Beau (In the Company of Snipers Book 18)

by Irish Winters

  She forced her focus back to the picture Officer Crenshaw had adeptly sketched. Little by little, Montego’s image evolved from the charcoals and smudges at the artist’s talented fingertips. As Beau defined and described, Montego came to life. Long rectangular face. Thin lips. Black eyes, the lids lined by thick kohl that flared outward, reaching sideways to her temples. Her eyelashes were obviously fake, they were that long. Her nose flared, making her look haughty and proud. But Crenshaw hadn’t captured the essence of evil that Montego evoked that night in McKenna’s bedroom. This was just charcoal on paper.

  What was Montego doing to Sanders? Right now? This very minute? Oh, God, oh, God, oh God! While he suffers, I sit here safe and do nothing!

  “Breathe baby, just breathe,” Beau murmured as he drew her into his side.

  “I can’t,” she admitted as she collapsed into him, her hand on his chest. He had the patience of a saint, the way he seemed to know the precise moment she fell apart. “I should be doing something. Anything.”

  “I know it’s hard to wait, but my boss will find your father.”

  “You believe that?”

  She had him there. Beau hesitated. That he and Alex didn’t mix well together was obvious, yet he finally said, “Yes, McKenna. I believe that. Like Maverick says, Alex doesn’t know how to give up.”

  Officer Crenshaw’s pencil tap on the tabletop drew McKenna’s attention back to the drawing. “Dr. Fitzgerald, do you agree with Agent Jennings version? Is this the same woman who broke into your home and held you captive?” she asked, one pert eyebrow arched.

  McKenna nodded without seeing the portrait displayed on a simple wooden easel from Crenshaw’s artist toolbox.

  “Please, ma’am. I know this is hard,” the officer said, her neck crooked forward as she peered intently at McKenna. “But I need you to study this portrait for a couple minutes. Really look at Montego. Take your time. Think about that night, from the first moment you laid eyes on her on your front porch to your bedroom. Did she ever smile? Did she cough? Sneeze? Mumble? Was she cold and cruel, or did she act like she knew you? If I’ve missed anything, a wart, or a mole, a tattoo, or a scar, tell me. Even if it seems insignificant, I want to know.”

  McKenna nodded and finally, looked Montego in the face again. Beau had given an accurate description. She truly was a witch. All she needed was a black cat and a broom to go with that broomstick skirt—

  “A snake. On her neck. Or at least…” McKenna gulped down the bile that kept climbing up her throat at facing her tormentor again. “Or at least a pattern like snakeskin. Here.” She ran her fingers up the right side of her throat to her ear. “Black. It was black and creepy.”

  Beau tightened his hold. “Good catch. It was dark. I missed that.”

  Officer Crenshaw returned the paper to the table and added a mottled pattern of small shapes to Montego’s neck. “Like this? Just on one side or both? Bigger scales? Smaller?”

  McKenna nodded, her brain still pinging between how to save her dad and what Montego looked like. “No, that’s right. I can’t remember the exact pattern, but y-y-yes.”

  “Did it extend into her hair or did it end at her earlobe?”

  “All the way up, I think, but I couldn’t exactly see where it ended, because I was… I was…” Gulp. Trying to stay alive while she strangled me.

  “No head or eyes? No fangs or anything like that? Just snakeskin?”

  “Yes, just… that.”

  “Every little detail helps, you two. Thanks,” the officer said. “Take your time, McKenna. If you think of anything else, tell me, and please call me Taige from now on. I’m a woman, and trust me, I know how hard this is for you.”

  Did she really? McKenna stared into Taige’s crystal blue eyes and saw a shadow hidden there she dared not explore. But knowing this female officer might somehow understand the humiliation of nearly being murdered, of being so out of control that she wanted to tear her hair out just thinking of that night—helped. “I will. Thank you.”

  “Ah, honey.” Taige reached out and patted McKenna’s other hand. “Like your boyfriend said, just breathe. If there’s any detail you forgot, it will come back to you once you relax.”

  My boyfriend? McKenna cast a shy glance and caught Beau staring down at her. One brow lifted as if that descriptor caught him by surprise, too. McKenna would’ve smiled if her heart hadn’t been breaking.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “Now let’s think back to your first run-in with Catalina Montego, the night you were abducted,” Taige said as she turned her attention on Beau.

  He shook his head. “No need to, ma’am. It’s the same woman. I’m sure.”

  “But are you?” she asked as she opened her sketchpad and settled her right wrist to the paper, her pencil between her fingers, and her chin tilted expectantly. “Tell me what you remember from Boxster’s Pub. That’s where this all started, right?”

  His mouth twisted in a sneer. Alex. Damn him. Couldn’t keep his big mouth shut, could he? “Like I said—”

  “Agent Jennings,” she interrupted sternly, the top of her pencil tapping the tablet like a metronome. “This is a police investigation, and I need you to cooperate. Fully. Now think back to the night you were abducted like I asked. You were sitting at the bar in Boxster’s. I know the place, and I know that exact bar. It’s a carved monstrosity brought over from Ireland, but it’s gorgeous in its way, isn’t it? All that polished dark oak? There’s a mirror in that cabinet that runs the length of the room, but you can barely see it with all the liquor bottles on the front shelf and counter. Yet Mac always polishes that glass until it shines. That’s got to be a pain in the ass job, to move all those bottles just to Windex a mirror most people can’t see, don’t you think?”

  Beau nodded. The mirror was always spotless. If Mac didn’t polish it, someone certainly did. Which was why Beau always sat where he did, at the far end of the bar. He could see most of the room in that mirror. From there he kept an eye on everything, anyone who arrived through the front door, and anyone sneaking up behind him. Others might not have noticed that mirror, but he had the first time he’d walked into Boxster’s.

  One Hennessey, neat. His usual. That was all he had to drink before everything went fuzzy. Which meant Montego had been close, like right at his elbow close, to have slipped something into his glass.

  “Which stool were you sitting on?”

  “Last one, far end.” Where I always sit. Far away from foot traffic and the hostess station at the front door. Far enough to never be caught by surprise.

  “You know Mac, don’t you?” Taige asked, an odd tone to her question. “Mac McPherson, the owner?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Everyone knew Mac. “But he wasn’t barkeep that night. The place was busy. The TV was blaring. Too loud. Too much noise.” I remember now... “Some woman was working behind the bar.”

  “He’s missing.”

  Beau stared at the officer. “Montego’s got McPherson?”

  Both of her shoulders lifted. “Right now, we only know he’s missing. It’s an open investigation, so let’s get your facts straight, Agent Jennings. His life might depend on you.”

  That heartless bitch!

  He blinked, recalling the hubbub as a noisy group of businessmen from the District flooded Boxster’s. Damn, they were rowdy and brash, bumping him and standing behind him. Squeezing in between him and the guy beside him to order their beers and mixed drinks. He’d just been served when some jerk slammed his elbow. Almost spilled his drink.

  It came to him in a flash. “Blonde. The barkeep was blonde.” Could Alex be right?

  “How tall?” Taige pressed, her pencil poised over the sketchpad.

  “Nothing like Mac. She was…” Gulp. “…short. Maybe five nothing.” Just like Alex said.

  “Color of eyes? Were you close enough to notice? Was the light dim or bright enough to notice details? Long hair? Short hair? Shape of her face? H
eart-shaped? Round? Rectangular or—?”

  “Square,” Beau said as the night came back to him. “Blonde. Short hair but long bangs hanging in her face, in her eyes. She kept blowing them out of her way. Smiled a lot. Heavy Spanish accent. Definitely first-generation immigrant. Brown eyes.” Pretty. Friendly. Attractive. Smart. Shit, I never saw her coming.

  Taige’s fingers flew over her tablet, drawing with sure, adept strokes and smudging with the edge of her pinkie finger as she went. She sketched so quickly, it seemed she already knew what Catalina Montego looked like.

  Beau glanced at McKenna, wondering how she’d take this abrupt change in direction. Wondering what she’d think of him for not recalling crucial evidence a helluva lot sooner, like he should have. How could she have faith in a man who couldn’t remember shit?

  But she sat staring into space.

  “You okay?” he asked as he tugged at her fingers to draw her out of the spell she seemed to be under.

  Her head bobbed, but in a distracted way as if her mind wasn’t in the room. The last few days had been tough, and there seemed no end to the stress. Alex, Gabe, and Maverick had better return with good news.

  “Agent Jennings?” Taige asked as she turned her tablet toward him and McKenna. “Is this the woman bartending the night you were physically removed from Boxster’s?”

  That was a nice way of telling him he’d let his guard down and got himself shanghaied. He nodded, shocked he’d forgotten the coy, good-looking blonde staring back at him now. Even in charcoal, her eyes sparkled with a sly glint.

  He remembered. Damn it, she’d asked if he wanted to try something different with that Hennessey. He’d said no, he was fine. She’d shrugged, and the easy way she’d handled rejection got to him. He’d relented because she was—cute—in a sultry, mysterious way. For that, he was rewarded with a splash of coconut cream that sank to the bottom of his glass.

  “It was in the coconut cream,” he told McKenna.

  She stared back at him, disconnected from the work at hand.

  “At Boxster’s. The only thing I didn’t watch the bartender add to my drink was the coconut cream she talked me into. That was when she slipped me the roofie, or whatever it was.” And like a dumbass I said, ‘Sure. Why not? Step right up and take a finger while you’re at it. I’ve got plenty to spare.’

  “I’m sorry, what?” McKenna asked, blinking.

  He jerked his chin at the latest sketch, wishing McKenna would re-engage as he asked Taige, “You’ve sketched this face before, right?”

  She nodded. “Yes, for Alex Stewart a couple days ago.”

  “Is she—?”

  “Catalina Montego? Age twenty-seven, five feet tall, one-hundred ten pounds? Yes, the same one Alex has on airport security footage. She’s also on the FBI’s most wanted list for human trafficking, murder, desecration of more than one body, drug running, and a few other distasteful things.”

  Beau put his elbow to the table and cupped his chin. Stroking the beginning of what would grow into a thick beard in less than a week, he had nothing to say. If blondie was Catalina Montego, who the hell was the bitch with the braid?

  Taking a deep breath, Taige flipped her sketchpad to a clean sheet. “And now, you are going to tell me exactly what the woman you saw in Congressman Ringer’s home looked like.”

  His head bobbed, even as his mind skittered over what he’d been so positive he’d known before Taige arrived. He’d been wrong, damn it, and Alex was right. Talk about a blow to a guy’s ego. “I’ll do my best,” Beau said meekly.

  Taige leaned into him. “This happens all the time, Agent Jennings, so stop beating yourself up. Even trained professionals lose track of significant details under stress.”

  “Yes, but…” I’m a Ranger. A sniper. I’m different. Least, I was.

  “Trust me. I’ve interviewed dozens of SWAT officers, detectives, and others who weren’t able to remember specifics until they sat with me while I sketched what they thought they remembered. There’s something about recreating the scene that stirs more distinct memories than what we initially recall. It’s a survival reflex, Beau. Terror alters how our brains work, and trust me, after I read the police report on you, you were under extreme stress both times you encountered Miss Montego. I could tell you what goes on with our neural networks and how radically we shift from logical, problem-solving professionals to emotional creatures who just want to survive, but I think you already know that.”

  “I froze,” he said simply. Like a fuckin’ new guy.

  She shook her head. “You, sir, did not freeze. You reacted, and the primal instinct to survive hard-wired in all human brains, overrode your capacity for higher thinking to make certain that you did live. That is your brain’s primary function, and trust me, it did a damned good job that morning. You’re still here, aren’t you?”

  He nodded. But I was so sure…

  “And that makes you the winner, Agent Jennings. You, not Catalina Montego. You escaped insurmountable odds. While you were bleeding to death. While you were cuffed and ready to be—who knows what—on that table?” She cocked her head like he had better listen up and shut up. “You lived, and with your help, let’s make certain Catalina Montego and this other woman, whoever she is, don’t get away with their crimes. Now, let’s all take a deep breath…” She inhaled like she needed to teach him how to breathe.

  Which she kind of did. At the moment, Beau couldn’t get past the awful fact that—damn—Alex was right. He inhaled slowly, his traitorous mind reliving what happened the morning he’d come to inside Ringer’s house. The dim lights. The shadows. His own loss of blood and the accompanying panic that had damned near choked him.

  “So…” Taige paused, the pencil in her fingers poised and ready to work its charcoal magic. “Tell me what you think you recall, and we’ll go from there.”

  An icy chill shivered up the back of Beau’s neck. What truly had happened that morning? Aside from the utter terror of the atrocity committed against him? Aside from the shadow standing at the door screaming at him? Aside from the stark black silhouette of—shit—a diminutive Spanish woman spitting nails like she wanted to kill him?

  Beau took another deep breath and told Taige Crenshaw what he honestly remembered. Not much...

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  McKenna couldn’t take her eyes off the first sketch, the one of the woman who wasn’t Montego.

  “She screamed when she opened Ringer’s side door.” Beau meant the real Catalina, the one who’d severed his finger, not this strange, other woman with so much hate in her eyes.

  “Do you recall her exact words?”

  “Yes. She said, ‘Where do you think you’re going, Benjamin Jennings?’ Heavy on the Spanish accent.”

  The woman at Ringer’s and Boxster’s was the same.

  “Excellent,” Officer Crenshaw purred. “Did the woman at McKenna’s apartment speak with any kind of inflection? An accent?”

  Beau took an extra-long minute thinking before he grumbled, “Umm, no. Not that I recall. Did she, McKenna?”

  He seemed to be asking for help more and more as Taige led him through the details of his abduction and his fight with the woman with the heavy black braid Beau and McKenna had thought was Montego. Officer Crenshaw had yet to put pencil to paper, but she knew how to reach inside Beau and help him separate fact from fiction. She was very good at her job.

  “No. She sounded American,” McKenna whispered. Every ugly word she’d murmured had been American English. No accent. No compassion, either.

  His brows furrowed into a deep V. “Jingling. I heard jingling when she opened the door. Not like bells. More like bangles and bracelets.”

  Officer Crenshaw nodded. “Good. How about the woman in the bar? Did she wear any jewelry?”

  “Not that I remember.” Beau snorted and scratched his head. “Not that what I thought I saw was right, but yeah. I’m pretty sure that woman” —he pointed to
the blonde Montego— “didn’t jingle.”

  But there was something extremely unsettling about the woman with the braid. The shape of her nose. The harsh curve of her brows. Even the unrealistic length of her eyelashes and the distant look in those charcoal eyes felt familiar in a creepy way. McKenna couldn’t concentrate long enough to figure it out, not with her dad missing.

  Taige’s description of what terror did to a brain was spot-on. McKenna could no more solve a simple addition problem at the moment, than think straight, not with her emotions running as high as they were. She kept going back to her last conversation with Sanders. She’d planned to meet him for dinner, but so much had happened since. She should’ve called him to explain, so he wouldn’t worry, but she hadn’t. Why not?

  He’d distinctly said, ‘I’m penciling you in.’ Like the faithful father he’d always been, he was still waiting to hear from her, but she hadn’t called. Yet his last words to her were, ‘Love you, Princess.’

  “Love you, too,” she whispered, choking on repentance for being a less than faithful daughter. Wherever you are...

  Beau’s good arm tightened around her. “Hey, McKenna. Where’d you go?”

  She shook her head, forcing her attention back to yet another drawing beneath Officer Crenshaw’s skilled fingers. Once again, she’d drawn the same blonde woman as her second sketch instead of the monster McKenna remembered so vividly. Okay, so the blonde abducted Beau from the bar and severed his finger at Congressman Ringer’s home.

  “Two,” she whispered. “We’re looking at two different women.”

  Her world tilted at the thought that they might be working together. One was bad enough, but two explained how Beau had ended up inside Congressman Ringer’s. The blonde couldn’t have handled a guy as heavy as Beau all by herself. It also explained how the dark-haired woman had strung that contraption under McKenna’s bed. She’d had help. But what did these two strangers have in common? How did they know each other?

  A random memory intruded. “She called me little dumpling.”