“Me?”
“Yes. He was at the cookout where you and I met.”
What now? She cocked her head, stood there for a second, not exactly sure if she’d heard him right. “He was...Wait. Who invited him?”
The bird flew off. Karl glanced up again, then back at her. “Bernadette, via her husband, has a lot of contacts. Her knowing someone at State isn’t out of the realm of possibility. All I know is he was there the year before.”
“How do you know that?”
“I met him. Don also.”
Terrific. “All due respect, sir, it would have been nice to know this.”
He gave her another hard look. “Watch your tone. I’m telling you now. Months later, Clay called Don. Said he had a friend with a bullet design the agency should look at.”
These people. All their damned secrets. They sent her here with limited information and expected results. Unbelievable. Roni stepped away for a second. Had to. Shaking her head, she inhaled, took refuge in the cool night air. Calm. That’s what she needed.
But, dammit, she was tired.
She turned back, held out a hand. “And you didn’t think this was information you should give me? A connection between Ambrose, the agency, and Kingston? Are we even looking at Bartles as a suspect?”
And, oh, the full weight of this suddenly came clear. Jeff may have indeed known about the bullets. “Did Don tell Jeff about the bullet design?”
“He says no.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I want to.”
Not exactly the confirmation she’d hoped for. But things were becoming clearer to her fatigued brain. “This little expedition you’ve sent me on is to make sure Don hasn’t fucked up?”
More silence. Well, screw him. “Karl, I need you to start talking or I’m walking on this assignment. Fire me if you need to, but I’m not about to help the agency blame Way Kingston for something he may not have any control over. Do you think Don has something to do with this? Yes or no.”
“I don’t know.”
Bastard. She balled her fingers, gritted her teeth so hard they might snap. Anything to keep her from releasing the venom she wanted to spew. “Well, what do you know? Tell me everything or I swear to God I’ll blow this thing wide open. Jeff was my friend. If I’m going to find out what’s going on, I need everything you can give me before more people wind up dead. Start talking.”
For the first time, Karl let out a frustrated huff. Here they were, two people concerned that their friends might be dirty, or at least mildly soiled.
“Most of it you know.”
“Well, tell me the rest.”
“Don came to me about the Roy Jackson shooting. As part of their review of the Kingston design, one of Don’s people researched frangible ammo and found the news brief.”
“That’s when you and Don cooked up this investigation?”
“Yes. Don said he wanted to make sure no one on his team leaked it.”
“You don’t believe him?”
“Again, I want to.”
“But?”
“A few weeks after Jeff’s death, Bernadette contacted me. Obviously, she was in a state of grief. Angry and searching for answers. She thought I might be able to help her access the investigation into Jeff’s death.”
When Karl paused, Roni decided she was done screwing around. “And what? You looked into it?”
“I requested information from ATF, which I received.”
“And that information told you Jeff was on a task force investigating Roy Jackson.”
“Yes. At the time, Jackson’s name didn’t stand out. When Don came to me about getting you involved, I read the report again and spotted it.”
A whooshing noise filled her head. Plenty of tentacles on this thing. All of them somehow leading back to Jeff. Her heart sunk. God, Jeff, what did you do?
Roni couldn’t get ahead of herself. Not until she had all the facts. Time to ask the dreaded question. “Do you think Don told Jeff about the design and Jeff sold it?”
“I do.”
Dammit. “So I’m not really trying to figure out if Way Kingston double-crossed the CIA, am I?”
When he didn’t answer, she continued. “Fine. I’ll tell you what I think is happening here. You want to eliminate the possibility that the CIA’s head of science and development leaked a top-secret design to a now-dead ATF agent.” She threw her hands up, waved them in true drama queen fashion. “An agent who, more than likely, sold the design to a street gang. And whose mother, by the way, is a former NSA analyst.”
Karl gave her his best steely bored look, complete with an eye roll. “If you’re done,” he said, “I’ll explain. It’s a twofold mission. Kingston double-dipping wouldn’t be out of the question.”
Roni grunted.
“But, yes, that about sums it up.”
“Excellent. At least I know what I’m dealing with.”
You lying sack of shit.
* * *
It’s 5:00 a.m. The morning mist is thick as I sit tucked behind a clump of bushes adjusting my scope.
I have to give myself credit for this location. With over four thousand species of plants, fungi, and mosses inhabiting this park, there is no lack of places to hide while waiting for Petra Cheevers to finish the last lap of her five-mile jog.
Good for her.
She’s thirty-five and unwilling to lose her girlish figure. Maybe her husband is a freak about that. Me? I don’t get why any man would want a bag of bones.
This one is a workhorse. Almost every morning she runs in this park, five acres of trails and woods plunked into the middle of a neighborhood. If she’s not running, it’s either yoga at the studio near one of the small markets her family owns or weight lifting at the gym half a mile from her house. On those days, she runs to the gym and back.
Movement from the northwest corner of the trail draws my eye. A quick look through my scope tells me it’s a male. Middle-aged and about to piss me off if he doesn’t clear out of my target area.
I’m not leaving any witnesses, so he’d best move on.
He makes his way toward me and I hunker down, out of sight, until I hear the huff and puff of heavy breathing. The sound gets louder, then gradually softer. I take a peek.
The interloper moves around the path, heading toward the exit Petra usually uses.
Usually.
Today she won’t be leaving this park. It’s too bad, really.
All in all, she’s made this way too easy for me.
For people like me, creatures of habit are a godsend.
So easy to kill.
I’m starting to feel the pressure, though. That incessant needling at the back of my neck. With each job comes media attention. Attention brings law enforcement. Sooner or later, someone will make the connection.
While I wait for Petra to make that last turn, I check my scope and put thoughts of media attention out of my mind. I can’t worry about tomorrow. Worry, my mother used to say, is a debt paid in advance.
Petra comes into view and the needling in my neck turns to a hungry burst of excitement. It’s not time yet. Twenty more yards.
Let her get closer.
Another piece of scum will be removed from society.
This is my goal. My mission.
You can thank me later.
* * *
Mug in hand, Way stood at his workshop’s coffeepot inhaling the nutty smell of his Aunt Joan’s favorite pecan coffee.
This early, he needed a jolt.
A big one.
Aunt Joan’s brew was a special blend he swore she mixed herself, because he’d been to every coffeehouse within thirty miles of Steele Ridge and none of the varieties matched Aunt Joanie’s. He’d even tried himself and failed miserably.
Bribery.
That’s what he’d do. Bribe Aunt Joan for the blend’s particulars and see if he could recreate it. When he got this current mess cleared up, he’d take some downtime. Hit the road on his
bike and maybe, after, mess with pecan coffee.
On television, Shelly Radcliffe droned on about Petra Cheevers, a woman who owned several convenience stores throughout Buncombe County.
Found dead in a park from a gunshot wound.
Mug midway to his lips, Way paused and glanced up at the wall-mounted television. A photo of the victim, a willowy blonde, dominated the screen. His pulse kicked up and a rancid feeling assaulted his empty stomach.
What the hell was wrong with him? Plenty of people got shot. Didn’t mean it had anything to do with him.
The workshop door flew open and Hurricane Roni roared in, her compact, sultry body moving fast. She wore her typical outfit of tight jeans, ankle boots, and a low-cut V-neck T-shirt. Even with her leather jacket on, he saw enough of her cleavage to want a whole lot more.
Her long hair fell over her shoulders, a few strands flying as she stormed toward him. “Who the hell is Petra Cheevers?”
Whoa.
Way slapped his coffee mug on the worktable, sloshing the steaming brew over the rim onto his knuckles, searing the skin.
Ow. “Shit.”
He whipped his hand away, rubbing it against his jeans.
“I just saw the story on the news.” He shook his hand out. “Goddamn, that burns.”
She reached for his hand, held it so she could inspect the damage, then puckered those pretty lips and…blew. On his hand. Right there in his workshop.
The things he wanted those lips to do suddenly included blowing on other parts of his body.
Talk about hot.
“That’s what I’m asking.”
What? He gave his head a quick shake. “Sorry?”
“Focus here. Karl called me an hour ago, screaming his head off, after Don Harding called him. Don has an alert out for any shootings involving frangible ammo.”
Frangible ammo. The weight of those two little words forced Way’s shoulders to dip. “Don’t even tell me.”
“Oh, I’m telling you. Petra Cheevers died from a bullet that ate a hole through her heart.”
Not again. Way closed his eyes, fought the rancidness in his gut and the bile it shoved into his throat. After a second, he opened his eyes again. “Mine?”
“If it wasn’t yours, it’s the same design. Do you know her? She’s not a client or anything?”
“No. I’ve never heard of her.” He gestured at the television. “They said she owns a bunch of convenience stores in the next county.”
“Yes. And she has no affiliations to the Street Dragons.”
Fuck. “You’re sure? She’s not married to or has kids with one of ’em?”
Roni shook her head. “No. She’s married to a plumber. They have three young boys. She inherited the stores from her father and has been running them for three years. From what I can find, she’s clean.”
He leaned in. “And what? There was a giant sign near her body saying my bullet killed her?”
“I did not say that and you know it.”
“Wasn’t Jeff posing as a convenience store owner while he was on the task force? Maybe he’s the connection? All this shit points to your buddy Jeff as much as me, but you don’t want to believe that do you? That your friend is dirty. Because”—he threw his hands up—“God forbid that you, a woman who’s sworn off trusting anyone, should be duped. Betrayed by someone you believed in.”
She poked her finger at him. “Knock it off. Right now.”
“No. Guess what, Roni? You’re human. Like the rest of us. People get screwed and you, babe, got screwed.”
“You don’t know half the shit I’ve seen.”
Screaming at Roni wouldn’t help him. And he sure as hell didn’t want to fight with her. Not with another victim dead from one of his bullets. He held his hands up. “You’re right. I was way off out of line. I apologize.”
She peered up at him, her eyes tiny slits.
“Seriously,” he said. “I was wrong. You didn’t deserve that.”
Slowly, her features softened, her narrowed eyes relaxing. “Thank you. Apology accepted.”
“Good. Petra Cheevers.”
“We have to figure out if there’s a connection to your bullet design.”
“I know. And there’s only one way to do that.”
“How?”
“We’re going to the source. I’m calling Don Harding.”
15
Way had to be out of his mind. Stone cold crazy.
He didn’t give a shit either.
“You cannot call him,” Roni said.
Sure he could. “Why? My State Department guy isn’t giving me anything. He’s probably terrified to get into the middle of it, and I need answers.”
“He got you the CIA deal.”
Well, well, she’d been busy. “You know about that?”
“I overheard you say his name and asked Karl about him last night. By the way, he wasn’t too happy with me. I had to tell him about our alliance.”
Ballsy chick. Damn, he enjoyed a fearless woman. “How’d that go?”
“Could have been worse. Even he’s not completely sold that this design didn’t come out of Langley. Honestly, I think he wants to know as much as we do.”
Way shrugged. He didn’t trust any of the suits right now. “What’d he say?”
“He told me he met Clay at Bernadette’s party.”
“Yeah. Clay knew I had a design I was testing. Suggested we run it by the powers that be. See if the spec ops guys could use ammo that destructed on impact. Plausible deniability and all that. Within a couple of weeks, I had a meeting at Langley.”
“With Don?”
Way nodded. “Yes, ma’am. He had some others in the meeting. I handed over twenty-five test bullets. Two weeks later, they came back and asked me to tweak the design. Which I did. I sent them another small batch and they requested more. We did the same routine a few times, and they’ve been testing them ever since.”
“Total of a hundred?”
“Yeah. According to Clay, they’re all accounted for.”
Roni made a humming noise, then ran her top teeth over her bottom lip—and distracted the hell out of him—while she mulled the thing over. “Would he tell you the truth?” she finally asked.
“I hope so.”
“But you’re not positive.”
Way tilted his head. “I’m kinda like you, Roni. I want to believe my old friend isn’t dirty. We served together. Did things for our country most aren’t capable of. I’d trust him with my life.”
“What about with your bullet design?”
“Right now, I’m not sure who I trust.” He picked up his cell, punched at the screen. “Let’s call Don Harding. See what he knows about my bullets.”
* * *
Harding’s secretary—oh, excuse me, his administrative assistant. God help Way if he called someone a secretary. A few months back, Maggie chewed him out royally for calling her assistant a secretary. Apparently, it was majorly un-PC to do so.
Lesson learned. The hard way.
“Good morning,” he said to Harding’s assistant. “This is Waylon Kingston for Mr. Harding. Is he available?”
“One moment please.”
Hold music filled his ear and he grinned at Roni. “I’m on hold.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
He waved it away. “Let’s poke this bear. See how mad he gets.”
“You’re aware bears maul people?”
“Oh, I’m aware.” The music stopped and he held up a finger.
“Please hold for Mr. Harding,” the assistant said.
Way cut his gaze to Roni and nodded. “Thank you.”
More hold music sounded and then abruptly stopped. “Don Harding,” the gruff voice boomed through the phone line.
“Way Kingston here.”
“Mr. Kingston,” Don said, his voice smoother. Not so rushed. “What can I do for you?”
There were two options for Way. The delicate way, easing into a conve
rsation about the status of the CIA’s testing of his design, or the not-so-delicate way.
He considered it for half a second.
People were dying.
Fuck delicate.
“Petra Cheevers. Run her name. And then tell me how the hell my bullets got out of Langley.”
In front of him, Roni’s jaw flopped open, her cute little nose scrunching at the same time. Damned cute look.
He’d have to be careful. Keep her out of this as much as possible.
“You must be mistaken,” Harding said. “Every sample you sent us is accounted for. Bet on it.”
Ha. When it came to the CIA, he wouldn’t bet on anything. “Only an idiot makes that bet when people are dying from my bullets. I’m not an idiot.”
“You should know, we’re currently tearing your finances apart. If one of your deposits is off by a penny, I’ll be on you. You sold that design to a murderer. I hope you can live with it.”
Nice ploy at baiting him. Way forced a smile, willed his mind to stay focused, keep it light, and not lose his temper. “I sleep fine at night. Why would I be dumb enough to double-dip on a deal with the CIA, an organization more than willing to eliminate anyone in its way? I have nothing to gain.”
“Money.”
He wasn’t exactly living a luxurious life. Sure, he had a nice income—all of it with the proper paper trail. “Check my finances all you want. You won’t find anything. If these bullets are my design, they didn’t come from me. Which means you have a mole in your department. You’ll want to get that cleaned up before it leaks that the CIA lost track of acid-filled ammunition.”
The line went quiet and Way’s heart rate exploded. The thump, thump, thump whacked against the inside of his chest. He swallowed, trying to control his breathing, because, yeah, he’d just threatened the CIA.
“Are you threatening to go to the press?”
Way considered it for a moment. Even if it bankrupted him, he wouldn’t allow his design to be used on civilians.
“Find out who leaked my design, Harding. I’m done fucking around.”
Before the man could respond, Way poked at the screen, made sure it disconnected, and let out a hard breath.
“Wow,” Roni said.
Burning Ache Page 15
