Free Night Fever by Diana Palmer

Blair,” Kilpatrick said, and his eyes narrowed. “Let him try, if he feels lucky. He won’t be the first.”
    That was a fact. The D.A. had been the target of assassins twice, once from a gun by an angry defendant who’d been convicted by Kilpatrick’s expertise, and another time from a crazed defendant with a knife, right in court. Nobody present in the courtroom that day would ever forget the way Kilpatrick had met the knife attack. He had effortlessly parried the thrust and thrown his attacker over a table. Kilpatrick was ex-Special Forces, and as tough as they came. Berry secretly thought that his Indian ancestry didn’t hurt, either. Indians were formidable fighters. It was in the blood.
    Kilpatrick waved Dan off and he and Gus continued on their daily one-mile walk. He was fit enough, physically. He worked out at the gym weekly and played racquetball. The walk was more for Gus’s sake than his own. Gus was ten years old and he had a sedentary lifestyle. With Kilpatrick away at the office six days out of seven—and occasionally, when the calendar was loaded in court, seven out of seven—he didn’t get a lot of exercise in his fenced-in enclosure out back.
    He thought about what Dan had told him and grimaced. Blair was going to be back on the streets and gunning for him. That wasn’t surprising. Neither was the information about the Harris boys. A war over drug turf was just what he needed right now, with the Cullen boy in the middle. He remembered Cullen’s father—a surly, uncooperative man with cold eyes. Incredible, that he could have fathered a woman like Rebecca, with her warm heart and soft eyes. Even more incredible that he could have deserted her like that. He shook his dark head. One way or another, her life stood to get worse before it got better—especially with a brother like hers. He tugged at Gus’s lead and they turned back toward home.
    Â 
    I T WAS MIDNIGHT on Sunday, and Clay Cullen still wasn’t home. He and the Harris boys were talking money, big money, and he was in the clouds over how much he was going to make.
    â€œIt’s easy,” Son told him carelessly. “All you have to do is give a little away to some of the wealthier kids. They’ll get a taste of it and then they’ll pay anything for it. Simple.”
    â€œYeah, but how do I find the right ones? How do I pick kids who won’t turn me in?” Clay asked.
    â€œYou’ve got a kid brother in school at Curry Station Elementary. Ask him. We might even give him a cut,” Son said, grinning.
    Clay felt uneasy about that, but he didn’t say so. The thought of all that easy money made him giddy. Francine had started paying attention to him since he’d become friendly with her cousins the Harrises. Francine, with her pretty black hair and sultry blue eyes, who could have her pick of the seniors. Clay liked her a lot—enough to do anything to get her to notice him. Drugs weren’t that bad, he told himself. After all, people who used would get the stuff from somebody else if not from him. If only he didn’t feel so guilty….
    â€œI’ll ask Mack tomorrow,” Clay promised.
    Son’s small eyes narrowed. “Just one thing. Make sure your sister doesn’t find out. She works for a bunch of lawyers, and the D.A.’s in the same building.”
    â€œBecky won’t find out,” Clay assured him.
    â€œOkay. See you tomorrow.”
    Clay got out of the car. He’d kept his nose clean tonight so Becky wouldn’t get suspicious. He had to keep her in the dark. That shouldn’t be too hard, he reasoned. She loved him. That made her vulnerable.
    The next morning, while Becky was upstairs dressing for work, Clay cornered Mack.
    â€œYou want to make some spending money?” he asked the younger boy with a calculating look.
    â€œHow?” Mack asked.
    â€œAny of your friends do drugs?” Clay