Cop vs. Capo: Hitman vs. Hitman, #4

By Cari Z and L.A. Witt

Wherever August Morrison and Ricardo Torralba go, chaos is sure to follow. The authors certainly know this, since their "standalone book" has now turned into a series with no end in sight, because…UGH. These two. We give up.

Anyway.

Detective David Chandler had no clue what he was getting into when he and his partner decided they were going to nail August for murder. They didn't realize it was one of the few murders August didn't commit, or that their homicide investigation would lead them into the middle of a mob war.

Cavalcante underboss Pedro Silva knew asking August and Ricardo for help was a terrible idea. Just mentioning their names is bad for Pedro's blood pressure. Owing them a favor? Oh Lord. He still asked, though, because he was out of options, but he can't say he didn't know he'd regret it.

Neither man expected things to blow up this badly.

Now they're both on the run from the mafia, the cops, and everyone in between… except for August and Ricardo. On one hand, that means they have two expert assassins in their corner. On the other, it means they have the biggest troll on the planet heckling them at every turn. And sticking them in a safehouse together. With only one bed.

And if August or Ricardo make one more comment about how Dave and Pedro should just hook up already…


CW: combat PTSD, alcoholism, on-page violence, discussion of abuse of a sex worker

 

Cop vs. Capo is the fourth book in the Hitman vs. Hitman M/M romantic suspense series. Fans of L.J. Hayward and Alice Winters will love this spinoff featuring a grizzled mafia boss on the run with the detective who's been after him for years. As with the previous books in the series: Come for the enemies to lovers, stay for the feels. And explosions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: GallagherWitt
• Release date: May 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9781642301373

Book preview

Chapter 1

Pedro Silva needed a drink.

That wasn’t, in and of itself, an unusual state of affairs. There were a lot of demons in his brain that could only be silenced by something severely alcoholic, and only a promise he’d made to his ex-wife kept him from diving into a bottle like he wanted to on a daily basis.

Tonight, however, the impulse to drown in booze was exceptionally strong, and not just because he was concussed enough to crave the numbness of oblivion.

You cannot be serious. Detective David Chandler glared across the rustic cabin’s cramped living room at August and Ricardo. With a sweeping gesture that spoke of both fury and frustration, he indicated the tiny cabin in which the four of them were standing. "This is your safehouse."

Well, August said with a hint of a smirk, it’s technically your safehouse, at least for the time being.

Chandler’s eyes narrowed. August’s smirk intensified.

Ricardo, to his credit, was at least trying not to look amused. Listen, it’s not ideal, and hopefully it’s not long term. But it’s remote, off-the-grid, and the last place anyone is going to look for either of you.

Chandler’s glare slid toward Pedro, who was leaning against the counter dividing the living room from the even tinier kitchen. "Either of—wait, we’re both staying here?"

Pedro cringed, fully expecting August to chime in about how it would give them the opportunity to fuck. There was no way August hadn’t heard Ricardo making comments to that effect, and it would not be beneath him to build on them, and Pedro found himself rethinking his recent decision to drop his years’ old pledge to shoot Ricardo on sight.

But, perhaps sensing that Chandler was in even less of a mental state to handle snark than Pedro was right then, August just said, If shit goes south and we need to move you, it’ll be a lot easier for the two of us to get to the two of you if you’re in the same place. Keeping an eye on two separate safehouses… He shook his head. This probably isn’t ideal, but it’s the best option we could come up with.

The answer startled Pedro, who had wondered more than once if August was capable of taking anything seriously. Chandler seemed to have the same reaction—he stared at the billionaire for a moment as if waiting for the snark to drop.

When it didn’t, Chandler sighed, shoulders sinking. All right. Fine. He rubbed the back of his neck. Is the place at least stocked with booze?

Pedro’s stomach turned to lead. Oh God. Trapped in a tiny mountain cabin with this cop and a cache of booze?

Please say no, he silently begged August and Ricardo. For the love of Christ, please say no.

Oh, yes! Tons! August chirped, and he went around behind the counter on which Pedro was leaning. Pedro pinched the bridge of his nose as a cabinet squeaked open and glass started rattling. Let’s see, there’s… oh, good, I did leave that bottle of scotch here. It’s Laphraoig, so it’s good shit. And then there’s—

What about the necessities? Pedro broke in, dropping his hand to his side and turning a plaintive look on Ricardo. Food? Burner phones?

My partner’s on a slab in the morgue. Ice crackled along the edges of Chandler’s words as he brushed past Pedro into the kitchen. "Alcohol is a necessity."

Pedro exhaled. Great. Stuck in a remote cabin with a grieving cop, a throbbing head, and a cache of liquor he wouldn’t be able to forget about, all while the Cavalcantes, the Vaccaros, the cops, and at least one (likely two) drug cartels wanted both of their heads. This was going to be fun.

Come on. Ricardo gestured for him to follow him outside. I’ll show you where everything is.

Grateful for an excuse to step away from Chandler, August, and all that booze, Pedro followed without a word.

Outside, night had fallen, though floodlights illuminated the SUV and the yard encased by the thick forest. The Shenandoah Mountains were eerily silent. He had to admit that was one advantage to this place—it was so damn quiet, they’d hear anyone coming from a mile away.

We’ll bring you both some clothes tomorrow, Ricardo told him on the way around the side of the house. More food, too. There’s enough to tide you both over for at least a few days, but we’ll have more before then. He turned around and looked Pedro up and down. You and I, we’re close to the same size, so what’s in the house should fit. Chandler, too.

Pedro grunted in acknowledgment. Something told him the safehouse wardrobe didn’t include the kinds of high-end suits and designer shirts he preferred, but he could accept the practicality of wearing less than stylish clothing over having a well-dressed corpse.

Ricardo took him to a small shed attached to the side of the house. In it was a chest freezer and a few shelves of canned goods, bottled water, and whatever else anyone needed to give the place that doomsday prepper ambiance. The refrigerator and freezer inside are stocked too. I’ve checked for bugs and mice every few months, so everything in the cabinets and out here should be fine.

Bugs and mice. Lovely.

It’s a cabin in the woods. Ricardo shrugged as he closed the shed. Could be worse.

Oh yeah? How? Moose getting into things?

Not this far south. Ricardo snapped the padlock shut and handed Pedro the key. Bears could be a problem, though.

Pedro cocked a brow. Bears. I see.

Ricardo met his gaze. No, I’m serious. This place gets black bears. He gestured at the woods surrounding the house, pierced only by the leaf-littered dirt driveway that had brought them here. Make sure the doors are locked and you don’t leave any food outside, including trash, and you’ll be fine.

Pedro blinked. Bears. Of course there were bears. Why wouldn’t there be bears? He sighed. Anything else I should be worried about?

Raccoons. They get into everything. Do not leave the sliding glass door unlocked, or you’ll wake up to half a dozen of them in the kitchen.

For fuck’s sake, Pedro muttered. He had no idea if Ricardo was trolling him right then. The man had a poker face like no other, and he could deadpan jokes as smoothly as he could issue bland promises of brutal murder. That, and Pedro was so fucking tired, concussed, and wrung out today…

Fine. He’d keep the sliding glass door locked. Safer that way anyway, raccoons or not.

Ricardo also showed him a stash of burner phones in a drawer in the bedroom, along with chargers and some extra batteries. Pedro didn’t hear much of what he said. Burner phones weren’t exactly a complex topic, but Pedro was too fixated on the realization that he’d only seen three doors up here—the bathroom, a linen closet, and the bedroom—and the downstairs consisted of a living room and a kitchen. Nothing else.

Silva? Ricardo asked.

Pedro shook himself, which didn’t help the throbbing in his head. Sorry. I, uh… He gestured at the hallway. Is this… Is this the entire house?

Ricardo furrowed his brow as he slid the drawer shut. Um. Yes?

So it’s… Pedro exhaled, letting his shoulders sag. You know, I thought that boyfriend of yours was joking about us sharing a bed.

Ricardo again seemed to put in some effort to hide his amusement. No. No, he wasn’t joking. In fact, he looked a little apologetic—a little—as he half-shrugged. We have other safehouses with more rooms, but they’re too close to civilization.

Pedro glared at him as hard as his pounding head would allow.

Ricardo chuckled and motioned toward the stairs. The couch in the living room isn’t that bad.

Well, there was that. Pedro wasn’t thrilled at the prospect, but he’d slept in worse places and in warzones. Fine. It’ll work. What about a vehicle?

We can get you one. It’ll be tomorrow at the earliest, especially making sure we’re not followed.

When you say ‘get us one,’ do you mean you’re going to steal one?

Buying one involves paperwork. A stolen car with stolen plates… Ricardo trailed off with an unrepentant shrug.

Pedro couldn’t argue. He wasn’t even sure if he could’ve on a normal day, but tonight, his brain wasn’t running on enough cylinders to debate logistics with Ricardo Torralba. All right. Okay. Whatever you and August… He waved a hand. Then he met his longtime rival’s gaze. And… thanks. I’d say I owe you two a few favors now.

We’ll settle up when everything quiets down. Ricardo chewed his lip. This could take a while. There’s no telling how bad things are at home. Not until we get back and see what’s going on.

Pedro nodded. He’d accepted that already. The one sure thing right now was that this was going to take time to sort out. A lot of time. He didn’t like the idea of going into hiding, but it was the only way to be sure no one took his or Chandler’s head off before they had a chance to tell the powers that be what the fuck was going on. For God knew how long, Pedro was stuck here. In the woods. With a goddamned cop. A goddamned grieving cop who was going to drown his sorrows the way Pedro desperately wished he could.

Son of a bitch. I’m in hell.

August and Ricardo made sure Chandler and Pedro knew where everything was, including a ridiculous amount and variety of weapons stashed all over the cabin. Chandler seemed a little conflicted over it—he was probably tallying up dozens of weapons charges in his brain—but he didn’t say anything. Pedro was comforted by the abundance of, as August called them, highly illegal and fully-loaded Easter eggs hidden in every nook and cranny. If someone made a move on them, at least they wouldn’t be sitting ducks.

I wouldn’t recommend shooting at the bears, Ricardo said on their way out the door. You’ll probably just piss them off.

Then they were gone, and Chandler turned a puzzled (and slightly inebriated) look on Pedro. Gesturing at the door with his glass, he asked, Did he say bears?

He said bears. Pedro sighed and eased his aching, throbbing carcass onto the couch where one of them would be sleeping tonight. Raccoons and Vaccaros and bears, oh my.

Chandler choked on his drink. Then he headed for the kitchen, likely for a refill. Pedro closed his eyes and listened to the ice cubes clinking in the glass. The faint splash of liquid being poured over them. Footsteps coming back into the living room. The creak of the armchair as he sat down.

Pedro turned to him. Chandler sipped his drink, gaze fixed on nothing. He didn’t seem too drunk, though he was definitely in no condition to drive. There. That was reason enough for Pedro to stay away from that tempting liquor. Not just to keep that promise to Angela—the one promise he’d made to her that he was determined to keep—but to make sure someone in this house was sober enough to drive if the need arose.

Not that they had a vehicle at their disposal.

Damn.

If I’m going to drink, I should do it tonight when I can’t go anywhere anyway.

But I’m not going to, damn it. I’m not.

So what happens next? Chandler sounded more tired than anything now.

Pedro sighed. Now, we keep our heads down, and… And he didn’t have much more than that. Wait? See what August and Ricardo found out after they’d put their heads above the parapet?

It occurred to him that, between the two of them, he likely had the clearer mind right now. His concussion was mild according to August’s brother-in-law, who was apparently a doctor and had met them in a remote parking lot to make sure Pedro wasn’t going to drop dead from a brain bleed. The doctor had looked in worse shape than Pedro felt, and Pedro thought he heard someone say that Paschal had just been released from the hospital himself. He hadn’t seemed thrilled to see August, but he hadn’t argued with him either. The woman with them had. Paschal’s wife and August’s sister, Pedro thought. She’d been pissed about… fuck, what wasn’t she pissed about? And he sympathized. He’d been pretty livid in the moment too. Now he was just exhausted.

August, he needs a CT, the doctor had insisted. He lost consciousness for a brief period, and… I mean, look, I don’t see any symptoms indicative of an impending hemorrhage, but that doesn’t mean—

It’ll have to do for now, August had said, and in moments, everyone was back on the road. Pedro wasn’t sure how to feel about that. August and Ricardo had both seemed genuinely concerned about him dropping dead, so maybe he did need that CT?

On the other hand, brain bleeds happened pretty quick, didn’t they? Like maybe a sharp headache, and then nothing? Because nothing sounded kind of good right about then.

God. He’d gone completely fatalist. Maybe he needed that drink after all. Angela would forgive him under these circumstances, right?

Oh, but as much as he’d had his head knocked around today, most of his memory was clear. Including the tears running down his ex-wife’s face when she’d told him how much it was killing her to watch him kill himself.

Fuck. He couldn’t get drunk this one time. This one fucking time.

But maybe it was just as well. Because as he’d been telling himself before his train of thought had jumped onto the Concussion Derailment Express, he suspected he was closer to coherent and focused tonight than the other person in this cramped cabin. Chandler had lost his partner. He’d had to tell the man’s wife her husband wasn’t coming home. And cops tended to be close to their partners. Losing him… Well, Pedro had lost some of his fellow soldiers overseas. Men he’d known for a few months at best. He still had nightmares about that to this day. He knew through his various channels with the police department that Chandler and Rayburn had been partnered for years. Chandler probably wouldn’t be sleeping for a while.

Enjoy that part while it lasts, Pedro wanted to tell him. Because when you can sleep again, that’s when the nightmares show up.

He suppressed a shudder. And he also realized Chandler had asked what happens next, and he hadn’t given him an answer. There wasn’t much he could give him that wasn’t a half-truth or a platitude. Because what happened next was that Rayburn’s murder sank in and Chandler discovered the meaning of the word grief. Maybe he already had. Maybe he’d lost people in his past before. He was the son of a single mother, and she wasn’t listed as his emergency contact with the force, so it was entirely possible she was gone. No family to speak of. No one except the man who was his sole emergency contact—Detective Rayburn.

Pedro winced on the man’s behalf. Buckle up, Detective.

He took a deep breath. The only thing we can do tonight is get some sleep, and then see what those idiots have to say when they come back.

Chandler huffed a laugh. Those idiots, huh? He peered at Pedro over his glass. They saved our asses.

They did. But I’ve known them longer than you have, and… Pedro rolled his eyes and sighed. Trust me on this one.

Chandler just chuckled and took another drink.

They sat in silence for a long time in that tiny living room. It wasn’t companionable silence. It wasn’t particularly comfortable. At least the walls hadn’t started closing in. The claustrophobia hadn’t kicked in to let Pedro know what tight confines he was stuck in for the time being.

Not yet.

And maybe they’d stay that way for a while if Pedro ignored the fact that, even with red eyes and a thousand-yard stare, Detective Chandler was unreasonably attractive. Dark eyes. Light brown hair that was long in the way plainclothes cops sometimes let their hair grow because they didn’t have to look quite as neat as uniformed officers. A day’s worth of scruff framing lips that had no business being that mesmerizing even when he was rolling a sip of liquor around in his mouth.

Ricardo’s words fluttered through Pedro’s brain: "Just blow him and get it over with."

Pedro almost swore aloud. No, he was not going to blow Chandler or fuck him or do anything like that. They were just going to keep their heads down. One would sleep in the bed. One on the couch. Safely away from each other and any attraction that might—what? No. Fuck that. Chandler was a cop who didn’t even qualify as an ally. They were two enemies who’d come to a détente of sorts and had been thrown into quasi-witness protection together.

In a cabin in the woods.

With one bed.

Fuck.

Chapter 2

Dave kind of felt like he’d been dumped into a horror movie. Cabin in the woods, no car, possibly bears, and his sole companion a man who Dave, by all rights, ought to be arresting. Leaving Pedro Silva unarrested was asking for trouble, as Cliff had pointed out to him multiple times over the past few days. Yet Dave had kept pushing back, pointing out that they needed him.

And he needs to handle the other two, he’d added, which had been the real selling point for Cliff. Neither of them wanted to be point when it came to keeping Augustus Mason and his strangely hard-to-track-down lover Ricardo Torralba in line. They had a hard enough time tracking these assholes to the gym and back.

Dave sighed and tipped his head against the ancient leather armchair, staring up at the ceiling’s dark wooden slats. Cliff had known this was trouble from the start. Not the kind of shit we want to get involved in, he’d told Dave firmly the first time they got wind of a link between Mason and Silva. Trust me.

But Dave hadn’t trusted him. He’d pushed, uncharacteristically for him, because for some reason he always wanted to push whenever Pedro Silva came up on the radar. Any case with him involved meant something big was going down. Dave couldn’t believe nothing had stuck to the man yet, and he was determined to be the person to change that. And now…

Dave rolled his head so that he was looking at Silva, who was determinedly not looking at anything. He seemed so unassuming at first, with a friendly, unremarkable face and broad shoulders, his hair just going gray around the edges, dark eyes creased with lines at the corners. He resembled exactly what he pretended to be—a middle-aged middle manager, a card-carrying member of the Better Business Bureau, someone who only involved himself in the public eye when it came to popular causes like strengthening unions and improving city infrastructure.

In retrospect, it was a brilliant disguise. The pieces that barely showed, the clues you had to know were there in order to see them properly… how could you feel the gun callouses without shaking his hand? How could you hear the authority in his voice without giving him a reason to growl? Dave had always known there was more to Silva than first met the eye, but he hadn’t known enough.

Not nearly enough.

He sighed and took another drink. Fuck it, this was really good scotch and it was on that rich, insane bastard’s tab and not his, so why not enjoy it?

This one’s for you, Cliff.

It burned on the way down, but that wasn’t what brought sudden tears to Dave’s eyes. Shit. He needed to stop or he was going to do something embarrassing soon, and this wasn’t the place for that. He needed to…he had to…

Nothing. There was nothing he could do. All his needs, all the personal and professional necessities he should be seeing to right now, the things that would keep him together, keep him sane… Those weren’t available to him. He had no idea