by Victoria Sue
“I was busy doing nothing except having my own pity party.”
He heard the short laugh. “How many guns did I have trained on the door?”
“A few,” Mav acknowledged, knowing to admit anything less would be pointless and whatever chance he had of any sort of trust would vanish.
“And you were supposed to draw me out?”
“Of course,” Maverick acknowledged, again, knowing there was no point in arguing. It had been a dumb idea.
“I haven’t lit a fuse. I don’t have any.”
Maverick’s heart jumped. “But you’ve still got the gas, huh?” His eyes flicked to the gun.
“Don’t even think about it, or your boyfriend burns while he’s awake to really enjoy it.”
It was like a switch was flicked. How had Mav missed the evil in the voice of the friend he had known? He had trusted Chaplin. He would have guaranteed his loyalty right up to this second. Mav guessed somehow he had still thought of the friend who’d had his back.
Fuck. Was this his fault? No, that was even more conceited, except maybe if he had reached back out to Chaplin when he had called him and been his sounding board, he’d have… what? Not made the jump from having a bad day to slaughter anyone who made it so?
“There, I’ve even supplied the crutch you need.” He waved the gun. Deacon never took his eyes from Maverick. Sad eyes. Eyes that seemed to ask why he had come. And Mav wanted to ask him how he could ever think Mav wouldn’t, but the silence remained. The question and the answer were far too private.
Chaplin wouldn’t take that from them as well.
“What’s Balcad?” Deacon asked.
“Still trying to keep me talking?” Chaplin laughed shortly.
“Balcad is a town near Mogadishu and—” The gun pressed against Deacon’s temple shut Maverick up.
They made a pathetic group walking back to the cellar. Deacon was Mav’s crutch, and Chaplin’s gun the motivation to keep them moving. He waved them both to the cold cellar and sat down on an overturned crate. He even lowered the gun, but Maverick knew it would barely take him a second to lift it and fire, and Mav was in no position to rush him. He couldn’t even stand. Chaplin had been very clever.
“So now what?” Maverick ground out, taking a look around the room. Empty but for an old sink in the corner and the gas cans.
“I never wanted you involved,” Chaplin answered.
“Then why?” Maverick asked. “Deacon had nothing to do with Jones’s decision. The man was an imbecile.” Who didn’t deserve to die.
“So he insists. Have you ever seen him on stage?”
Maverick shook his head, wondering why the sudden change of subject. Apart from the few seconds he’d seen on TV when Jamie and then the reporters had shown him, Six Sundays had never been on his radar.
Chaplin smiled then fiddled with his phone. He turned it so Mav could see the screen a second before Deacon’s voice seemed to fill the quiet of the cellar. It was “Only a Joker.” The song that had been their number one. But even as he listened and knew the singing was good, all he heard, all he saw, were the deaths surrounding it. Something made him glance at Deacon just in time to see a single tear fall.
“Turn it off,” Mav ground out and reached for Deacon’s hand. The desperation and the apology were clear in Deacon’s gaze. It’s not your fault.
“So you see, shake a bit of ass, throw a kiss, and he had the girls eating out of his hand. They didn’t even care he’s gay.” Chaplin shook his head as if that was baffling. “I mean, what’s with that? Do they think love will make him straight?”
“It’s an innocent fantasy,” Deacon said. “And I doubt very much if there’s anything sexual in it. They’re kids,” he said, and Maverick could hear the disgust in Deacon’s tone and wanted to tell him to shut up. He squeezed Deacon’s hand in warning, but it was too late.
“Kids?” Chaplin jumped up. “Shelley wasn’t a kid. She had a fucking kid.”
“You also said she was ill.”
Chaplin stared at Deacon. “I think I actually called her a fucking psycho, but none of that excuses what you did.”
“He didn’t do anything,” Mav said, trying to be reasonable and wishing he had listened to the negotiator so he would know what to say. “And you have me now. We don’t need him.”
Chaplin scoffed. “I don’t need either of you.”
Which was what Maverick was afraid of. If Chaplin lost all hope, he would kill them all. “Why don’t you use us as a bargaining tool?”
Chaplin shot him a derogatory look.
“No, I mean it.” He waved at himself. “I’m no threat to you. Tell them if they provide you with a truck, you will let him go. You can use me as a hostage.”
“Or I could do it the other way around.”
“You could.” Maverick could almost hear the hammering of his heart. “But Deacon would need tying up to immobilize. I can’t run anywhere.” He could see Chaplin consider it for a second. “And you’ve ruined his life. What better way to punish him than to make him live as a nobody?”
Chaplin still didn’t dismiss the idea.
“It’s the only way you are going to get free. I’m sure you have money stashed.” He’d seen the tiny apartment and knew Chaplin had never been out of work. He had money, Mav was sure of it. A flicker. A flicker of something in Chaplin’s eyes. It was hope. He was sure it was hope. Chaplin fished the phone out of his pocket. “Seven missed calls,” he mused. “I am popular.”
He met Maverick’s gaze. Whatever Mav said, he never thought Chaplin would go for it, and he knew he would have multiple guns trained on his head as soon as he appeared, but they wouldn’t have a clear shot.
“So what if I do get out? What then?” Chaplin mused almost to himself. “Maybe I should ask for a million dollars while I’m at it.”
He was fucking with them. Maverick knew it, and his heart sank. He wanted to scream and rail. Shout his frustration and his fear. He had made Mav crawl, but if Chaplin thought humiliation would make him what—less? Less determined? Less of a threat? Less of a man?—then he didn’t know his lieutenant as well as he thought he did.
Mav would beg if it made the difference between Deacon living and Molly not having someone to take her home. He would do whatever it took. He needed to get the gun. He felt Deacon shiver at his side and put his arm around him but kept his eyes on Chaplin while Chaplin stared back. He needed Chaplin to come to him. He could do fuck-all from where he was.
He saw Chaplin glance toward the gas canisters and lick his lips. Maverick stared at Charlie. He had to think of something. “I spoke to Troy.”
Charlie huffed. “He was good. Heard he got a new gig.”
“He had a lot of good things to say about you.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Charlie said sarcastically, but he was still sitting.
Keep him talking. “And we spoke to Mandy outside. She said she was hoping you were going to ask her for a date.”
“It’s too late,” Charlie said in exasperation.
“Here? Absolutely,” Maverick agreed. “We both know that. But are you really ready to just give up? That’s not the Charlie I know. That’s not the Charlie who had my back more times than I care to count.”
“I’m not that Charlie, Mav. I haven’t been that Charlie for a long time,” he whispered with finality, and Mav knew it was no use. He wasn’t getting anywhere. He was out of options, and if something didn’t happen fast, they were going to die.
THERE WAS something wrong. Deacon clamped down on the hysterical laugh that threatened to break free. Something worse, then. Maverick’s gaze held his. For once, he wasn’t looking at Chaplin. Chaplin moved his head, and Deacon turned to watch. He was looking at the gas cans. Maverick squeezed his hands, and suddenly Deacon understood. Chaplin wasn’t going to let them go. He was quite sure Chaplin was insane. Not that sane people couldn’t commit murder, but there had been something as he was talking to Maverick. Something missing. And it
wasn’t just compassion, but that definitely seemed absent. What was Maverick trying to tell him?
He looked at the gun. Chaplin was big. Not as big as Maverick but certainly bigger than him, and most likely stronger. Deacon had never even held a gun, let alone fired one, and the thought he could wrestle a cop for one was laughable.
Except, they had no choice.
Then he heard a sound, they all did, and Chaplin swerved around to the stairs, and in an instant, Deacon was on his feet and lunged. But Chaplin was quicker and the gun in his face was the threat he needed to freeze. There was no other noise, but they had heard something, someone, and the knowledge was reflected in the cool green eyes staring at him.
“Char-lie,” Maverick said, but Deacon noticed the fractional gap and knew Maverick was struggling to call him by the nickname.
Chaplin kept the gun trained on Deacon but glanced at Mav. “What’s up there, Mav? Forgotten my name along with your friends?” He smiled, but the pity and condescension was evident on his face. “You didn’t honestly think I was going to fall for your ‘let’s get out of here’ speech, did you? I’ve planned this for months, and while I love the idea of him living with nothing, I’ve done that, and it’s getting tiresome. He doesn’t deserve to live, but for old time’s sake, I’ll give you a sporting chance. You have three seconds before I pull this trigger. Let’s see you try and get the gun from me, huh?”
He couldn’t do it; Deacon knew Maverick couldn’t do it—it had to be him—and he launched himself desperately at Chaplin at the same time as the door to the cellar nearly exploded. Smoke, a flash of light so bright, and something hard hit him in his gut and he flew back. Shouts and the answering pop pop pop told Deacon someone had fired a gun. “Mav?” he tried to call out and shrank back as something out of a nightmare reached for him with big hands and pushed a mask against his face. For a second, he struggled to take a breath, but everything really hurt, and he suddenly wasn’t interested in trying for another one.
Chapter Twenty-One
THE SAME fucking white chairs.
Maverick had understood what had happened. He thought it likely they were listening, and as soon as Chaplin said he was going to kill Deacon, they had acted. He knew they’d had no choice.
Hearing the footsteps, he looked up immediately, watching Phan as he strode toward him. “Any news?”
Mav closed his eyes and shook his head. Deacon was in surgery, fighting for his fucking life because he’d had to do what Maverick should have done, had been trained to do. Deacon didn’t know anything about guns. He wasn’t trained to disarm anyone, but he’d thought he had to act because Maverick was too fucking useless to even stand up. When he’d heard the shot, he’d known from the sound it had been a .22. He’d heard them often enough, and he knew what happened even with the smoke making it difficult to see what was happening.
“I was trying to work out how to tell him I knew you would breach, but he didn’t understand. He thought I expected him to try. He’s gonna—”
“No, he’s not.” They both looked up at Jamie, balancing on her crutches. Maverick reached blindly for her, and she sank to the chair next to him and put her arms around him. For a second, he soaked up the comfort, but then he drew back. He didn’t deserve it.
“This isn’t your fault.” It was as if she had plucked the words right out of his brain.
“He was one of my best friends,” Maverick nearly shouted. “I served with him for five years. How didn’t I know? How could I possibly not know?”
Jamie put her hand on his arm. “Because you’re not God. I know you think you know everything, but I hate to burst your bubble.”
“She’s right,” Phan agreed. “There were a lot of things we should have picked up on, but hindsight is a wonderful thing.”
Maverick shook his head. Deacon had been hurt twice, and both times because Maverick hadn’t been able to do his job. He had no business taking this on in the first place.
“We found something else out,” Phan said, and Jamie nodded.
“You won’t believe what Kim was told.”
Kim? He looked at the detective and his sister.
“It was actually Jamie’s idea, but I had one of my officers check CCTV. The car that sideswiped her originally was a Dodge Charger, a black one.”
Mav looked at them both. “But there’s no way he could have known.”
“He was in Keith’s office when he took my call after Shirley rang me about Deacon. I wanted his opinion. Chaplin was just getting a chewing out for being late, and Keith made Chaplin wait while he did a background check for me.”
“He didn’t want Deacon to have any sort of backup. We’ve also got warrants to confirm his IP address. We have all his social media access and can prove he arranged to meet Rachel Mackenzie.”
“Is he alive?” In all the panic about Deacon, he had never given the bastard a thought.
“For now,” Phan said grimly, and Mav watched Phan and Jamie share a look. Chaplin had been right about that. He did have a needle with his name on it waiting for him.
They all looked up as the swing doors opened and the doctor walked over to them. “Mr. Daniels’s family?”
“Yes,” Maverick croaked and stood up.
The doctor focused on him. “He’s out of surgery and will be taken to ICU. The bullet nicked his left ventricle, so no pulmonary veins, thank goodness, and thanks to the paramedics on standby, his heart was still beating when he got here. I won’t lie, he’s lost a tremendous amount of blood, but he’s been lucky. You will be allowed to see him for a very short period of time once he gets settled, so I suggest you wait here.”
Maverick sat back down, and Jamie squeezed his hand. “I ought to get back to Molly.”
He’d never asked. “How is she?”
“Bright as a button and wants to know where Uncle Danny is.” Jamie pressed her lips together and blinked a few times.
“How about you let me be your chauffeur, and I’ll go grab a wheelchair?” Phan said kindly. “You shouldn’t be walking on that ankle.”
Jamie smiled and acquiesced. Phan walked away. She took Mav’s hand. “He will be all right. I know he will. As soon as you hear anything, you tell me. Phan says he will have someone outside of both ICUs all night.” She looked out the window. “Day,” she amended.
Maverick nodded. He must have been sitting here longer than he thought. After another minute, Phan returned with a wheelchair and a coffee for Maverick.
“Anything you want—food, clothes, a break—the nurses know to call me.”
Maverick was surprised, but then, the way Phan had looked at Jamie, maybe he shouldn’t be.
It was nearly another three hours before they let Maverick in to see Deacon. His blood pressure was dipping dangerously low, and he was on a ventilator. Mav was nearly beside himself between the real terror Deacon wasn’t going to make it and the absolute conviction he was responsible for it. In the end, he was convinced the nurses let him in because they took pity on him, and he hadn’t done or said anything to draw attention to the fact he was still sitting there an hour after the nurse had decreed he would be allowed to stay for five minutes.
And held his hand. The nurse had said Deacon was a fighter, but Maverick knew that already. The way he had stepped up for Molly after everything he had gone through showed that. And in the cellar. He had tried to take on an armed cop. A trained serviceman. And he had stepped up because the man who should have done it couldn’t do so.
The whole time Mav had served with Chaplin kept running through a loop in his head. The first time they had met. Maverick had just been posted to Iraq that time, and Chaplin was his technician. Chaplin had the experience a junior pilot didn’t have, and that’s why they had been put together. And he had slotted right in with him and Cass. Five years, they had been together, Iraq twice, home, Somalia. Plus, the rest.
I should have known. And he should have.
“Name’s Hunter Chaplin, but everyone calls me Charlie
.”
And Mav had shaken hands and introduced himself as Delgardo. Charlie’s eyebrows had gone up.
“No first name?”
And Mav had blushed or as much as he could do and be noticeable. “It’s Mav.”
“Mav?” Charlie had repeated doubtfully. “What kind of a name is—” And he’d caught on immediately and laughed. The bastard had laughed until he cried, and Mav had to stand there and take it, and then when he had sobered up, he had put on his shades and said he thought he should be called Iceman.
And he would hum the fucking soundtrack for Top Gun every chance he got.
And they had been friends. Friends for life, they always said. Then Maverick had forgotten. And Charlie had killed people.
“Mr. Delgardo?”
Mav looked up to the same doctor who had operated on Deacon. He stood with difficulty. “He’s stable and his blood pressure is where we want it to be. I’m not going to take him off the ventilator until tomorrow because I want him to remain sedated to give everything a chance to start healing.” He smiled. “You really ought to go home.”
“I heard….” He felt useless. “I heard that patients even on a ventilator can hear you.”
The doctor’s eyes softened. “You weren’t talking.”
“I was worried the nurses would kick me out if I made a noise.”
Dr. Granger—according to his name tag—chuckled. “You can stay, and yes, there are a lot of accounts of people being in comas who have given quite accurate accounts of conversations they have heard, but this is a medically induced coma. He is sedated deliberately, and it’s not exactly the same.”
“Will I be in the way?”
Granger shook his head. “I don’t think so, but it’s the nurses’ decision. I just do as I’m told.” He lowered his voice. “I will tell them I have no objection.”
At the last second, Mav remembered to thank him and they shook hands.
