Page 2 of Proof

“‘Them blasted Americans are the ones who…’” I said, Sean Ferguson’s loud, booming voice still ringing in my ear.

“‘…started muckin’ it up when they got the two mixed up,’” Sully responded, completing the phrase.

“Where is he? Your father even know I’m here?” I asked. It was all I could do not to ask about the third member of the Ferguson family.

“Dad died last year,” Sully muttered before downing the scotch. He started pouring himself a second round without waiting for the first one to kick in.

For the first time since I’d walked down the steps of the police station, I felt something besides hate and fury. Sean Ferguson was gone. The man had been more of a father to methan my own, and I hadn’t been there as he’d been laid to rest. God, the last time I’d seen him had been when I’d been led out of the courtroom in shackles after the four guilty verdicts had been handed down. Despite the judge’s warning for silence, the audience had burst out into applause and cheers.

That was the memory of me that he’d taken to the grave with him; not any of the ones where he’d welcomed me into his family as a son.

As I tried to absorb the fact that the man who’d taught me what a real father was supposed to be like was dead, I looked around the bare, badly painted white walls of Sully’s office. I could see dozens of spackled-over holes. The only thing hanging on the wall closest to his desk was a framed certificate. From where I was standing, it looked like a business license.

Targes Executive Protection.

I didn’t need to look at the certificate to know that was the name of the business. I’d seen the same words gleaming as fine as the Ashby family silverware above the reception desk in the lobby. That space, compared to Sully’s office, had been pristine and looked like not a penny had been spared to turn it into the same kind of welcome lobbies the big guys in his industry had. The Targes was there too.

A flash of the night Sully and I had come up with the name of the company we’d planned to build together the second we were old enough flashed through my mind. I hadn’t had a clue what a targe was and had told him he was nuts because it’d sounded ridiculous.

Then he’d told me what it meant. What it had meant to his family.

A targe was a shield Scottish warriors had used in battle. Sully had always hoped he’d be able to use the family’s ancestral symbol in any endeavor he pursued. It was a symbol of who his parents had been and the battles the Ferguson family hadfaced from the moment Sean Ferguson had met his future bride and they had left behind the rural highlands of Scotland so they could travel thousands of miles to the country where everyone supposedly had the same shot at living the great American dream.

Building a business together may have been a naive dream between two kids who’d watched a few too many television shows about detectives and such, but Sully was clearly going for it.

“Executive protection,” I muttered. “Please tell me my father isn’t one of your clients.”

I’d stopped the timer in my head because hearing about Sean Ferguson’s death had rattled me.

Everyone knew my father never would have done business with a fledgling company like Targes. Even if things had been different and his own son had been part of the business, Chandler Ashby III always went with the best and most expensive of everything. Cars, clothes, women.

The comment did what I’d intended it to do, even though I had no idea why I was making the effort considering the circumstances.

It had been meant to make Sully smile, which he may or may not have done since his mouth only moved for a split second.

“Have you talked to your—?” Sully asked after a few moments.

“No,” I said simply.

I waited for Sully to ask me why I hadn’t been in contact with my family from the moment they’d hired the attorney who’d gotten me out of prison on a technicality.

The question never made it from Sully’s lips because the sound of approaching footsteps had me instinctively reaching for the gun at my back and pointing it at the door. What if something had changed in my case and the cops were coming totake me back to prison? Would I let them take me back? If not, how would I stop it? The weight of the weapon in my hand held the answer.

You’ll never seehimagain.

The taunting voice that occasionally managed to push through my defenses was a cruel distraction, and yet its reminder of what I’d truly be giving up if I chose to let the cops take me out in a hail of bullets was enough to sway me. It didn’t matter that the chances of seeinghimagain were slim to none. Thankfully, it wasn’t the SWAT team I was expecting. No, the young man who appeared in the doorway couldn’t have looked less like a cop if he’d tried.

He was tall as a reed and nearly as thin as one too.

“Mr. Ferguson, sir, I came in early to—” the guy began before he saw me. The kid, who barely looked legal and had probably been stuffed into every school locker he’d ever had the misfortune of standing next to, froze and dropped the papers in his hand.

Sully was already stepping between me and the kid before I even had a chance to lower the gun. My heart felt like it was going to beat right out of my chest, and it was all I could do not to puke up the shitty diner food on the floor of Sully’s office. I didn’t need to wait to hear Sully’s command or plea or whatever to put the weapon away. I was so caught off guard by my own behavior that I barely paid attention to anything else.

Despite what all of California and the rest of the country believed, I didn’t kill innocent people. Hell, the only time I’d taken lives had been while I’d been a Marine.

“You okay, Mikey?” I heard Sully ask, his voice uncharacteristically soft.

“I’m fine, Mr. Ferguson,” the young man responded crisply.

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