Eric (In the Company of Snipers Book 15)

by Irish Winters

  God, don’t taunt the guy now that you’ve poked his eye out. Eric pulled her back into his side, his rifle still aimed for a headshot if Carlson so much as breathed wrong. Without looking, he sought her cheek with his lips. Damn, he was proud of his wife, but scared what might go down next.

  Carlson snapped his wrist forward as if tossing an invisible towel into the ring. Grover pivoted to his left, motioning with a sweeping gesture across his neck to his guys. Murphy and Jordan closed ranks with Shea squeezed in tight. It happened too quickly to know precisely which one of them fired first, but HOLY SHIT!

  Any gunfire was swiftly overcome when, with a screeching bellow, the five-ton cargo truck pitched up from the ground in a heaving ball of flames. All doors popped open. Black smoke belched out from shattered windows that instantly resembled empty eye sockets. Grover’s men screamed and ran, some of them engulfed in flames. Murphy’s cottage windows blew, too. Eric slammed Shea into his side, protecting her with his body while the wreck spewed whistling, burning shrapnel.

  Murphy knocked them both to the ground, covering them with his body as well. Jordan joined the huddle, while Eric tried like hell to maintain a protective barrier over Shea, his elbows locked at the sides of her head to keep the weight of his friends from crushing her.

  A tear dripped straight out of his eye and onto her pretty face. It trickled down her cheek, and their gazes locked. This was it, damn it. The end. Between the hail of gunfire, the fireworks, and the shrapnel from that five-ton, it wouldn’t take long before Murphy or Jordan took a hit. Then him. But not Shea.

  “I’ve got you, baby,” he ground out. His elbows dug painfully into Murphy’s concrete patio. “I didn’t mean for it to end like this.”

  “Me neither.” She reached one hand up between their bodies and wiped her thumb under his eye, cupping his jaw. God, she was a study in peace and calm, her nightmares at last revealed and dealt with. “You’re hurt.”

  He shrugged it off. “Yeah, well, it’s been a tough day.”

  “You’ve always been my hero, Eric,” she said, her eyes brimming. “I only wish I could love you longer.”

  “How about forever?” he asked. Because that was what lay ahead. Death. Then forever. With her and Cheyenne. Except for the dying part, it almost seemed inviting.

  More shots rang out. He waited for Murphy or Jordan to flinch from a hit, or for the bullet with his name on it to find its way through them and into his ribs or skull. He kissed his wife one last time, her lips quivering as he stiffened his neck and shoulders to not bump heads with her. He pressed his lips to hers and absorbed the tender flesh one last time. There was no better way to die than protecting her to the bitter end. If this was to be his final moment on earth, it was enough.

  “Close your eyes and hold onto me,” he ordered, gritting his teeth. “Even if I get hit, hold your cover until the shooting stops. Let me shield you until the end. Then I want you to live for me, Shea. No matter what, never forget how much I love you, but live, damn it. Find a way to be happy. Go back to that desert island and live.”

  “No,” she said, a sob caught in her throat. “I go where you go. That’s the deal.” She pressed her face into the breathing space beneath his chin, her breath warm and moist on his neck. “I’m never leaving you again.”

  So be it then. Eric closed his eyes and waited for the end, while Murphy and Jordan still hugged the living shit out of him. Hell had come to Murphy’s quaint little cottage. The groans and shrieks of falling rubble filled the yard. The rancid stench of burning diesel clung to every breath, coating his tongue, until…

  All at once—silence—except for the roar of flames from the burning rig, and the groans of a few injured men. Eric didn’t dare hope the shooting was over. When nothing else came except a grumbly, “Damn, girl. Are you finished yet?” from Murphy, Eric pushed out from under his guys.

  Lo and behold, Elsa Finnegan stood there with the butt of her rifle on her hip, and an army of three stalwart young men at her six. They had that same devil-may-care glint in their smiling eyes as she did.

  God, don’t tell me the IRA just saved my life, Eric thought as he pushed to his feet with Shea plastered to his side. Yet it surely looked as if that was what had gone down. Grover’s men were on the ground, some by fire, some by gunshot. A gray sweater smoldered over a dismembered body. Carlson’s body was indistinguishable in the debris.

  “You Americans,” Elsa muttered, her right cheek pinched into a smirk. “Why are you hiding like a bunch of school children? Did I nah tell ye that I have friends in high places?”

  Ah, he loved her Irish brogue. Eric would’ve kissed her himself, but Jordan beat him to it. One of her brothers-in-arms belted Murphy’s upper bicep a stiff one. “’Tis a fine barrel of Jamison you’ll be owing your niece for saving yer sorry arse now, Finnegan. Let’s have a go ‘fore she’s done mugging the hired help and drinks ’tall herself.”

  Elsa eased out of Jordan’s clutches long enough to mutter a quick, “Knock it off, Sean. Go secure the prisoners if there be any left alive.” When Jordan dropped his hands, she snagged his collar. “Not you, my handsome man. I have plans for you.”

  Now that the danger had passed, Shea couldn’t seem to stop crying. Her friends had stood with her during that daring face-off with Carlson. Not only Eric, Jordan, Murphy, and Elsa, but Phoenix and Gordie, too. She’d felt them. Even Cheyenne was there—in spirit. They’d all filled her with confidence that evaporated the moment she’d hit that ENTER key.

  After quick introductions with Elsa and her team, Eric carried Shea into the cottage and straight back to bed. He set her on the edge of the mattress and removed the tennis shoes she’d borrowed while she struggled to compose herself. Winning should’ve felt better than this, but all that noise. All those men dying. It was a horrible way to end this… this mission.

  Sliding his palms up her thighs, Eric tugged her borrowed sweat pants off. The sweatshirt went next, before he wrapped her in the blanket and gathered her onto his lap. Finally, he settled against the headboard, and there he stayed, breathing hard with her pressed under his chin. “God, baby, you never cease to amaze me.”

  “I told you I could wreck him,” she croaked, for the first time free of the death threat hanging over her. Ruining Carlson financially seemed enough of a fitting punishment, but Elsa’s solution honestly felt better. Carlson deserved to die.

  “Were you serious? Carlson’s chip is a hoax?”

  “It’s actually not, but it is designed to leave a port open on any security operating system it encounters. That was how he brought the eastern seaboard down. He’s got someone on-line at this very moment hacking more power grids than just our country’s. Whoever Carlson’s computer tech guy is, he or she is as dangerous as Carlson was.”

  “And he killed his first wife?”

  She nodded. “For a genius, he wasn’t very smart. He kept three ghost files on his desktop. One contained a video clip that looked like it was taken from a scope. It showed Prentiss Carlson through crosshairs at the railing of a ship. Remember when she went missing on that cruise? The guy who did the job tossed her body overboard after he killed her and her baby. That clip was his proof of death so his hired assassin could get paid.”

  Shea whined, her heart breaking for that other lost child, the one Carlson hadn’t wanted.

  Eric whistled under his breath. “What was in the other two files?”

  “Sheesh, eric, I didn’t have time to look at everything. I needed a kill-switch to all his accounts before you guys got yourselves killed.” A yawn came out of nowhere. Shea ran her fingers through her hair, shuffling it like a handful of playing cards. “And I know where Rosie and the cabbie are. They’re at another one of Mr. Carlson’s mansions. Look for the castle north of the River Suir. At least they’re safe.”

  “Remind me never to get on your bad side,” Eric murmured as his large hands skated down her back to her ass. The man had no idea the surge of warmth that flooded her at his int
imate touch. It usually excited, but this time, it was the perfect gesture. Eric had literally held her life in those powerful, tender hands. Cheyenne’s, too.

  “Tell me a story?” she asked because that might be the only way to get him to stop with the questions.

  The sound coming up from his chest rumbled like pure honey on her favorite hero pancakes. He kissed the top of her head, but she only lasted long enough to hear, “Once upon a time, there were three dirty little pigs...”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  “No fucking way,” Jordan hissed. “That’s who you are?”

  Eric lifted his head from the pillow; surprised he’d dozed off, but positive of the cuss word from beyond the guest room. Easing his aching body out from beneath his sleeping wife, he rolled her onto her side. The poor thing didn’t budge. He tucked Shea into bed before he joined the warriors gathered in Murphy’s living room.

  “What’s up?” Eric asked quietly, shutting the bedroom door behind him.

  “Them,” Jordan said from where he sat beside Elsa on the sofa, his arm behind her, his gaze fixed on the men sitting cross-legged on the floor.

  Eric took a good, hard look at Elsa’s team with their short haircuts and straight postures. The same dark trousers. Same button-up shirts. All sported a golden winged angel pinned to their collars. That seemingly insignificant detail explained Jordan’s F-bomb. Elsa and these men were not just Ireland’s version of Army Rangers. They were military intelligence, the infamous G2. In person.

  And that angel depicted on the pins? None other than God’s right-hand man himself, Gabriel, the bringer of tidings of great joy as well as the bearer of dire consequences. Gabriel was the archangel with Daniel in the lion’s den during ancient times. He’d protected God’s prophet while, at the same time, he’d foretold the downfall of wicked Persia and Greece. Yeah. That guy. “Military Intelligence, huh?” Eric asked.

  The nearest man climbed to his feet and stuck out a hand to Eric. Discerning blue eyes twinkled. “Agent Sean Denning at your service, Agent Reynolds. You’ve a bit of the old sod in ye, do ye nah?”

  “Both of my parents,” Eric said as he returned the strong grip, “and my wife.”

  “Aye, the Powers hail from County Kilkenny as I’m sure ye know, the Reynolds from County Dublin. What took yer ancestors to America? ’Twas the famine?”

  “One of them,” Eric admitted. “Thanks for having our backs out there. I’m glad none of you were hurt.”

  By then, the others were on their feet. “’Twas our pleasure,” one of them said. “I’m Gary Dunne and this lad here’s Brian O’Macken. ’Tis a good day when we get to save an American’s arse.”

  “And this American is damned glad you did,” Eric returned. “Come visit me the next time you’re stateside. I’ll show you around.”

  “I’ll bloody well take you up on that, mate,” Gary said. “Me wife’s family lives in Boston. You might be seeing me sooner than ye think.”

  “While you’ve been tending to your wife, the rest of us dealt with the authorities,” Elsa piped up, her palm comfortable on Jordan’s thigh. “The coroner and his technicians are still gathering the bodies, and the constable wants to speak with Shea and you. I told him that wouldn’t be possible, that you need to leave Ireland by nightfall.”

  That was considerate. “And...?” Eric waited, his mind racing over what he thought he knew. Could leaving this country be that easy?

  Elsa winked. “Get your wife ready to travel. A private helicopter is standing by to fly you to Shannon Airport. Once there, you’ll transfer to Aer Lingus. You’re booked first class. You should be able to sleep and do it in comfort.”

  Eric raked his fingers over his head. Sleep was the last thing on his mind. “We’re taking the laptop with us.”

  “As you should,” Elsa said without batting an eye. Lifting her left wrist, she checked her watch. “We leave in thirty minutes. Can Shea be ready by then?”

  “You bet.”

  “I’ll get the laptop that caused all this trouble,” Murphy said, pushing up from his easy chair. Elsa’s three men followed him out.

  “Come sit, man,” Elsa declared once the room cleared, chin nodding at the chair beside her. “What else do I need to know before you leave?”

  While Jordan settled back with his eyes on Elsa, Eric took the chair to Elsa’s left and he divulged what Shea had shared. The ghost files on Carlson’s computer. The clear-cut evidence of the first Mrs. Carlson’s assassination. The fraud known as the Carlson Chip.

  “But nothing about the dynamic energy displacement model, eh?” Elsa pressed, one brow lifted. By then her elbows were on her knees and her hands were clasped. It was obvious she had her eye on the prize as well. God bless Murphy for not divulging that bit of intel to his niece. It would’ve been easy enough, as close as they were.

  “I have no idea,” Eric hedged. He didn’t know for certain and Shea had never said, but he suspected the DED was on Phoenix’s laptop. It was good to know that the guy had put his life in danger trying to do—at the end—what was right. With Carlson’s millions waved under his nose, what twenty-some kid wouldn’t have been tempted?

  Mental note to self: Ask that courageous woman of mine where she transferred Carlson’s money. That would be nice to know.

  “Your wife is very good with a computer,” Elsa stated the obvious. “NCSC would like to speak with her. Sooner than later.” Another blatant hint.

  Eric nodded, but Ireland’s National Cyber Security Centre could take a number. The FBI folks at Quantico would be speaking with Shea first. Possibly last.

  “We’re all in this together.” Elsa softened her tone. “All of us who stand on the side of freedom, that is. Fe Mhoid Bheith Saor. Sworn to be free—or die, remember?”

  “You don’t have to tell me, but Shea’s not cut out for this job. She’s lost enough.”

  “Then let’s get her to that land of liberty you’re so proud of.” With her palms to her knees, Elsa pushed to her feet, a genuine smile on her face. “You look ten sheets to the wind.”

  No kidding. In the last week, he’d survived a rollover and a beating. He’d been shot and possibly suffered a minor concussion. Not to mention all those damned airline flights he’d taken while he’d tracked Finn. Jordan didn’t look a whole lot better, but what worried him at the moment? “Can you take care of my cat?”

  A big, shitty grin cracked Jordan’s mug, but Elsa winked. “Aye, I can do that for you. Uncle Murphy told me about yer Aishling. ‘Tis the perfect name for her, don’t ye think?”

  Eric cocked his head. “Excuse me?” She’s just a cat. A clever cat, but still…

  “You didn’t know? Aishling is Gaelic for dream, Eric.”

  Was that supposed to mean something? He had to ask, “Does she seem odd to you? As if she knows what you’re thinking?” As if she does walk in dreams?

  Elsa winked. “I would nah be surprised. The cats of Ireland have always been linked to the magic of the Fae. Why else would she be here if she had nah known you needed her?”

  “I needed her?” Not likely, but now that he had time to think about it, Aishling was a most curious animal. And those crystal blue eyes… He brushed the Fae explanation aside as nonsense akin to the Irish folklore of leprechauns and elves. “You’ll keep her until I can send for her then?”

  “You know I will. Uncle Murphy’s going back to America with you, so I’ll transport her back to Dublin when I leave here. I’ll keep her safe until you call for her to join you.”

  Eric offered his hand. “We wouldn’t have survived this without your assist. I hope you know that.”

  Elsa came forward, her handshake as firm as a man’s. “Aye, you would, so don’t go thanking me just yet. ’Twas Jordan who set the perimeter charges before Grover showed up with his feckin’ five-ton. All we did was finish the job.”

  Eric hadn’t known that. “You did?”

  There sat Jordan, as humble as ever. “I let you down once, brother. I wasn�
�t doing it again. I owed you. No one, and I mean, no one, was getting your woman again.”

  That binding word again. Brother. Civilians who hadn’t served would never know that it was enough to make a grown man cry.

  Eric had Shea dressed and on her feet in ten minutes, groggy, but mobile. “And you,” he murmured to Aishling, who was stretched out on the bed, soaking up what was left of Shea’s body warmth. “I’ll come back for you, so don’t go getting your lovely self lost.”

  Damned if the silly cat didn’t wink. Uncanny is what she is. Damned uncanny. Dream, huh? Eric closed Aishling inside the bedroom, so she wouldn’t sneak out and get lost, not that he thought a door would stop her.

  Elsa’s promised helicopter sat waiting in the pasture behind Murphy’s cottage. While Jordan loaded their gear, Elsa chatted with her uncle. “You’ll be back next week then?”

  “Moira and I are flying into Sword Sunday night. If you and your guys are free, meet us there for dinner,” Murphy said as he stowed the laptop. “You know the place.”

  “Aye, that carvery you like so well, and no doubt, a pint of black beer,” Sean declared easily.

  More backslapping. More handshaking. Once Jordan finished mugging Elsa, he climbed onboard, and the helicopter lifted. Eric should have felt a measure of relief, but he’d seen too many Black Hawks brought down on their way to shelter. Still antsy, he watched for lingering signs of trouble in the soft green meadow below. The sun’s glare off a sniper’s scope. The skulking shadow of a killer at the tree line.

  At Shannon, an armed security guard accompanied them from the helicopter to a nearby airliner waiting on the tarmac. When they boarded without incident, the smallest whisper of peace breathed hope into Eric that this op was truly over.

  Because he had Shea to care for this time around, the transatlantic flight went by quickly. She slept most of the way, but near the end of it, she roused in a steadier frame of mine. Elsa must’ve alerted the crew to her delicate condition. The two flight attendants couldn’t seem to do enough for her.