The heart rate monitor. She’d stood there, grasping her father’s hand, wanting so much to just hang on. Please, Daddy, please.
Even then, at such a young age, somehow she knew. So she squeezed his hand tighter, trying not to cry—brave girl—as the bright green number on the heart rate monitor went lower.
And lower.
And lower.
Right in front of her.
Just one time, she wanted to enter a hospital and not think of the night her life changed forever.
She eased out a breath and nodded at a man with short graying hair sitting by Bernadette. He stood. He wore a navy suit that must have been high quality, because there wasn’t a wrinkle to be found and they were already at midday.
“Hello,” Roni said.
He set the leather portfolio he’d been holding on the bed and approached.
“Hello. I’m Rhyne Ingrams. Ms. Ambrose’s attorney.”
“Criminal or private?”
“Criminal.”
“Well, okay then.”
She glanced over to the bed where the color on Bernadette’s face resembled freshly poured cement. Part of her head was wrapped in gauze and a sheet covered her up to her chest, but her arms lay on top revealing the wrist restraints securing her to the bed. More than likely, her ankles met the same fate. Beside her, a monitor beeped once, then went quiet, and another rush of memories flashed.
Focus.
Right here. Right now.
A whooshing sounded and the blood pressure cuff around Bernadette’s arm went into action.
She winced at the tightening wrap and waited for it to release. “Thank you…for…coming.”
The words came slowly, obviously the effects of anesthesia. Roni was no lawyer, but letting Bernadette—and her drug-addled mind—speak to anyone was insanity.
“You’re welcome. Are you sure you want to talk right now?”
“I’ve already spoken with her,” Ingrams said. “She’s determined to do this.” He pointed to the chair he’d vacated. “Please. Have a seat.”
Ingrams was probably already planning his appeal. Well, good for him. He moved to the open space by the wall, leaning back on it, arms folded. “I’ll be right here, Bernadette.”
“Thank you, Rhyne.” She angled her head to Roni. “I’m sure you have questions.”
“Plenty.”
“You should know, it was a just mission.”
A just mission.
What that even meant, Roni hadn’t a clue. “Forgive me, Bernadette, but I fail to see how shooting me or Way Kingston is a just mission. Were you driving the car the other night? The one that nearly sent us flying off a mountain? Was that part of the mission, too?”
“The list was twelve people.”
Roni knew of only one list with twelve people on it. The thought of it made her stomach twist. She closed her eyes, let out a long sigh. “You have Jeff’s journal.”
Why hadn’t they even considered that? They’d assumed the ATF or FBI had taken the journal as evidence when they should have simply asked if either department had it.
Bernadette looked off toward the window where a bright blue sky teased anyone locked inside the building. “I found it in his apartment. The night he died, I went there. Laid down in his bed. Just to smell him. My baby. They’d killed him. Left him to die in the street like an animal.”
As angry as Roni was, her heart kicked. Grief, she understood. Particularly when the loss vaporized the lives of loved ones.
Setting aside the fact that Bernadette had tried to kill her, Roni touched her hand. “Jeff was a good man and a great friend. Be proud of that.”
A lazy half smile tugged at Bernadette’s lips. “You’re kind. I can see why he enjoyed you. You know, he had…feelings…for you. He never admitted it, but I knew my son. He spoke of you in a way that made me think you were special. Which is why I asked to see you. He’d want me to tell you the truth.”
Jeff? Roni sat for a second, thinking back on the dinners and phone calls they’d shared after a hard day. Friends. That’s all she’d sensed back then. If he’d thrown her signals of anything more, she never caught them. Or maybe she hadn’t wanted to. “I never knew. I wish I had.”
“I suppose he didn’t want to ruin anything. One thing about my boy, he knew how to hide his emotions.” Bernadette cleared her throat and her eyes drifted closed. “I found the journal in his bedside table. By the time investigators got to his apartment, I’d tucked it in my purse.”
“That was evidence.”
Bernadette’s eyes snapped open again and she met Roni’s stare. “My son was dead, and I intended to deal with whomever caused it. I wasn’t worried about evidence.”
Grief-induced rage wasn’t uncommon, but this wholesale slaughter of suspects? Bonkers. “How do you even know the people in that journal are responsible?”
“Who else could it be?”
Plenty of people. But Roni didn’t think it worth arguing. The woman had gone on a full-blown vigilante bender. Nothing rational would make sense to her.
“Bernadette, did you shoot those people?”
Part of Roni hoped she’d say no. That perhaps, with her deep pockets, she’d hired someone.
“Bernadette,” her lawyer said, “I’ll caution you here.”
“Thank you, Rhyne, but I know what I’m doing. I want those bastards—the remaining ones—on the list to know it was me.” She locked her gaze on Roni’s. “I shot them. I was a field agent early in my career. I learned how to shoot and steal cars and stay under the radar. All these years later, I still enjoy practicing my shooting. I’m good, too.”
Oh, God.
From his spot on the wall, the lawyer sighed.
“Where did you get the bullets?”
“Jeff had them.”
Of all the things she’d expected to hear—wooing the design out of Don, bribing a member of Don’s staff or Clay Bartles—Roni hadn’t anticipated Jeff’s involvement.
Oh, Jeff. What did you do?
Stealing herself for disappointment she sat forward, giving Bernadette her full attention. “Jeff?”
She nodded. “He kept a workshop at my house. In the basement.”
By now, Maggie would be well into her search of Bernadette’s home. As soon as this conversation ended, Roni would call her, direct her to the basement.
“He liked to tinker with rifles,” Bernadette continued. “Sometimes handguns, but mostly rifles. He’d come out to the house and take his guns into the woods for target practice.”
“How did he get the bullets?”
“At the time, I didn’t know. He had them in the safe. He’d given me the combination. Just in case. When I opened that safe, there were eighteen bullets. He’d drawn a sketch that I found on the shelf beside them. A blueprint.”
“Did Don Harding tell him how to do it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, Bernadette. Please. You’ve come this far. Tell me the damned truth.”
She rested her head back, closing her eyes again. Dammit. Hell of a time for the aftereffects of anesthesia to silence her. “Bernadette? Do you need a break?”
Please say no.
Bernadette shook her head and opened her eyes. “At the time, all I knew was he’d built bullets with acid in them. Months went by, and then last Tuesday I got a call from Clay Bartles. I’d introduced him to Jeff at one of the barbecues. They’d become friendly. Clay asked me about the bullets. Knowing Jeff liked guns, he’d shared Mr. Kingston’s project idea with him. After the reports of gang members dying from the same type of bullet, he was concerned that perhaps Jeff had leaked the idea.”
Roni dipped her head. Way would be devastated by this news. Still, Way had never shared the exact design. “How did Clay know the specs?”
“He swore to me that he never told Jeff the exact design. Just how the bullet worked. He never even saw it. I believed him. I know Don Harding. He’d be protective of information such as that.”
Don’s ability to keep secrets wouldn’t matter. Jeff was a gun guy. Loved tinkering with them and had even made suggestions to Roni about certain triggers that might work better for her. Given his knowledge of firearms, it wasn’t a stretch to think he could recreate the bullet.
As suspected, Way’s bullets had been reverse engineered.
“Jeff figured it out on his own,” Roni said.
“I believe so.”
“Is that why you killed Clay?”
Bernadette paused, but didn’t bother looking at her lawyer. Everyone knew where he stood on this matter.
Finally, Bernadette met Roni’s gaze. “I didn’t want to. He called me again. Getting nervous and asking questions. Wanting to know if Jeff could have built the bullets himself. He wouldn’t say it, but I know he was asking if my son sold that ammunition. Clay became…messy.”
As much as she wanted to fight it, gravity took hold and Roni’s mouth slid open. How had she not sensed any of this on the visit to Bernadette’s? “Oh, God. Why? He was doing the right thing.”
“Saving a bunch of lowlifes and implicating my dead son? Not while I’m alive. Jeff was everything to me. I couldn’t have it. But I also wasn’t done. Clayton Bartles was in the way.”
“Collateral damage. Like Way and me.”
Bernadette gave her a hard look. “You can’t understand. He was my son.”
The woman was insane. Whether it was grief-inflicted or her years in the spec ops world—possibly both—she’d become a full-fledged sociopath.
Roni leaned forward, clasped Bernadette’s hand. “You’re right. I’m not a mother. I can’t understand. But I don’t see how murdering twelve people would make up for losing Jeff. Still, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Roni stood and met the lawyer’s gaze. Before he could say anything, she headed for the door.
“I had to,” Bernadette called. “You don’t think the world is better off without those people? Without criminals? I spent years dealing with garbage like them. What makes this different?”
Unbelievable. If years of serving her country would do this to Roni, she didn’t want it. Not one bit. She turned back. “Proof makes it different. You had no proof any of those people murdered Jeff. Maybe they weren’t angels, but you don’t get to play judge and jury. That’s not what our government trained you for. Somewhere along the way, you lost sight of that.”
With that, she turned and walked out the door, leaving a silent Bernadette behind.
In the hallway, Way leaned against the far wall talking to Agent Holbrath. Lord, Way was easy on the eyes and just the thing she needed after a conversation that left her…gutted.
Gutted and grimy.
A four-hour shower wouldn’t wipe that filth off.
Way broke free of Holbrath, boosting himself off the wall and falling in step beside her.
“Ms. Fenwick,” Holbrath called. “I need a word.”
“No,” she muttered to Way. “I can’t.”
He gave her arm a gentle squeeze. “I’ll talk to him. Meet me outside.”
When had she turned into a helpless female? But at the moment, she said a silent thanks for having Way beside her.
She kept moving, her gaze on the door ahead. Get there. That’s all she had to do. Get out of this hospital with its nasty, confining air. At the double doors, she smacked at the button on the wall. Come on, come on. A beep sounded and ever so slowly the doors inched open.
Before they stopped moving, she squeezed through, spotting a stairwell sign. Perfect. She’d take the stairs down, run off some of this rancid energy.
Roni bolted down the stairs, her boot heels banging against the steps and echoing throughout the enclosed space. She hung on to the metal rail as she pounded down the first flight, then the second.
Fresh air.
That’s all she needed.
First floor. Finally.
She swung that door open, stopped in the hallway, and peered left. Dead end. She went right, passing a gift shop and a coffee bar near the front entrance.
Right there.
Fresh air.
Through the revolving door, she went into sunshine and oxygen and a cool breeze that immediately eased her mind. Mountain air. Who knew?
“Excuse me,” an older man said, angling around her to the revolving door.
Quickly, she moved to the side, propping one shoulder against the building’s edge while inhaling and exhaling, letting her body do the work of settling itself. God, what a mess.
Talk about a political firestorm. NSA, CIA, FBI, ATF. All of them involved.
“Hey.”
Way stood just outside the revolving door. “You okay?”
She shook her head, a spastic snapping back and forth. He strode toward her, arms out. “Talk to me.”
No. She couldn’t let him put his hands on her. As much as she wanted the comfort of being held, the heartbreak wouldn’t be worth it. She had to free herself before she became any more attached to Way and his stubbornness.
She held her hands up, halting him. “She did it,” Roni said. “Murdered all those people. She told me she shot them. And then she tried to kill us. She nearly knocked us off that mountain.”
Then he did it. He reached for her, wrapping one arm around her, bringing her close and crushing her against him. She didn’t fight it. Just settled her cheek against his chest, breathing in the faded scent of his laundry soap and wanting…more. Of this.
Of him.
Dammit.
They’d never work. She knew it. And yet, she stayed in his arms, taking in every ounce of whatever he gave.
He dropped a kiss on top of her head. “You’re okay. I promise. You’re okay.”
“What’s worse is I feel sorry for her. I know what it’s like to be alone. To suffer a devastating loss like that. It’s horrible. What she did is horrible.”
“Y’all all right over there?”
Still snuggled against Way, Roni turned her head. A nurse leaving the building. Great. Nothing like a public meltdown.
“Yes, ma’am,” Way said. “Thank you.”
The nurse stood, obviously waiting for Roni to answer. “Yes,” she said. “I’m fine.”
Then she backed away from Way, looking up at him and nodding. “I’m good. Thank you.”
The nurse moved on and Roni shook her head. “I have to call Maggie.”
“Why?”
Roni slid her phone from her back pocket. “The rest of the bullets are in Bernadette’s basement. In a safe.”
“She’s already there,” Way said. “The feds beat her to it. Sounds like they took over the scene.”
“Dammit.” She poked Maggie’s name on the screen. “I’m still calling her. She can tell them where to look.”
* * *
By the time Way got Roni back to Mrs. Tasky’s, Maggie had alerted the feds to the bullets and they were scouring the workshop.
For now, there was nothing to do but wait until Maggie and the feds sorted the mess out.
At least they were safe. But holy hell, Bernadette Ambrose was a fucked-up woman.
Way pulled to the curb, sliding his SUV into park, more than ready to walk Roni inside.
“No,” she said. “I’ll go myself.”
“I can walk you in.”
She shook her head. Damned hardheaded woman. “Come on. Let me at least make sure you get in there okay.”
“I don’t want you to. I need…space.”
Ah, shit. He hated the space line. Typically, he was the one giving it and suddenly the healthy weight of it pressed in on him. Quite the weapon that one.
Plus, she wouldn’t even make eye contact and that never turned out well.
“Space,” he said. “What does that mean exactly?”
“I need time to think. About you. About what went on this week.” She circled her hand around her head. “I’m a mess.”
“So, what are you gonna do?” He jerked his head toward Mrs. Tasky’s B&B. “Sit inside alone
?”
She faced him, meeting his gaze dead on. “I’m going back to DC. I have a job, Way. At least, I think I still have a job. The rest of this is for people way above my pay grade to figure out. I’ve done my part.”
He forced himself to not react. To not scoff or shake his head or any other damned form of body language that would piss her off. But, really? She couldn’t be serious. Not after what they’d been through. “You’re going?”
“We both knew this wasn’t forever.”
For a solid five seconds he absorbed it. Took stock of that punch to the chest, which, in his mind, might be heartbreak. Sure, he’d had women drop-kick him, but none of it ever felt like…this. Like his world changing.
Whatever it was, it sucked. “Oh, hell no,” he said. “Don’t put this on me. You’re going because you want to.”
She let out a sigh, then broke eye contact, staring straight ahead out the windshield. “I suppose that’s true.”
She lifted the door handle—wait. She was going? Just walking away?
Apparently, because she hopped to the curb, started to close the door, then turned back. Her dark eyes shimmered under the waning afternoon sun. Tears. Damn, he hated making women cry.
“Goodbye, Way. Thank you for everything.”
“Roni, wait!”
She shut the door, waving him off. Not happening. She wasn’t walking away like that.
He shoved at his door, stepped out onto the running board and peering at her over the open door. “Seriously? You’re leaving like this?”
She didn’t turn. Kept on moving, maybe even speeding up, trying to put distance between them.
He watched her go, watched her climb the steps and reach the door. Her name was right there on his tongue. Stop her.
Way opened his mouth, but…nothing. He couldn’t do it. Couldn’t beg her to stop. Without bothering to glance back, she closed the front door and was gone.
“Well, shit.”
His pulse hammered and a throbbing pain nearly split his skull open.
Women.
Always a challenge.
Burning Ache Page 28
