Stucco stood, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder, the other on Dawson’s.
“Let me say goodbye to my family.”
Dawson nodded.
“On condition you come out in time.”
“Deal. Now get out of here.”
Casey grabbed Stucco’s hand, still on his shoulder, and squeezed.
“I’ll see you outside in three minutes.” Casey looked at Sheila, saying nothing, his eyes conveying the pain he was feeling. He turned and walked down the hall, the door opening and a beep from the device startling them all. Dawson said nothing, just squeezed his hand, looked at Stucco’s wife and daughter grimly, then left, the door not eliciting a beep.
Stucco leaned out into the hallway and saw someone had propped the door open with a chair.
He dropped to his knees, taking the two most precious things in his life into his hands, turning their faces toward him.
“I’m so sorry this is happening,” he said, his eyes filling with tears, unable to control the pain he felt inside, his chest tightening, his stomach muscles contracting as he fought the bile that was rushing into his mouth.
His daughter looked at him, her eyes flowing tears down her cheeks as she saw her daddy cry, something she probably hadn’t seen since the day she was born. It had been the happiest day of his life, and now he would be here to see her die, something no parent should see, especially in this way.
He tousled her hair, then squeezed her cheek.
“Daddy loves you, always remember that. And I’ll see you in Heaven, okay?”
“Okay.”
Her voice, so innocent, seemed to accept his words at face value with no fear. He turned to his wife, her face red with tears, but her sobs controlled in an effort to not scare her daughter. He looked into her eyes, the eyes of the only woman he had ever loved, the woman who had helped rescue him from a life almost wasted, a life almost spent alone, who had given herself to him completely, given him the most beautiful daughter in the world, and had loved him despite all his faults and this life of danger he thrived on.
“I love you,” she said, her voice cracking.
“I love you too,” he said, kissing her for the last time. “I’m so sorry,” he gasped, his sobs taking over. “I shouldn’t have got involved.”
She shushed him.
“You wouldn’t be the man I loved if you hadn’t helped that girl. You did what was right, and that’s why I married you. You have a good heart. Never forget that.”
“Thirty seconds!” yelled Casey’s voice from outside.
“Now go, go before it’s too late,” she urged, staring into his eyes.
Stucco kissed her, placed a kiss on his little girl’s head, then walked down the hallway to the front door. Across the road he could see his entire team waiting for him, everyone else gone, urging him to hurry.
He stopped in the doorway, looked back, hearing the gentle sobs of his wife, then his daughter’s tiny voice.
“Where’s Daddy going, Mommy?”
Stucco looked at his friends, then raised his hand, and waved. He kicked the chair holding the door open, then as it slowly closed, the pneumatic door closer doing its job, he sprinted down the hallway as he heard shouts from outside. He turned into the kitchen and fell on his knees, his arms opened wide as he slid across the linoleum and into the only family he had ever known.
And as his arms enveloped them, the device beeped one last time, and tore a family apart.
Outside Stucco’s Residence, Maas Drive, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
The world was dark, hot, loud and reeked. Dawson’s body ached all over as he pushed himself up on his elbows. Fortunately he still had his EOD gear on, the only part he had removed was his helmet and visor. He looked around, shaking his head. The house was gone. Completely. It was if it had been originally made from matchsticks, everything now wood splinters and drywall dust, only the slab the house had been built on remained.
On either side the neighboring houses were heavily damaged, one in flames already, the other starting to smolder. Dawson could barely hear through the roaring in his ears, but he thought he heard sirens in the distance. He turned his head to look down the street and saw several fire trucks rushing to the scene, already holding out of range of any possible explosion.
Casey!
Casey had been the closest, having run for the door when he saw what Stucco intended. Dawson looked for him, but didn’t see him. He had chased Casey, but was too slow to stop him, the damned EOD gear bulky, and Casey having a good twenty foot head start.
A hand grabbed his shoulder as Red came into view.
“BD! You okay?” he yelled, his own face and clothes covered in dirt and debris.
Dawson nodded.
“Casey?”
Red looked behind him and nodded.
“He’s fine. Good thing he was wearing the gear.”
“Get me up,” said Dawson.
Red pulled Dawson to his feet and helped him strip out of the EOD gear, it no longer needed. Freed, he walked over to Casey who was now sitting up.
“How bad a hit did you take?” he asked.
Casey shrugged and winced.
“Mighta cracked a rib. Hurts to breathe a little.”
“EMT just pulled up,” said Atlas as the team broke to give the professionals room to work.
“Why’d he do it, BD? Why?”
Casey’s voice broke, but he maintained enough control to prevent any tears threatening to spill over from doing so.
Dawson put a hand on the man’s shoulder.
“You’ve got a wife and kid, don’t you?”
Casey nodded.
“Wouldn’t you?”
Casey closed his eyes, a single tear escaping, cleaning a path down his soiled cheek.
“Yes I would,” he whispered.
Casey was lifted onto a stretcher and hurried away by the EMTs within minutes, leaving the rest of them to mull around and watch the fire department do its job.
“What the hell is this?” asked Niner.
Dawson turned to see what had caught the attention of their Korean-American team member. Niner was walking over to a telephone pole where a single sheet of paper was tacked to it. It was conspicuous since posting labels on military property was strictly forbidden.
Niner reached forward to pull it down when Dawson finally made out the drawing on the paper.
“Wait!” he yelled, running over to the pole.
Niner stood with his hand out but frozen.
“What?”
“Don’t touch it. It’s evidence.”
“Evidence?”
The others gathered around as Dawson carefully looked at the paper and how it was attached to the pole.
“It’s rigged.”
Niner stepped back, as did the rest of the team.
“Looks like they dug a small hollow out in the post. There’s probably a pressure trigger in there. Pull that pin holding this thing in place, release the trigger, say goodbye to your head.”
Dawson gently held the bottom corners of the page down.
“Get some pictures of this, then get the bomb squad over here. They can deal with this.”
Atlas stepped forward with his phone and quickly began taking pictures of the page as Niner went to find the EOD team that had been instructed to stand down by Dawson, he and Casey instead commandeering their equipment, every bit as qualified as the men that had shown up to deal with the bomb.
“Okay, everyone back,” said Dawson as the EOD team arrived, having been holding only a few hundred feet away. Dawson explained what he thought was going on, and the team went to work. “Try to save the paper, it’s evidence.”
Dawson stepped over to the team who were all looking at the photos Atlas had taken.
“What is it?” asked Spock, his trademark eyebrow far up his forehead.
“Some sort of symbol. Looks like a rose with a cross in it. Why is that familiar?” asked Atlas.
“I don’t know
where you might have seen it before,” said Dawson as he took the phone and looked at the drawing. “But I’ve seen it once before.”
“Where?”
“Geneva.”
Chênes-Bougeries, Geneva, Switzerland
Inspector Pierre Laviolette pressed the fob, his “Rosso Red” Fiat 500 Turbo chirping pleasantly as it flashed its lights at the end of a long day.
A very long day.
His witness was dead. A freak accident. She had stepped out in front of a bus and died instantly. There were dozens of witnesses, including the girl’s own parents. There was no indication of foul play, no indication she had been murdered, no indication that slippery Lacroix was behind it at all.
She had just stepped out in front of the bus.
His heart told him it was an accident. As a devout Catholic, suicide was a sin, but he wouldn’t blame the poor girl for having given in, given in to the pressures of the case, and for having decided to end it once and for all with a simple step forward, into traffic.
And his brain told him it must have been an accident, a terrible coincidence that was life. It wouldn’t be the first time a witness had died on him from perfectly natural causes, or at least causes unrelated to the case.
He was certain it wasn’t suicide.
Not in front of her parents. Nobody would do that!
He had met the distraught Espositos. When the mention of suicide came up, it was angrily shouted down. But they had no explanation, except that perhaps she wasn’t paying attention. They had pulled surveillance tapes from the area and all they showed was a cluster of people, too thick to see many details, other than to see her surge forward into the crosswalk with the bus racing the amber light.
There was no evidence anyone had pushed her.
None.
He wished there were.
At least then he could pursue the case and try to pin a murder on the beast that was Lacroix.
But instead he had received a phone call from Lacroix’s lawyer, he was sure one of dozens, within hours of her death, asking for the charges, which hadn’t even formally been filed yet, to be withdrawn, to avoid any “embarrassment” to either side.
He had told him to “Piss off, the body isn’t even cold yet!”, or words to that affect, and slammed the phone down on its receiver. But a call from the Public Prosecutor moments later suggested he got the same phone call, and was handling it a little more delicately.
“I have no choice but to not proceed. Without her as a witness, I don’t have a case.”
“But what about the witnesses. The photographic evidence. The DNA!”
“The witnesses didn’t see the attack. Lacroix will claim it was consensual and that she was a willing participant. It will become a ‘he said, she said nothing’ trial. There’s nothing more I can do. I’m sorry.”
Laviolette had slammed the phone down on him as well.
His phone rang in his pocket as his keys hit the door. He fished it out and took the call from the office as he turned the key in his lock.
“Oui?”
“Sir! I’m so glad I reached you. There’s been a development in the case.”
“What?” asked Laviolette as he pushed open his door and stepped inside. “I’m home!” he called to his family.
“We just received a phone call from the United States. Their State Department.”
Laviolette kicked off his shoes, his aching feet sighing in relief.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Your witness, the Agent Green I think his name was, the one who attacked M. Lacroix”—Laviolette froze, his heart beginning to pound in his chest—“is dead. His wife and child, along with Agent Green, were blown up. A bomb in their house!”
But Laviolette wasn’t listening.
His usual arrival at home would solicit pounding feet from the far reaches as little legs carried little bodies to him from wherever they were, and a return call from his wife, who would usually be in the kitchen preparing dinner.
But none of that had happened.
In fact, there was no evidence of any dinner being cooked. No sounds from the kitchen, no delicious aromas wafting through the air.
There was nothing but silence.
“Monsieur? Are you there?”
The phone was still pressed to his ear, but forgotten.
He stepped deeper into the house, toward the kitchen, the floorboards creaking slightly as he made his way, a sound he was so used to it didn’t annoy him anymore. But the day they had rented the place, needing something bigger, it had bothered him to no end. But with their fourth child on the way, they had needed more space, especially with the fourth being a boy. A boy couldn’t be holed up with his three sisters in one room, not as he got older.
He entered the kitchen and found nothing. No evidence of a dinner being prepared, no evidence of a dinner even begun.
“Sir! Can you hear me? Are you alright?”
He left the kitchen, and entered the living room and cried out, dropping to his knees, the phone clattering to the floor. All the furniture had been pushed to the edges, leaving the center of the room empty, and in the middle lay his family.
Dead.
His wife was in the middle, her arms stretched out to the sides, her legs tightly together, like Jesus on a cross. And his four gorgeous children encircled her, his two youngest, only three and five, at the top, their feet touching his wife’s hands, their hands her head, their bodies stretched out as if to complete the arcs of a circle. Their eldest, seven and eight years old, completed the bottom of the circle surrounding his wife.
And in the middle, surrounding his wife, was a pool of blood so large, so complete, it gave the entire scene an almost artistic look, the shimmering red pool appearing as if it had been meticulously painted, rather than running from the arterial cuts that had been strategically made so the blood drained into the center, rather than outside, spoiling the image.
Laviolette stared, not sure of what to do. It was unlike anything he had ever seen. All he could do was sob at the sight before him, at the loss of his loved ones, and in a moment of final weakness, he decided he had to be with them
He pulled his service weapon, and placed it against his head.
Then pulled the trigger, begging God to forgive him for this ultimate of sins.
Outside Stucco’s Residence, Maas Drive, Fort Bragg, North Carolina
“You saw this in Geneva?” asked Red, his shaved head scratched and bleeding. “Where?”
“On some file folders in that Lacroix guy’s room.”
“So then this is payback.”
“Almost definitely.” Dawson lowered his voice. “Split into teams. Family men with single guys. Get to your homes, collect your families, and get them to The Unit. Don’t pack anything, just get them safe, then we’ll go back and clear the houses and pick up anything you may need.”
“Do you think he’s going to target all of us?” asked Niner. “I don’t have family on base, but my folks are in California. This has me worried.”
“Call them. Call whoever you think this guy might target and get them to safety. I’ll have the Colonel contact the locals and try to get security details assigned for the time being. I’m guessing though only Stucco and I have anything to worry about. Had, I guess.” Dawson paused as they all bowed their heads for a moment. “I’m guessing we’re the targets, since we’re the witnesses,” resumed Dawson. “But I’d rather be safe than sorry, so protect your loved ones. I’m going to meet with the Colonel.”
The team split off into groups as Dawson strode toward his Mustang parked safely down the road. To say he was angry would be putting it mildly. He was furious. Enraged. If Lacroix were in front of him now, he’d tear his throat out and watch him bleed to death while pissing in the hole he had made.
They needed closure on this, and the only closure he could see would be against the books.
Revenge.
He pulled his cellphone from his pocket as he climbed in the car and
dialed his sister’s place. It rang several times then her old style answering machine picked up.
“Sis, it’s me, Burt. You there? Pick up if you are, it’s important”—he paused for a few moments—“okay, well, as soon as you get this message, I want you to take George and Jenny to the nearest police station, okay? Don’t stop to pack, just go. Once you’re there, call me and let me know where. This is urgent, Sis, it’s important. Please don’t ignore it. Love you.”
He hung up and prayed not only that she’d get the message and act on it, but that there was no reason to, this insanity over.
Köln, Germany
1472 AD
Dietrich stood in the shadows in front of Heike’s house, the rain now hard and heavy. And cold. He shivered as he watched the door open occasionally, the concerned look on her mother’s face obvious from the lantern that hung outside, left to light her way home.
He desperately wanted to step forward, into the light, and tell them what had happened to his beloved Heike, to their precious daughter, but he couldn’t. He feared any contact with them would put them at risk. Instead, he remained hidden, and when the door closed once more, he plodded down the hill, the cobblestone slippery, causing him to lose his footing several times before he finally reached the bottom, his heart aching as he passed the wall where she had met her fate, again when he passed where he had caught his last glimpse of her, and one final time as he walked past his childhood home, his parents long dead from a return of the plague ten years ago.
He had been an orphan, raised by the church, and had shown great promise in Latin and the sciences, as taught in their limited fashion by a paranoid religion. It was after his lessons one day, almost eight years ago, that he was called into the Father’s rectory and introduced to an imposing figure of a man with a gentle face.
He listened to the opportunities that would be afforded him, and with a nod and not a word spoken, had left hand-in-hand with the man, not to see the church or the Father again for five years.
And learned he had.
The knowledge bestowed him was wondrous, and frightening. The things that were possible he had had no concept of, and when asked if he would like to learn more, he jumped at the opportunity.
The Circle of Eight (A James Acton Thriller, Book #7) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 5
