Alex held his tongue. Right now Webster thought he was in charge, that the only thing at stake was his room and board. That he could buy his way out of anything. That Alex cared if he lived or died.
Bullshit. Alex ran a finger around the tie at his neck. Let the games begin.
“In the first place, Stewart, your idea of suitable accommodations leaves something to be desired. I’d prefer something a little more genteel and socially acceptable, especially at the price I’m paying. You can at least locate me and your goon squad at—”
“Where? The Ritz in Georgetown?”
Webster lifted his brows. “I see Agent Houston has at least conveyed my request. Good. I’m glad to hear it. I’d also like—”
“I don’t give a shit what you’d like.” Alex leaned forward, his fingers locked together so he didn’t lead with a fist. He slapped two pictures to the table, the morgue shots of Victoria Levitt and Bob Hemmings as they were currently laid out in their respective chilled drawers. White faces with unblinking milky eyes stared back at Webster. The medical examiner’s heavily stitched V across their upper torsos showed cold and black against their colorless flesh.
Webster looked at the image for a split second before he developed fish lips that opened and shut without a sound.
Alex slapped another picture down, this one depicting the Tiffany lamps suspended from the poolroom ceiling as they’d been at the old Manny’s Boiler Room. “Recognize these? You should. You bought all six of ’em, but only took possession of five. Want to know where the sixth turned up?”
“Umm, I’m a collector of old antiques and—”
“The ME found pieces of it deep inside the throats of your lying buddies. How about this?” Alex interrupted with another eight-by-eleven glossy of a green linen napkin. Instead of being pressed and nicely folded like one would find at a table setting, this one was darkly stained at the center. Crimped wrinkles decorated the circular stain with impressions.
Webster paled. “ No. I don’t recognize it, and I don’t know what you’re inferring or—”
“Look again! They’re tooth marks. Surely you can see that. They’re a fifteen year old girl’s tooth marks on a napkin some asshole stuffed in her throat!” Alex pushed his chair back and stood, his palms to the table, his jaw clenched tighter than tight. “Did you know there are ways now to collect DNA evidence from an ordinary green napkin some bastard left behind at a rape scene fifteen years ago?”
Webster had the good sense to lean backward. He was close to hyperventilating, but before he could stutter one more lie, Alex slapped the shot taken of little Mary White Hawk at the emergency room that morning, her dark hair slick with blood and sweat. Possibly beer. What else Alex didn’t want to think about.
Her hair had been pulled away from her puffy face. Both of her eyes were black and swollen shut, her lips cut, her nose bloodied. Definite finger marks bruised her neck as well as her bare shoulders and clavicles. Her left ear looked as if it had been partially torn from her head. She didn’t look like a fifteen-year-old any more. She barely looked like a little girl at all.
Webster jumped to his feet, his face red. “Why are you showing me these disgusting pictures? Just what are you accusing me of?”
Alex pointed to the elongated bruises at Mary’s neck and jaw. “Did you know there are forensic techniques available today that can identify fingerprints from a photo?”
Webster provided another round of lip smacking.
Alex turned to Mark. “Send Maher and Cross home. Now.”
Mark lifted out of his chair. “You bet.”
“Wait. But you... you can’t. You can’t do that. I’ve paid you up front. You—”
“I can and I will.” Alex extricated a cashier’s check from the inner pocket of his suit jacket and tossed it to the table. “There’s no law that compels me to protect the likes of you.”
“I’ll sue,” Webster shrieked.
Alex curled his fist, already pushed past his limit and ready to strike. “Try me. God, try me.”
Webster blocked the cell door. “But wait!”
“Why should I?”
“Because... You... you’re the only one who can stop him. Please. Don’t leave. He’ll kill me.”
“He should! I’d kill you myself if you’d hurt my daughter like that. You’d pray to die before I was done with you, you bastard. Give me one stinking reason to stay.”
“I can’t. I can’t.”
Alex turned to Mark, gritting his teeth. “Get this sonofabitch out of my—”
“Okay! We didn’t mean to. It just happened. We got carried away. That’s all.”
“You didn’t mean to what?”
Webster couldn’t meet Alex’s eyes. “We were just having some fun. That’s all. Vicki kept the beer coming and... Man, you’ve got to believe me. We were young. It was spring break. That’s all. I swear. It was all in fun.”
“What. Did. You. Do?”
“We saw her, umm, the girl there. The girl in the picture, only she looked a lot... prettier.”
“Her name was Mary White Hawk,” Alex spat.
“Yes. Her. She’s the one. She was walking by Manny’s when we stepped out the back door for, umm...” He glanced at Mark then back to Alex. “We had some fry daddy and—”
“Punk specialty, Boss. Pot laced with crack,” Mark explained.
Webster nodded. “That’s right. Yeah, we were smoking a few joints and drinking when she walked by. She was alone, so we, umm, we kinda called her over to talk to us. She didn’t really want to, but Vicki told her we were shooting Pool for Tots. You know. For charity. That’s the only reason she stopped. Man, she was so hot in her—”
“Damn you! She wore jeans and her high school sweatshirt! She wasn’t one of your trashy hookups. She was a fifteen-year-old child!”
Webster retreated behind his hands like they could shield him from what he had coming. “We didn’t know that. I swear. We thought she was at least—”
“Did you ask? Did you care?”
Webster’s gaze darting to Mark like he’d come to his rescue. Fool. Mark had two daughters he treasured more than life itself. If anything, he wanted a piece of Webster, too, and Alex had half a mind to let him go a few rounds with this arrogant prick. Webster wanted the Ritz? How about a few body slams with a man who could crush him with one hand?
“Then what? You and your lying friends dragged a little girl off the street and into your sleazy back room and what? Spit it out.”
Webster smoothed his hair and straightened his shirt. His shaky hands gave him away. “We just asked her to, umm, play a couple games of friendly pool with us, you know, just a couple games and—”
Alex kicked his chair to the other side of the cell. “You’re lying!”
“We raped her. Okay? We dragged her into Manny’s and we raped her. Is that what you want to hear? Huh? Cuz that’s what we did. We stuffed a gag in her mouth cuz the stupid bitch wouldn’t shut up. She made so much noise that we had to. She kept screaming. It was her fault! And we tied her to the pool table under those stupid green lights and we took turns. And you know what, Stewart? She liked it. Yeah, she liked it, and—”
Lightning struck. It damned near sizzled, it struck so wicked fast.
Webster never saw the uppercut that knocked him to the floor. One minute the bragging sonofabitch was wide-eyed and cocky. The next he was on his butt and picking himself up out of the Twilight Zone.
“Did you like that?” Alex asked, each word lethal as he stood over his client, his knuckles bloody. Still flexing. Still ready. “Was that fun?”
Webster spit blood and a tooth to the floor between his legs, rubbing his jaw.
Alex shrugged the grip of righteous wrath off his shoulders, fighting the father’s rage that boiled beneath his skin. Abby’s sweet blue eyes glittered with love and joy, just like Mary’s would have for Peter.
Get up, you bastard. Just try me. God, please try me. Take your best shot, you sniveling cowar
d.
Izza and Steven had jumped to their feet. They stood with their hands behind their backs, almost at military attention. Alex caught the hard glint in Izza’s eye. She and her ex-scout sniper husband, Connor Maher, worshipped their baby daughter, Jamie. Izza knew exactly how to handle the knife tucked inside the sheath in her boot, the one on her belt, too. Maybe Webster wasn’t so safe inside Quantico anymore.
Too sonofabitchin’ bad.
“You hurt me, Stewart,” he whined. “You hurt me, and I’m... I’m bleeding.”
Be thankful. I can fix that problem for you, too.
Webster crawled back to his chair and took his seat. He wiped the blood off his chin with the back of his hand and transferred the mess to his fine linen trousers.
Alex stood at the edge of murder, his anger flaming. His migraine throbbed. They’d tortured him for years, but never as much as he’d tortured himself with his code, the need to live and die with honor. And that was the problem.
Sometimes even an honorable man truly wanted to take the law into his own hands. The higher ups and talking heads at the Pentagon thought they were the big shots in control of covert ops? Not even close. The honest truth was that a sniper unleashed to do his job in a war zone held the only absolute power on the playing field. He operated alone with maybe a spotter at his side to offer a second opinion, but not always. A decent scope on a good rifle only enhanced the illusion. Honor’s quiet voice could get lost in the heat of a righteous moment.
Alex struggled for composure, at war with the ideals he’d chosen to live by. Do I take this life or not? Do I let this worm live to serve a jail term he deserves? But most of all—who do I really serve? God? Country? Or myself?
Honor was a tricky thing to hold onto when faced with bastards the likes of Webster. It was hard to NOT become the hand of justice. To NOT make damned sure a lowlife didn’t get a second chance to hurt anyone else.
He glared at the man he’d legally promised to protect, his breath still coming in short hard bursts that didn’t come close to venting the heat of rage. Not by a long shot. He’d seen all the cruelty the world had to offer. The thought of Abby tied to that pool table sucker punched him. Suffering. Crying for her daddy to save her. Begging for mercy from the rutting impulses of two inebriated, strung out punks who didn’t care how much they hurt her. And she a tender virgin with no experience with the world of stupid, cruel men. The reality that Abby Stewart had been dead for years held no bearing in Alex’s struggle now. Mary and Abby were the same sweet spirits. Once a father, always a father—and a father took care of his own.
His blood boiled. His soul. What he wouldn’t give to hold his angel again. Poor damned Peter.
Webster glanced timidly up at Alex. “What do you want, Stewart? How much? I’ll pay. I’ll do anything. Just don’t send your guys home. I’m begging.”
Beg away. The thumb on Alex’s right hand rubbed the clenched side of his trigger finger. He’d never wanted to act upon his impulses as much as now.
It took every hint of his willpower to reply. “Write it down. Every date. Every minute. Every damn thing you and your maggot friends did, said, and thought that day from the second you opened your eyes. Don’t leave anything out or so help me God, I’ll drag your sorry ass out the door with me when I go.”
Mark pulled a tablet of paper up from the briefcase.
Webster took it with shaking hands and a raspy, “Yes, sir.”
Alex turned to Mark. “White Hawk’s already here. I should let him have this sonofabitch.”
Webster’s head jerked up in alarm, but Alex could’ve cared less. This punk needed to sweat. He needed to understand the godawful despair of what helpless was all about.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Taylor pulled over at the rest stop as directed. Gracie grabbed her keys and jumped out of the car. It happened so fast that for a moment he had a fleeting worry she’d taken off and left him, but she only went to the trunk. She returned with a first-aid kit and crouched next to him, taking in his condition at a glance and a curt, “I’ll drive from now on.”
“I’m okay.”
“No. You’re not. You’re pale. You’re bleeding, and I can’t reach your shoulder from here. Let’s get you into the passenger seat where I can treat you easier.”
“You’re very bossy.” He did as he was told. He would’ve come across a lot tougher if his legs hadn’t nearly buckled the second he stood up. He grabbed the car door to keep from punctuating his smart remark by falling on his face. Neither of them should’ve been driving in their condition.
She shrugged her shoulder under his arm for support.
“That was a little harder than I thought,” he admitted. “I need a new shirt if we’re going onto Quantico, too. This one’s bloody.” And I’m wrecked. Got to get my head on straight before we get there.
“Luke left a flannel shirt in my car. Take it, but right now I’m going to get you cleaned up and re-bandaged.” As gentle as she was, he still winced when she pulled the shirt off his shoulder. The smell of the blood-soaked gauze wrinkled his nose. “You’re shaking. Are you sure we should be doing this?”
“No choice. Can’t trust the cops. Use extra packing.” The enemy doesn’t need to see me bleed.
He closed his eyes and began the mental game all warriors used to psych themselves up before battle. Facing Peter or Alex wasn’t the problem. He had muscle training for that. No, the problem was the ongoing battle in his head.
Lying around had made him weak. The hole in his chest did a pretty good number on him, too. Healing and resting had their chance. The time had come to zero his greatest weapon—his mind. Weakness had to stand down, or he’d never be able to do what this day might require.
Taylor stared out the window while Gracie cleaned and bandaged. He closed his eyes and withdrew to the quiet place within, that center spot where no one could reach him. Odd that he’d learned this unique sniper skill during those times the General took his hard days out on his son.
Some scout snipers used drugs to calm themselves before competitions or operations, but Taylor relied on that calm place where not even his father could reach him. He simply withdrew from the world of pain and entered the safety of—within
He took a breath. Held it. Let time stop. Let his heart rate slow and his head clear. And summoned his inner sniper. Letting his lungs release with deliberate slowness, he inhaled deeply and performed another self-controlled drill of—escape.
She finished re-bandaging his chest. “Lean forward so I can change the back bandage.”
He rested his elbows to his knees. Again her hands moved soft upon his shoulder blade, and he wished he’d met her in a different place and time. She continued cleaning and taping until the bandage on his back was clean and secure. “Let me see your wrists.”
He offered his right hand. For the first time, he took a look at the damage he’d caused. Bright, bloodied welts circled up his arms where the leather restraints had held tight. Gracie looked so damned serious.
“You got any antiseptic salve in that magic box of yours?”
She retrieved a tube. He slathered his arms up to his elbows and called it good enough. “Now where’s that shirt?”
Better yet. Long sleeves. No one would know how battered he was. How compromised. All they’d see was what he wanted them to see. A badass leatherneck come to keep two good men from killing each other.
He slid his arms into the shirt, his mind pinging with what still needed to be done. “You wouldn’t happen to know where a guy could get a couple pistols, would you? Some ammo? Maybe a knife?”
She gathered the soiled bandages and first-aid supplies and returned to the trunk. “Now that you mention it, you might want to check the glove compartment.”
He couldn’t have been more pleased. Gracie was one surprise after another. Not only did she have a shirt that fit him, but she’d also hidden his wallet, complete with his money, credit cards and military ID right in front of his nose. If th
at wasn’t enough, she returned from the trunk with his rifle, pistol, and gear bag.
“You hid my stuff in your car? All this time?”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t keep it in the house. Not as fast as you got back on your feet.”
He pulled her onto his lap, ignoring the warning pinch from his wound. “I’m glad we’re not related.”
“But you’re hurt. You shouldn’t. But—”
“Shush.” He cupped the back of her head and kissed her, closing his eyes against the troubles ahead while he savored the one bright spot in his life. It would be impossible to let her go when this whole debacle ended, but for now, she was all he wanted. And she wanted him. He knew by the tender circle of her arms around his neck and the way her tongue tangled with his.
She held him gently at first, but desire arced between them despite the gauze and tape. The smell of her, the feel of her, everything about her made him realize he wanted more. Her gentleness changed to passion along with his until, breathlessly, she pulled back from his mouth.
Her lips still wet from their kiss, she blinked those incredibly huge brown eyes at him. A wave of vertigo hit that had nothing to do with being wrecked or drugged, not unless Gracie Fox was a designer drug and already in his bloodstream.
Of all the times to meet the woman of my dreams.
He had to know, so he egged her on. “Why didn’t you marry? You’re beautiful. You’re smart. Surely some guy wanted you all these years?”
“I’ve been in love with the same man for years,” she whispered shyly.
Ouch. Not me then. Damn.
He didn’t see that coming, but why wouldn’t she have a male friend? It was the way of the world. Hook up. Shack up. Love ’em and leave ’em. That scenario didn’t seem to fit her, but what did he really know?
“He’s an idiot. Right?” More like the dumbest ass on the planet.
She shook her head. “No. He’s the bravest man I’ve ever known.”
“Braver than Grandfather?” No way.
“Oh, yes.”
Taylor Page 21
