any time she asked about them Gregg swore that they were just local businessmen that it would pay to network with, but Morgan wasn’t buying it. She’d seen enough Coppola movies to know what kind of businessmen they really were.