Intentional Acts

by Melissa F. Miller

  “Watch me.”

  He lowered his voice a notch and spoke in a dangerous whisper. “This isn’t a game. And if you think you can play on our friendship and your relationship with Leo to jerk me around and get away with it, you’re sadly mistaken.”

  She signaled to move to the left lane and passed a line of slower moving cars. After she swung the car back into the right travel lane, she took a deep breath and said what she had to say.

  “I know it’s not a game. A man is dead. But you guys started this with your stupid NCTC information request. And now this lawyer of yours is throwing money at me and my client to keep us quiet. I don’t think so. I don’t trust you not to mishandle these papers. And when I say you, I mean any of you, including my husband.”

  Just hearing the words come out of her mouth made her wince, but they were true. Connelly had never made a secret of his unwavering loyalty to the government. To him, loyalty to country and loyalty to his department head were one and the same.

  “You can’t just refuse to turn them over.”

  “Actually, I can. Want to know why?”

  “I’d love to.”

  “Because I also have the envelope with the letter claiming Connelly killed Mr. Wheaton and I have the pictures that place him on the property less than twenty-four hours before the man was strangled. If you or anybody else tries to interfere with me in any way, then I’ll give the pictures to Maisy and tell her to air a story naming Connelly, you, and your boss as members of a secret government agency that killed an American citizen.”

  He was silent for a moment. “Are you out of your mind?”

  “Maybe I am, Hank. But he’s keeping secrets, and I don’t know if I can trust you. So we’re going to do this my way.”

  When he spoke again, she heard him gritting his teeth. “You’re playing with fire, Sasha. If I don’t have those papers in my hand by the end of the day, there’s gonna be hell to pay.”

  She checked the time. It was twelve-thirty. She’d be home by one. Plenty of time to decode the papers and figure out her next steps. She hoped.

  “I can work with that.”

  “Oh, I’m so pleased that meets with your approval.”

  He ended the call with an angry click.

  That was the thing about mobile phones, she mused. There were no satisfying hang ups, anymore. The art of slamming the phone down in someone’s ear had vanished.

  36

  Leo waited until Sasha had cleared out of the room with CJ and his girlfriend. He suppressed a smile. Leave it to her to get rid of one of his adversaries. Now it was only three against one—close enough to a fair fight that he thought the odds were good he wouldn’t need to pull his gun.

  His primary concern wasn’t Slim. But if the guys in the boots actually were members of the Heritage Brotherhood, they might have some paramilitary training. The tall one didn’t look overly menacing. But he didn’t like the way the short, stockier guy was hanging onto that beer bottle. All he’d have to do was smash the neck and he’d have a handy, deadly weapon.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself. That’s how people end up trigger-happy.

  He turned his attention back to Slim but kept the other two in his peripheral vision.

  “Slim, I know there are pictures floating around that show me on Essiah’s property.”

  Slim glanced over his left shoulder at the men standing along the wall. “How do you explain that?”

  “I wasn’t there to kill him. And my name’s not really Chase.” He reached for his leather holder and flipped it open one-handed to reveal his old marshal badge. “My name is Leo Connelly. I’m a federal agent, and these two men are implicated in an investigation I’m not at liberty to discuss.”

  Slim’s eyes widened. The other two men didn’t react.

  “Is this for real?”

  “Yes. Now, I want to you to turn around and leave. Clear the area around the door and have Bill send the police straight back here when they get here, okay?”

  “Uh, sure.” Slim spared one final look at the two guys before he scurried out of the room.

  “Well,” Leo said, “you two sure are quiet.”

  The taller of the two glanced at the one with the beer bottle. As Leo had anticipated, the stocky guy was in charge.

  “You’re not much of an agent. We could’ve picked you off the other night and you never would’ve seen it coming,” the boss drawled. Then he took a pull of his beer.

  Leo ignored the dig. Letting an opponent get inside your head with trash talk was strictly for amateurs.

  “What’s your name?” he pointed his chin at the tall guy.

  “Uh, Marcus.”

  “Are you freaking kidding me? Don’t answer his questions.” His tanned face reddened and he gripped the bottle tighter.

  “Sorry, Chuck.” The name flew from the man’s mouth before he thought it through. When he realized what he’d said he clamped his hand over his mouth.

  Leo did grin this time as he amended his odds. It was more like one against one, after all.

  Chuck tossed back the last swallow of beer and hit the bottle against the wall in one smooth motion. The glass shattered, leaving him holding the mouth of the bottle and a jagged collar below.

  Leo pressed his lips in a firm line and drew his weapon.

  “Don’t move.”

  The man ignored his instruction. Instead, he snaked out his free arm and grabbed Marcus. He pulled him close and pressed the bottle against his exposed neck.

  “Ch-Chuck?” Marcus managed.

  “Yeah, really. What kind of brotherhood are you guys in?”

  Marcus’s eyes got big at the mention of the brotherhood. Chuck pushed the edge of the broken bottle harder into his neck. Marcus sucked in a breath. He flinched as several bright red droplets of blood bubbled up.

  “Hey, take it easy,” Leo said.

  He hadn’t bargained for one of the guys being a psychopath.

  “I need to clean up some loose ends,” Chuck snarled.

  Marcus stiffened.

  So much for that plan not to fire his weapon. But he wasn’t just going to stand here and watch this guy slit his buddy’s throat open with a piece of glass. Even if his buddy was a piece of crap.

  He locked eyes with Marcus.

  “You don’t know me, so let me tell you a few things. Protocol is for me to negotiate with you, convince you that it’s in your best interest to let this guy go. Or at least stall you until a sharpshooter can get into position and take a kill shot. But here’s the thing, I don’t really care if you kill your friend. If you pieces of trash start killing each other, it’s really just less clean-up work for us, you know?”

  Marcus stared at him bug-eyed.

  He went on. “But bleeding out from a neck wound seems like an unnecessarily painful way to go. So, I’d like to shoot him you know? A head shot, boom. It’s over before Marcus knows what happening.”

  Leo paused here for effect.

  He glanced at Marcus and noticed the dark wet stain spreading across the crotch of his jeans. Dude.

  “Now, Marcus would probably rather I shoot you in the head. Odds are you’d be dead before you could slash that bottle across his neck, but even if your dying act is to kill him, that’s really no skin off my nose.”

  They were both gaping at him now. He just had to keep the emotionless killer character going a while longer.

  “But then there’s all that paperwork. That probably sounds cruel, but we’re talking about a lot of forms. So, in summary, these solutions don’t appeal to me. What are your thoughts, Chuck? Think quick, though. The police’ll be here any minute.”

  Chuck lowered the piece of glass and pushed Marcus away. Leo kept the gun trained on him.

  “You’re crazy,” Chuck informed him.

  Leo shrugged. Marcus huddled on the floor, sobbing.

  “Takes one to know one, I guess. At least I didn’t piss myself.” He jerked his head toward the guy on the floor.

  Chuck
followed his eyes and let out a disgusted sigh.

  “So, now what?” Leo said.

  Chuck whaled the chunk of glass at his head like a fastball. He ducked and it smashed into the wall behind him. By the time he straightened to standing, Chuck was out the door, running down the hall to the back exit.

  He cursed and holstered the gun as he ran after the man. Slim was standing in the doorway to the main barroom, his chest puffed out and his arms crossed, keeping everyone out of the area like he’d been told to do. Good man.

  Leo skidded to a stop beside him. “The tall guy’s back there, crying. His buddy turned on him. Get a couple guys to grab him and hold him until the police get here. He either killed Essiah or knows who did.”

  Slim nodded and gestured for two of his friends to join him. Leo took off down the hall and exploded through the door to the parking lot.

  Chuck was trucking across the lot, running toward a blue Toyota. Leo turned on the speed and ran him down.

  He tackled the shorter man around the waist and pulled him to the asphalt. He was about to drive a knee into his back to keep him there when he bucked and flipped over.

  Leo got a fistful of his shirt and pulled back his right fist. He connected square with brittle cheekbone, and the man’s head bobbled to the side. He followed up with a sharp left jab and caught him in the nose.

  Chuck wiped blood and snot from his face, reared his head back and lunged forward.

  Head-butt incoming, Leo thought. He ducked and juked to the side.

  Chuck grinned wolfishly and clamped his teeth over Leo’s left ear.

  He yelped in pain as the man bit down hard. Blood trickled down the side of his neck. The bastard still had his ear between his teeth. He was going to bite it clean off.

  Leo scrabbled for his gun. He got a hold of it and jammed it into Chuck’s chest. Chuck relaxed his jaw, and Leo jerked his head back to get his ear out of the man’s mouth.

  Just then, he felt cold metal pressed against the back of his skull.

  “Drop it, nice and easy, then put your hands up.” The female voice spoke loudly and clearly.

  “I’m with the Department of Homeland Security. Agent Leo Connelly,” he told her.

  “That’s nice. I’m Officer Kristin Macklyn.”

  “This is an active investigation.”

  “Great. We can sort it out when your pals from the FBI get here. Seems they got turned around. Again. Your boys need to get some better navigation systems … or learn to read maps.” She toed him in the back with a dress shoe. “Drop the weapon.”

  “This man’s wanted in connection with the murder of Essiah Wheaton, officer,” he tried again.

  “Don’t worry, he’s not going anywhere, either. I’m not going to tell you again.”

  Leo huffed out an irritated breath and tossed his gun on the pavement and raised his hands.

  “I’m going to need to call my boss.”

  37

  Fletch pressed the phone to his ear to listen to Marcus’s babbling as he moved around his basement office, quickly but calmly putting his plans into motion.

  As soon as Marcus had spit out the words “federal agent, police, and Chuck’s in custody,” Fletch had opened his combination safe and removed a Smith and Wesson, a stack of bills, and his passport. One good thing about porous borders was that he’d be in Mexico before Chuck was done being processed.

  He did have to hand it to Marcus. Who’d have thought the guy would’ve had the stones to run for it.

  “So you said you needed to use the facilities, and these idiots just let you go in by yourself?” He shook his head in amazement.

  “Yes, sir. Well, I’d had … an accident. They thought that was hilarious, so they made me use the ladies’ room. And, of course, none of them wanted to go in there.”

  An accident? He decided he didn’t want to know any details.

  “And you climbed out a window and got clean away, huh?”

  “I did. So … what should I do now?”

  Fletcher didn’t give a good goshdarn what this fool did now.

  “Keep your head down and get your ass back home, I reckon.”

  “About the files, I mean.”

  “The files?”

  “I hid inside a dumpster until the police left with Agent Connelly and Chuck.”

  This effing guy. First he pees himself, then he hides in a dumpster.

  “So?”

  “Agent Connelly made two phone calls. He walked away from the crowd to talk privately. He was standing maybe ten feet from me. I heard every word he said.”

  “And he said something about Wheaton’s files?”

  “He called his boss first. Apparently, Essiah hid the files in a locker at the bar. This Agent Connelly, his wife had been there earlier—”

  “It’s take your wife to work day at the FBI? What?”

  “I don’t think he’s FBI. Maybe Homeland Security? I’m not sure. But this wife of his—I saw her, she’s an itty-bitty thing. You could fit her in your pocket. She took the files with her. His boss sounded hopping mad about it.”

  “Yeah. I’ll bet.”

  “Then he called the wife. It sounded like Wheaton must’ve used a code or something because he asked her if she’d had any luck cracking it. Then he told her to keep at it. He said he’d be a couple hours because he had to give a statement about Chuck and all to the local police.”

  Chuck. It was a crying shame that his most useful lieutenant had gone and gotten himself arrested.

  “So, what are you saying, Marcus? Are you telling me you think you’re up for getting those files off this woman?”

  Marcus bristled. “I know I am.”

  “And you say she’s tiny?”

  “She can’t weigh a hundred pounds and she probably needs a booster seat to drive.”

  Fletch chuckled. “I would like to have those files back.”

  Marcus blurted, “And I’d like a shot at filling the spot Chuck’s absence will leave vacant, sir.”

  “Well, I’ll be. You’ve got more fire in your belly than I gave you credit for, son.”

  “Thank you. I’ll be honest, though. I do have a personal interest in getting my hands on those papers. I was one of the original straw man investors, if you recall.”

  “I do.” Yessir, Marcus’s name would be all over the fake loans they’d taken out using Essiah Wheaton’s banker’s license. There were more than a handful of men who had good reason to want those files.

  “I’ll tell you what, Marcus. Let’s consider this a job interview. You get those documents, and the security post is yours.”

  “Yes, sir. I do have a question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “That’s the question. Am I authorized to kill her?”

  “Mrs. Connelly, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m not authorizing you—I’m ordering you. If there’s any chance she broke that code and read those papers, she’s got to die. Are we clear?”

  “Crystal.”

  “Wait, don’t you need me to get you her address or something?”

  “My son’s taken care of that. He can hack just about any system you can imagine.” Marcus’s voice swelled with pride.

  “Well, what are you waiting for then? Saddle up and ride.”

  Fletch ended the call and rubbed his nose. Maybe he didn’t have to head down to Mexico just yet, after all. He surely didn’t want to leave Melody Lynn alone up here where she might get bored and get into trouble. He tossed the stack of bills back into the safe then placed the passport and gun on top of the cash.

  Marcus Seton. He never would’ve thunk it. He slapped his thigh and laughed.

  Shoot, since it looked like his day was turning around, maybe he oughta go play some cards. He reached into the safe and took out the money.

  38

  Sasha checked the time. Four p.m. It had been almost three hours since Connelly had called to tell her the men who killed Essiah Wheaton had been taken into cus
tody. And then called back to tell her one of them had escaped.

  As far as she was concerned, she was glad one of them had gotten away. Because if Connelly and Hank were busy with a manhunt, she might have more time to figure out Wheaton’s code. Her parents were going to take the kids to their favorite Mexican restaurant for dinner, so she had a couple more hours to wrestle with it.

  What was she missing?

  She picked up the copies she’d made on the compact home copier/printer/scanner that she and Connelly shared and studied the first page again. Line after line of numbers broken into series of varying lengths with no apparent pattern. The numbers were all one- and two-digit values—the largest number was ten, and the most common number, by far, was one. Each number in a set was separated by a hyphen.

  He’d been a banker. Maybe these were just bank account numbers.

  Eighteen pages filled with nothing but bank accounts? That hardly seemed useful. She had to be missing something. Something obvious. One through ten. What did it mean?

  At first, she’d figured the key had to be related to Battleship. Even though the horizontal axis on the game grid only went to nine, and the vertical axis was lettered A through H, she figured Wheaton had created a substitution code, using numerals. But she’d wasted hours messing around with the grid and nothing she’d tried worked.

  Time was running out.

  Maybe the numbers were page and line numbers in a common book. Maybe the dictionary. It was a long shot. But, at this point, she’d try anything.

  She crossed to the room to the bookshelf, stretched up on her toes, and grabbed the thick dictionary they used to settle challenges during Scrabble matches from its spot on top of the bookcase. They stored it next to the Scrabble game because it was too large to shelve. As she pulled the heavy book down, it bumped against the Scrabble box, which tumbled off the shelf and hit the ground. Tiles scattered across the floor.

  She crouched to gather them up. As she was dropping a Q into the tile bag, she noted the value. Ten points for a Q. The only other ten-point letter was Z, which made ‘quiz’ a no-brainer and Connelly’s go-to word.