Eric (In the Company of Snipers Book 15)

by Irish Winters

  God, the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor was a welcome sight. “I’m home,” Shea whispered from where she was tucked in under his arm. “I’m finally home.”

  Eric planted a kiss to the top of her head. He’d given her the window seat for this precise moment. The first glimpse of America was always a heartfelt rush after deployments. “Almost. We still have to catch an express into Reagan, but you’re sleeping in our bed tonight.”

  “Our bed?” she asked, that beautiful glint of disbelief in her eye. “The same one? You kept it?”

  How could he tell her what a sap he was? That bed was the place he’d prayed and cried for her every night since she’d run away. He couldn’t get rid of it any more than sign that damned divorce decree. Eric settled for an extra moist kiss to her forehead. “Our bed, baby. The house is different, but the bed…” He choked. “The bed’s sacred, baby.” It’s where we made love and I’m never getting rid of it.

  Shea snuggled into him, her hand on his chest and the scenery forgotten. “I so hope I’m pregnant,” she whispered at his neck.

  What a marvelous, hopeful thing to look forward to. Eric held his wife as the aircraft circled the city before it landed at JFK. The fairytale ending Shea deserved was finally in reach.

  “There’s something you need to know before we go home,” Eric whispered on approach.

  His wife’s lashes lifted as she looked up at him. “Yes?”

  “We’ve got three dogs now.”

  Her eyes lit up. Her shoulders scrunched. “We do?”

  “Yeah.” He pressed his forehead to hers. “Bogie, Buddy, and Beau. They were strays. I got them from the shelter. They’re boarded now and I’ll have to stop on the way home to get them.”

  “Aww, the three dirty little pigs,” she said, her fingertips on his cheek, making him wish they were already home and in that bed.

  “The house was empty and I… I...”

  “And you filled it up,” Shea finished for him.

  “Something like that,” he admitted. His throat closed at the memory of all the lonely nights that left him feeling like he lived in a morgue. Bogie and Buddy joined the solitude first, but then he’d spotted little Beau quivering in the farthest corner of a big empty kennel, so now he was a no-kidding dog owner. Between them and Harley’s Bible, things were almost bearable until that South American op when he thought he’d lost his picture of Cheyenne. It wasn’t the only one he had of her, but it was the one he’d talked to. Cried with. Yeah, that.

  “I can’t wait to meet them. What kinds are they?”

  “Bogie and Buddy are brothers, brindle pit bulls, but Beau’s the boss. He’s some kind of a Chihuahua mix. Looks a little like a Jack Russell with whiskers all over his face. You should see him chase his brothers. He thinks he owns the place.”

  “And now we’ll have Aishling,” Shea murmured. “We’ll have a house full.”

  Eric slid his palm over Shea’s flat belly. “I hope.”

  Just then the pilot announced their arrival. Sixty-three degrees and scattered showers in New York City. He thanked everyone for flying Aer Lingus and landed the flight with barely a bump or a rattle. Give that man a standing ovation, Eric thought as he pressed one last kiss to the top of Shea’s head.

  “There’s a limo waiting for you on the tarmac,” one of the flight attendants said. “Courtesy of a Captain Finnegan of the Irish Guarda. Do you know her? She said the limo was on the house.”

  That elicited a growl from Murphy. “That girl’s making too much money.”

  Eric kept his opinion to himself. Throwing a little money at the hacker who’d gotten away was a smart move on Elsa’s part. It was a small token of one-upmanship in the face of the formidable FBI, but it was classy. Damned classy.

  “I’m good with it,” Jordan said brightly.

  Of course you are, Eric thought, you hound dog. It’s a send-off from Elsa. Why wouldn’t you be good with it? “How long before our connection?” he asked the attendant.

  “Three hours,” she replied. “That should be enough for you to grab a decent lunch.”

  “And a pint or two,” Murphy added.

  “And I need to call Ireland.” Jordan didn’t seem to know when to leave well enough alone.

  “Not to my niece, you’re not,” Murphy shot over his shoulder as they disembarked.

  The showy limo, a black Lincoln Town car stretch, was a nice change from the usual airport shuttles. The uniformed driver stood at crisp attention as they made their way down the steps. With a curt nod, he ushered Jordan and Murphy in first, then assisted Shea to the side-bench. Amenities of the highest order greeted Eric once inside. Plush white leather seats, as soft as butter. A sidebar with Irish Crystal decanters, matching lowball glasses. A Bunn push-button coffee thermos. Irish Coffee cups with crystal handles. Chic. Very chic.

  All exterior limo windows were tinted dark to ensure anonymity, the privacy screen between the driver and the occupants as well. Once the driver closed the passenger door, he was out of sight and out of mind.

  As the engine left the runway in its rearview, Eric tugged Shea into his side, content to hold her on this last leg of her harrowing two-year journey. The driver had placed her next to the privacy screen, but Eric wanted her in his arms. “Almost home,” he whispered against her temple.

  Her answering squeeze on his thigh jump-started a fever in his blood that he couldn’t wait to put out. The Reynolds family was finally back together, maybe with a baby on the way. Except for his report to Alex, Operation Find Finn was over. Berglund’s laptop with its dynamic energy displacement model was in safe hands, Murphy’s at the moment. God, it’s good to be home.

  Jordan kicked his long legs into the center aisle, his head tipped back. “I had no idea G2 had these kinds of funds. Man, Murph, your niece is spoiling us rotten. I think I’m in love.”

  “You do know I’m right here, don’t you?” Murphy growled. “Keep your paws off my niece, Hannigan.”

  Jordan lifted a brow, his grin wide and relaxed. “She started it.”

  “Hey, Eric, why don’t you call up front and find out where we’re going?” Murphy asked.

  “Knowing, my girlfriend, we’re probably on our way to a fine Irish pub,” Jordan added. “I’d wager there’s plenty of them in New York City. Are you good for twenty, Murph?”

  Murphy landed a smack to the backside of Jordan’s head. “She’s not your girlfriend, you bone-headed lout.”

  “Sorry, old man. That’s between me and my girl.”

  “She’s not your girl!” Another smack did nothing to dampen Jordan’s wicked grin.

  Depressing the call button, Eric asked their driver, “Excuse me, sir, but exactly where are you taking us?”

  The privacy window lowered. A pistol lifted into view.

  “To hell if I’ve got anything to say about it!” Hugh Carlson roared.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “Give me the damned model,” Carlson growled from the mangled mess that used to be his face. “Where is it? I know you have it.”

  Shea’s heart dropped at the wretched sight of the man riding shotgun. How had he gotten from Ireland to JFK ahead of them? “What are you doing here?”

  Instead of that salacious sneer Carlson was known for, saliva dribbled over a raw bottom lip as he spat, “I’m not as dumb as you idiots think.”

  Red seeped through the already bloodstained bandages on his hands and forearms. Charred hair and an oozing scalp turned him into a ghoulish sight. There was no hint of the arrogant brows. Worse, he seemed to have trouble gripping the weapon that bobbed with deadly intent, if not accuracy, in his right hand.

  Eric leaned forward to protect her, but the second he went for his bag, Carlson bellowed, “Touch it and I’ll blow her head off!” A dollop of spit slid over what was left of his lower lip, but he seemed not to notice. “Where is it? Give it to me.”

  “You should be in the hospital, Hugh,” Murphy countered.

  No. He should
be dead.

  Carlson fired once, straight up, blasting a hole through the limo roof. “Give it to me. Now!”

  Murphy lifted his hands, both palms forward. “Now take it easy. I’m just trying to help—”

  The gun jerked on him. “You say one more word and I’ll blow you to hell. I swear I will.”

  They were barely off airport property. Surely someone heard that discharge. Eric wouldn’t like it, but Shea knew what she had to do. All of these men would die for her if she didn’t act. She couldn’t bear it. Leaning away from the front seat, she murmured, “I’ll take him to where it’s hidden.”

  The distraction worked. Carlson’s face turned towards her, and as quickly as it did, Eric’s boot connected with Carlson’s hand as Eric pulled her back under his arm with an angry, “Like hell you will!”

  The pistol slipped, but just as quickly, another weapon appeared in Carlson’s right. Damned if it wasn’t a .44 Magnum, Israel’s powerful semi-automatic, a Desert Eagle. With its six-inch barrel, it was one hundred percent blow-your-head-off deadly, just like the one in Eric’s gun safe at home.

  Carlson aimed at Eric, the barrel wavering like he couldn’t see straight. The silvery flash of a blade in transit from Eric’s right hand was all she saw until—THUNK. It landed.

  Before Shea could catch her breath, Jordan scrambled past her and grabbed the weapon from Carlson’s limp grip. “Pull over!” he commanded, pointing the weapon at the limo driver.

  Like the fierce protector he was, Eric palmed the side of her face, forcing her to look away from the grisly view. But Shea needed to see the knife in Carlson’s throat. She had to witness the desperate plea for help flickering in his lying eyes. She had to hear his gurgling death rattle, so much like poor, sweet Phoenix’s, just before he’d died. Shea had to know Carlson couldn’t hurt her or anyone she loved ever again.

  Shoving away from Eric, she angled past Jordan’s beefy shoulder enough for one last look. “Die,” she commanded Hugh Carlson on behalf of her murdered friends.

  Eric kept a tight hold on her forearm as she aimed her hatred at the brutal financial genius who’d stooped so low as to kill his unborn child. “Die! God damn you, die!”

  As if in defiance, Carlson gasped, “But I… I just want... Finn.”

  “Then take him!” Shea screamed, poor Eric holding her back with both hands now. “Take him to hell with you because I’m. Not. Finn! I’m Mrs. Eric Reynolds and you can’t have me!”

  God, it felt good to say that.

  As Carlson collapsed to the floor, the limo bumped the curb. Murphy and Jordan tumbled out and restrained the driver, while Eric pulled Shea to the nearest storefront, his heart pounding as loudly as hers, still blocking her view.

  Spectators gathered. They called their friends. They snapped selfies. Murphy bellowed for someone to, “Call 911, for god’s sake!” Rain began to fall in a gentle drizzle then.

  Shea lifted her face to the leaden skies. She’d finally reached the end of her rainbow and she’d found the pot of gold she’d been searching for in the heart of a man named Eric. Even now he wrapped her in a gentle hold with her back to his chest, his chin in the crook of her neck.

  Together they faced their reflections in the plate glass window of—

  Shea looked overhead to the sign. Kelsey’s Diner. Hmmm. After all this time running for her life in Ireland, she’d expected something more mystical, like one of Rosie O’Banner’s Irish blessing. At least something that signaled the end of her long odyssey home.

  Eric nuzzled the ticklish spot behind her ear. “Are you ready to go home, wife?”

  She pulled the manacle of his strong arms tighter around her, never more sure of anything. “I am home, Eric. Home is right here, with you,” but then she added, “and I do want a baby. Our baby.”

  The sexy man’s smile reflected in the glass couldn’t have been wider, or his rakish eyes darker. “That I can do, Mama. That I can do.”

  EPILOGUE

  The thing about being a greedy, billionaire bastard was all that money. After a guy died, it had to go somewhere. Now Eric knew where.

  Mysteriously, the birthplace of modern democracy was able to turn its failing economy around. Who knew, right? The islands of Greece made for a beautiful second honeymoon, too. Secluded sandy beaches. Ancient, mystical ruins. The most amazing cuisine with tasty cheeses, olives, and wines, not that Shea could have any alcoholic beverages at the moment. Not with the next Reynolds bun in the oven. Make that buns.

  The moment they’d hit Northern Virginia, she’d wanted one of those OTC pregnancy tests kits. Eric stopped at the nearest drugstore to oblige. She made her quick purchase, ran into the restroom, and all but glowed when she’d returned and showed him that little pee-stick lit up with the magic word: pregnant.

  Talk about the understatement of the year.

  Eric smiled at the prominent baby bump between her bikini top and bottoms while she soaked up rays on the beautiful, secluded Zakynthos Island. Apparently humping like bunnies in Ireland was magical. Shea was only three months along and already showing like five. Triplets will do that to a gal.

  Call it luck. Call it another paradox of sly Mother Nature. Hell, call it the residual effect of dynamic energy displacement. But yeah, they were expecting three babies this go round. He couldn’t have been happier. After he’d filled out his final report on Operation Find Finn, he’d re-married his pregnant wife and booked a cruise to the Med for their second honeymoon.

  Alex was back from Ireland by then. It seemed he’d gone there not so much to bust Carlson’s chops as to hunt down the diabolical hacker who’d brought most of the world, along with a good portion of its power grids, to its knees. He’d found the guy, thanks to Mother’s and Ember’s sharp tracking skills, inside one of Carlson’s many corporate offices, this one in Belfast.

  As a result of Carlson’s bombastic ego, his chip was now illegal. His monopoly on communication had been broken, and all was well with the world—at least until the next megalomaniac lifted his or her ugly head.

  As to how Hugh Carlson made it to JFK before they did? Eric hadn’t the nerve to tell Shea yet, but she hadn’t truly divested him of all his wealth in her dramatic stand-off with the evil narcissist. He’d hidden assets in so many shell corporations—some in his deceased wife’s name and some in his unborn son’s name—that all he had to do was make a call and the minions who owed him favors came running. Which proved once again that money can buy just about everything—but happiness.

  The dynamic energy displacement gizmo? Safe in the hands of McCormack Industries, where it could be carefully studied instead of weaponized. Carlson was right on that point. Phoenix Berglund’s discovery needed substantial funding, and with the country in economic crisis at the end of every fiscal year, well, Jed, another billionaire, was the man for the job. He promised full disclosure. Didn’t every politician?

  An inquiry into Carlson’s first wife’s death blew up all the gossip rags for a day or two. Prentiss Carlson’s murder evoked a passionate discourse between Hollywood and Washington D.C. about gun control, but in the end, as usual, there was nothing to be done. The sniper for hire who’d assassinated her wasn’t a U.S. citizen, so the second amendment debate didn’t apply to him. He ended up being one of Carlson’s ex-Berets Verts. France wanted him back. The United States was happy to oblige.

  Carlson’s other two ghost files? The Justice Department was knee deep in that little mess.

  “Lose the suit,” Eric ordered the National Security Agency’s newest hire in their cyber-crime department.

  Shea rolled to her side and lowered her Raybans with one fingertip. “Excuse me? Here? In public?”

  He scanned the solitary beach from his chair. “I don’t see any public, but I do want to see your bare ass. Now strip.”

  She lifted up from her towel and faced him with her hands on her hips, and her feet spread just enough to complete the perfect triangle. Two long legs that led straight to heaven. “What
if someone sees me?”

  He pointed to the sand between his bare feet. “No one’s around for miles, and you know it. Drop that string you call a swimsuit and get over here.” He almost said please, but stopped himself just in time. Please gave her a way out. Not this time. Not the way the sun kissed her golden skin, and not with her biting that lower lip like she was. He wanted his wife naked and he wanted her naked now.

  Shea cocked her head, coy all of a sudden. Shy. Had to be because of those triplets and the fact that her body was changing in the best ways possible. Sometimes she actually thought she was unattractive. Her? The sexiest woman on the planet? Oh, hell no.

  She shrugged the strap off one shoulder. Then the other. Bending forward, she dropped her bikini bottoms, her full breasts on display and—

  He needed more room in his swim trunks.

  “What now, husband?” she asked as she straightened, her tone deepened. She moistened her bottom lip, then clamped down on it with her top teeth. The way she sometimes clamped down on him.

  Eric lifted out of his chair and discarded his trunks. He sat again and patted his thighs, his ankles together. “Come here, baby.”

  She tiptoed across the warm sand, her eyes hooded. The sway of her hips and the bounce to her breasts enflamed him all the more. Pregnancy looked good on Shea.

  Planting one foot at each side of his chair, she straddled him. He palmed her backside, spreading her until he had her right where she belonged. Tilting forward into his forehead with a soft sigh, her sun-swollen lips begged to be kissed. The tips of those perfect, perky breasts skimmed his pecs. When he palmed her swollen nipples, her body tightened around his.

  Fire licked up his body, filling him with the need to rock into her. Her body echoed his natural rhythm. Rocking. Deeper. Closing the deal until…

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she clenched his manhood with a grip that made him hiss, and—damn. He slammed home. Coming home. Again and again.