7
Tonight’s target is none other than Chad Hopkins III. A young man of twenty-four whose rap sheet is longer than my leg. As I sit in the car—a Honda I stole while en route to Chad’s girlfriend’s house—I ponder how a kid goes from the eighth-grade honor roll to climbing the ranks of a street gang.
Heroin.
That’s how. I warn people of the brutality of that drug. One use. That’s all it takes before your body craves it like a starving man craves a tomahawk steak.
Tsk-tsk-tsk. Chad managed to get clean while on a six-month jail stint, but after four years of being a junkie, he’d established himself as a thug. A menace who would rape your daughter in front of you if you didn’t hand over whatever he demanded.
Yes, I’ve done my research. Chad is no angel.
And he’s next on my list.
A sharp metallic taste fills my mouth. I swallow a couple of times and do some deep breathing to rein in the adrenaline flooding my system.
The street is eerily lacking pedestrian and vehicle traffic, and I use the quiet to focus myself. In this neighborhood, being out after dark means several things: You work late, you’re up to no good, or you’re crazy.
The cops won’t even come here at night. That’s how rough it is. Shootings? No big deal.
That’s the kind of animal I’m dealing with. And this quiet? Too spooky. Too ripe for danger I’m anxious to leave behind.
Chad has been inside over two hours. He’ll be leaving soon, I’m sure. The girlfriend has work in the morning and, in the weeks I’ve been trailing him, Chad has yet to stay over. People really should pay attention to their own routines and how vulnerable those routines make them. Even the criminals sometimes lose sight of it.
I let out a sigh, hoping Chad doesn’t intend on making me wait too long. Between Roy and Chad, it’s been a busy few weeks of surveillance and my body is feeling the effects. Fatigue pinches my shoulders to the point where any amount of stretching is useless. I need a good night’s sleep. Maybe ten.
But the list is long and there’s no rest for the weary.
I check the time on my phone: 10:35. Getting close. I hit the window button and breathe in the blast of fresh air. It’s a cool night. Barely fifty degrees. Never a fan of the cold, I raise the window again, leaving only a few inches of space at the top.
“Come on, Chad. Hurry it up.”
I check the door again. Nothing.
Soon.
Beside me is the trusty Colt .45. A larger weapon than I’d like for this job, but the gun has to be big to hold the acid-filled bullet. Stroke of genius, that.
A flash of light catches my eye and I swing my head left to see the front door open across the street. Once again, that nasty metallic taste fills my mouth. This is it. Lucky me, there’s a fire hydrant smack-dab in front of the house. What are the odds I’d have an unobstructed view? Talk about a sign from God.
I hit the window button again, letting that cool air fill my lungs as I lift the weapon. The weight of it, the absolute power seeps through my hand. My system roars and I breathe in, hold it for a second, and then exhale.
Calm.
That’s what I need right now. One shot. That’s all I’ll get. One shot. Then I’ll pull away, ditch the car, and disappear.
Easy.
It takes less than a second for Chad to step onto the porch. He turns back to offer a good-night kiss to the young woman in the doorway. Young love.
How very sweet.
The pause at the door gives me time to line up my shot. Too low. I make the necessary adjustment and wait for him to turn around. To give me a clear shot.
The kiss drags on and my pulse kicks up. Come on. Make it snappy.
“Christ sakes,” I mutter, once again grateful for the quiet street.
The porn-movie-worthy kiss finally ends and I silently thank whatever god available. Short on patience, I’m ready to be done. I need sleep and a hot shower. Not necessarily in that order.
Chad turns. Perfect. I give the trigger a gentle squeeze and watch as Chad Hopkins III jerks backward and drops.
Mission complete.
* * *
The brrrnngg of Roni’s phone dragged her—kicking and screaming—from a dream about Waylon Kingston in nothing but a pair of broken-in jeans. Even his feet were bare and that, for whatever odd reason, made Roni’s more-than-ready body hum.
Damn, that was a good dream.
She cracked her eyes open. The sun slanted through the gauzy curtains in her suite at Tasky’s B&B, a giant farmhouse with quite possibly the softest bed she’d ever slept in.
She slapped her eyes closed again. What the hell time was it?
Still propped on her side, she reached to the nightstand, smacking her hand around until landing on the phone.
She pried her eyes open again, blinking into focus on Karl Quigley’s name.
A quick glance at the ancient bedside clock indicated it was 6:05 a.m.
The man was insane.
Before the call dropped, she cleared her throat, practiced a few quick hellos, and tapped the screen. “Hello? This is Roni.”
“We’ve got another one.”
Well, good morning to you, too, sir.
“Sorry?”
“Get the fuck out of bed and turn on the news. Another gang shooting. Same bullet. Where are you on Kingston?”
She bolted to a sitting position.
Aside from dreams about Way being shirtless?
And barefoot.
Nowhere. That’s where she was. She’d only arrived in town yesterday. How much did he expect from her in one day?
“Sir—”
“Forget the ‘sir’ bullshit. Get your ass out of bed and find out who he’s selling those bullets to. They’re not coming out of Langley. All are accounted for on our end.”
And that automatically meant Way Kingston was selling them? Really? With the smarts of the CIA’s S&D department, what was to stop one of their people from copying the design?
“And we’re sure we don’t have leakage with the design?”
A few seconds of silence ensued. “Fenwick, you want me to go to the deputy director and tell her someone has betrayed us and is selling a top-secret design we’re testing?”
Well, no. She didn’t want that, but the possibility existed.
“Of course not, sir. But—”
“No buts, Fenwick. This is not coming from inside Langley. I don’t care what it takes, get me something solid on Kingston.”
“I’m trying—”
“Don’t try, do. Or don’t come back.”
Click.
What the? She checked the phone screen and grunted.
Once again, he’d hung up on her. That alone irritated her. Never mind the mandate to make Way Kingston a scapegoat.
If he was guilty of selling that frangible design, yes, he should wind up in a cell. Acid in a bullet? Horrific. That kind of weaponry had no place in the general public.
She wasn’t even convinced it had a place in the spec ops world. Not because there weren’t situations that called for wiping the evidence trail clean, but for the very reason she was in Steele Ridge.
The damned bullet had landed in the hands of a psycho. And now, she had a top-level CIA executive pressuring her for results.
Well, he’d get those results.
Roni style.
She threw the covers back and headed for the en-suite bathroom.
Time to pay a visit to Way Kingston and push his buttons.
* * *
Way stood in his workshop, his favorite “Go ahead. Make my day.” mug in hand. On the wall-mounted television, Shelly Radcliffe, the local station’s morning anchor, had just announced a breaking news story.
Another gang shooting.
He slammed the mug on the table, sending hot coffee splashing over the rim and scalding his fingers. Goddammit. He shook his hand, then rubbed it dry against his jeans while his heart slammed.
Don’t panic.
Gang shootings around Asheville weren’t uncommon. Still, something nagged at him.
He punched the power button with more force than necessary before tossing the remote against the table. It clattered against the wood, smacking at his already stretched nerves.
Unlocking his phone, he hit Maggie’s name and waited. If he got voice mail, he’d run into town and find her. Way didn’t have the time or patience to wait on his sister’s call. With her crazy job, she could be tied up for hours and, well, right now, he needed her. The fine citizens of Haywood County would have to wait.
“Hi, Way. What’s up?”
Thank you, sweet baby Jesus. Even if she had used her get-to-the-point voice, she’d picked up.
He’d oblige and make this quick. “Hey. Saw the news. Another gang shooting last night.”
“Yes. It’s not my jurisdiction, but it’s too close.”
She had no fucking idea. “Wondering about that case you showed me yesterday. Was this—”
“The same bullet?” Maggie finished for him. “No autopsy report yet.”
“Jesus.”
“Way?”
“Yeah?”
“Why are you asking me about this?” On her laziest day his sister loved crawling straight up his ass and nosing into his business. Asking about this case? Forget it. She’d be relentless.
“You’re the one who came to me with autopsy photos. Now there’s another gang shooting. Why wouldn’t I ask?”
“Maybe because it doesn’t involve you.”
But she didn’t have a problem involving him yesterday. When she wanted his help. Wasn’t that a pisser? “Fine,” he said. “Next time you want my help, I’ll remember I shouldn’t follow up. That you’re the only one allowed to ask questions. Consider me schooled.”
A soft laugh sounded from her end. “You’re spinning this on me? Really? Classic, Waylon.”
Way pinched the bridge of his nose. He’d sure blown this conversation to hell and back. A long silence drifted between them. Nothing unusual when it came to Maggie. Over the years, they’d fallen into a routine. She’d needle him and he’d shut her down. What was it about him that took issue with Maggie’s nosiness when everyone else in his family let it slide?
Maggie’s concern. That’s what they all called it. A nicer way of saying meddling.
And this right here was the reason the military called to him. He loved his family, missed them horribly while overseas. But he didn’t need them constantly on him. Asking questions. Giving opinions.
Maggie was an ace at all that.
“I don’t want to fight with you,” she said.
He closed his eyes, rolled his shoulders to release the tension that crept up on him. Relax. Relax and focus. “Neither do I, Mags. It was a question. That’s all.”
“And you’re sure you don’t have any information on this? I mean, I know you fiddle with all kinds of weapons and bullets.”
Relentless.
He had to laugh. Good old Mags.
“Forget I called. Okay? Sorry to bug you.”
“You didn’t bug me. And you know I can’t give out information.”
He was all too aware of his sister’s high professional standards. He couldn’t blame her. If she leaked info and it impacted a case, criminals could walk free on technicalities.
Still, this one damned time, he’d like an answer.
“I’ll talk to you later,” he said.
“Come on, Way. Don’t be like that.”
“Like what? Irritated because it’s okay for you to pump me for information, but not for me to do it?”
For a few seconds, she remained silent. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
Oh, that had to hurt. “Wait? What?”
She laughed. “Oh my God. You’re such a bastard.”
“Hang on while I scrape my jaw off the floor.”
“Whatever. Jerk. Dinner at Mom’s tonight. What are you bringing?”
Shit. The regular family dinner smackdown when everyone brought a dish and voted on a winner. As far as cooking went, he did okay. He’d inherited his dad’s curiosity about herbs and spices and trying new twists on dishes.
However, he’d forgotten about dinner tonight and hadn’t put a lick of thought into what he might bring. And he knew, right down to his boots, that Maggie got help from Jay, who’d taken cooking lessons from a trained chef.
How was that fair?
“No idea. I’ll come up with something.”
Because if he showed up empty-handed, he’d never hear the end of it.
“Okay. And, Way? It appears so.”
“What?”
“The answer to your bullet question. It appears so. You didn’t hear it from me.”
A sudden silence filled the phone line.
“Mags?”
Nothing. Call ended.
He replayed the conversation, pinning down his original question. Was it the same type of bullet? That’s what he’d asked.
It appears so.
It might as well have been napalm dropping on him.
Shit, shit, shit.
Someone was walking around killing gang members with his damned bullets. How the fuck?
The agency. Someone must have leaked the design. Or worse, if one of the bullets was outside the agency, it could have been reverse engineered. Any experienced gunsmith could copy the design.
He ticked back over the number of bullets he’d made. A hundred even. All of them sent to Langley for testing.
Clay. Way needed to connect again. See if he’d checked on the initial order. And if all were accounted for.
His stomach flipped. If he’d had breakfast, it would be all over the damned floor. Even thinking about those bullets on the street made his gut heave.
The workshop door flew open, banging against the desk. Roni Fenwick barged in, glaring so hard it should have blown him through the wall.
She wore another tight tank top, this one with an unbuttoned flannel shirt over it. The shirt flapped open as she stormed toward him, and her hair bounced right along with that tremendous rack of hers.
It took everything he had not to step back, to put space between himself and super storm Roni. At the same time, all that crazy energy fired something in him and…
He wanted her. Hard and fast.
“Talk to me,” she said.
He wanted to do a whole lot more than talk. “Uh…Come again?”
She stopped a foot from him, her dark eyes sharper than a laser scope. “Let’s quit fucking around, shall we?”
Or maybe they should start fucking around? Jeez, she’d twisted his mind. He gave his head a hard shake, tried to focus on the fact that she was, apparently, upset.
They’d get to whatever had riled her in a sec. Now that she’d arrived, he had a few questions.
He crossed his arms, met her hard stare. “Great idea, Roni. We’ll start with you leaving the Bureau and moving to the CIA.” Her right eyebrow quirked. Surprised her with that one. Good. “And speaking of, why is the agency suddenly at my door when a bunch of lowlifes are getting picked off with a goddamn bullet I designed? What the fuck happened? The agency lost track of a few?”
She might have been blindsided, but she sure as shit wasn’t backing off. “Oh, hell, no. They’re all right where they should be. All one hundred.”
She knew the number. Crap. The agency, she’d just inadvertently confirmed, had sent her to check him out. Which meant they didn’t know what the hell was going on either.
He leaned in a little, tipping his upper body a bit closer. “Then you’ve got a double agent inside Langley who reverse engineered them.”
“Or you sold the design.”
Bullshit. This woman. Absolutely maddening. He could lose his mind, go on about a government agency failing to protect his idea for ammunition that could change the spy world. But that’s what she wanted. He
ticked back to his conversation with Micki. Roni Fenwick, psych trainer for the CIA. A bona fide headshrinker.
Way stepped closer. “Watch it, lady. My military career speaks for itself. The things I’ve done for this country, you will never touch. So don’t come in here making accusations. I’m not the one who screwed this up.”
“You’re insulted?”
“Honey, I’m more than insulted. I’m fucking horrified. You should be thanking me for the shit I’ve done to protect you and your freedom. If you can’t do that, then get out.”
For a solid five seconds she didn’t move. Just stood there, her gaze hot on his. What the hell? Had he actually done it? Left the little spitfire speechless?
Somehow, it didn’t make him feel good. In fact, he hated it.
Finally she nodded. “Okay.”
Okay? What did that mean? “I don’t see you moving.”
“Oh, I’m not leaving. There’s too much at stake, and I’ve got one pain in the ass associate deputy director of administration nipping at me.”
He thought for a second. In the months he’d been working with the agency, he’d brushed up on the top-level guys. Just in case. “Quigley? What the hell does he have to do with this?”
“Technically, he’s my boss. My boss’s boss’s boss really.” She waved a hand. “Not that it matters.”
What. The fuck?
Everything mattered right now. Perfect time to remind himself what she did for a living.
“Is this some kind of mind game? Something you headshrinkers do to keep people on their toes?”
“No. Well, it was at first. Now it’s not.”
“Oh. Goody.”
“I think you might be telling the truth. About the bullets. I see it in your body language. The way you nearly ripped my head off when I accused you of selling the design and questioned your patriotism. Plus, you’re Maggie’s brother.”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
She poked him in the chest. “I like Maggie. I’d go as far as to say I trust her, which, if you knew me at all, is basically a miracle.”
“Are you nuts?”
Burning Ache Page 6
