Hidden (Deep Ops #1)

by Rebecca Zanetti

  More bullets sprayed through the window. Several people were screaming, and the scent of blood, hot and coppery, filled the day. Pie pans exploded, spitting bits of apple and crust into the air.

  Wolfe maneuvered gracefully besides the booths, heading for the front door. “How many?” he asked into his comm.

  Three quick shots echoed from the front of the building, all in rapid succession. “Three in front . . . down,” Angus said, his voice flat. “They weren’t looking behind themselves. Watch the back door. I’ll head around. Looked like two unfriendlies in the truck as it drove by, but I can’t be sure.”

  High-pitched screams and the patter of gunfire flashed into Malcolm’s brain, mixing with the last time he’d been shot. The two moments combined, fuzzing his thoughts. His body froze. His heart rate accelerated and his lungs solidified.

  God. Not now.

  Two gunshots pinged from the kitchen. He shook himself out of it. Now. Stay in the now.

  Pippa whimpered next to him, and that sound, that one small sound, brought him entirely back to the present. He lifted his gun and waited.

  Groans of pain and the crunch of glass came from behind him. Then muscled shoulders rested against his. Wolfe. “Are we clear out front?” the soldier asked.

  “Affirmative,” Angus said through the comms. “I’m almost at the rear of the building.”

  Smooth as a panther, Wolfe pivoted and put his shoulder next to Malcolm’s, pointing his weapon at the swinging kitchen door, and then he slid sideways, settling against the opposing booth to view both the front and back. The guy was definitely well trained.

  Sobbing came from somewhere behind the counter.

  “Everyone stay in place.” Malcolm barely raised his voice. “Keep your heads down.”

  The kitchen door was kicked open, and a gunman wearing a ski mask moved in, AK-47 spraying toward the floor. Tiles chipped and exploded. Mal aimed for center mass and squeezed the trigger. The bastard fell back, his gun still firing, now up toward the ceiling. Then he went down.

  Quiet, the unnatural kind, came from the kitchen. Mal sprang up. “Go,” he ordered.

  Wolfe reached the door first, angling to the side. “You kick.”

  Mal’s arm started to shake. Fucking panic attack. Not now. He nodded. “You want high?”

  “Low. I go low and to the right,” Wolfe whispered, his legs tense but his tone clear.

  Mal counted. “One. Two. Three.” He kicked open the swinging door. Wolfe instantly went through and went low, his gun pointed right. Mal was on his heels, high and left.

  Two quick shots from Wolfe’s gun, and the last shooter went down to the right of a food cart.

  Mal moved in, going to the left and sweeping the rest of the kitchen. “Clear.”

  “Clear,” Wolfe said, jogging up. He reached the first gunman and ripped off the guy’s face mask. Brown hair, dead eyes. “Know him?”

  “No.” Mal took off the other guy’s mask. “This guy either.” Mal flipped him over and searched for identification. Nothing.

  Angus Force came silently from the far side of the kitchen, his gun still in his hand. He set it at his waist and took out a phone, snapping pictures of the two dead guys. “We’ll find out who hired them.”

  The swinging door opened, and Mal pivoted, pulling his gun out at the same time as Wolfe and Force.

  “Whoa.” DA Comstock had blood all over one shoulder and splashed over his face. His left hand covered a wound on his arm, and his fingers were already coated. He looked down at the guy by Wolfe and swore.

  “You know this guy?” Force asked.

  Comstock nodded. “Yeah. Lowlife thug for hire. I put him away three years ago on a weapons charge. Didn’t know he was out.”

  Mal’s gut rolled over. “This is about you?”

  “And probably you,” Comstock said thoughtfully, his face unnaturally pale. “That guy”—he nodded toward the other body—“did some low-level work for the Bodinis years ago. Looks like the two guys I’m prosecuting still have a little juice.”

  The room started to waver, and Mal shoved the panic attack back. The shots echoed in his head. He shook it, trying to get clear. “We set up this meet last night. Who did you tell?”

  “Just your lieutenant.” Comstock grimaced. “That’s it. I made my own travel arrangements.”

  It would’ve taken eight hours for the shooters to drive from New York, but there had been time. “Have him checked out, but I’d bet my life it wasn’t Montego.” Mal read people too well. The lieutenant might be about to retire, but his blood ran blue.

  “Give me your cell phones,” Force said. “If it wasn’t Montego—and we’ll find out—one of you has a bug.”

  Fuck. If they knew where Mal’s house was, he’d have to move. Even if they took down the two henchmen in New York, there was always another lowlife who’d like to make a name for himself. Show some weird allegiance to a family that basically no longer existed.

  Screaming came from the other room. They all turned and hurried into the diner.

  Mal reached Pippa just as sirens trilled in the distance. She was leaning over a woman on the shattered ground, pressing her hands against a leg wound. She looked up, her blue eyes already wide and in shock.

  Relief slashed him that she was all right. Everything inside him wanted to pick her up and hold her.

  The sirens got louder.

  Panic replaced the shock across her face.

  * * *

  Pippa sat next to Trixie in the back of a parked ambulance, a blanket over her shoulders and her legs swinging. The diner parking lot was awash in the swirl of blue and red lights. Local cops, ATF, even FBI agents had already arrived.

  The wounded had been taken to hospitals and the dead had been put into body bags.

  “We should’ve run the second they let us outside,” Trixie said again.

  “That would’ve raised more suspicion,” Pippa countered, watching Malcolm finish talking to a couple of guys with big yellow FBI letters across their jackets. She needed to know he was near. “Just remember who you are now.” Her shoulders trembled, and she tried to stop it. She might never get warm again.

  “When they first started shooting, I thought . . .” Trixie stared at the lights across the lot.

  “Me too,” Pippa whispered. “But they don’t want us dead. If they find us, they’re taking us back.” Especially her. She was special in his eyes, after all. For now, she couldn’t stop watching Malcolm. He worked the scene methodically, his gaze returning to her often. He’d protected her and taken down that gunman like some hero in a television show. Her body heated. Finally.

  Then an agent of about fifty started walking their way.

  Trixie tensed.

  “We’re covered,” Pippa whispered in reminder. “Just be you.”

  The agent wore long gray slacks and a crisp white shirt beneath her FBI jacket. Her black hair was thick and curly, her brown eyes sharp and intelligent. “I’m sorry about the wait, ladies. We wanted to talk to as many of the wounded as we could before they were taken to the hospital.” Her accent was South Georgia and sultry smooth.

  “We were under a table,” Trixie blurted out.

  The agent nodded. “That was smart. My name is Special Agent Mykisha Jackson, and if you’re up to it, I’d like to get your statements.” The agent’s tone recommended that they be up to it.

  Pippa cleared her throat. “We arrived at eleven this morning for lunch.”

  “Let’s start with your names and your addresses,” Jackson said easily, taking out a battered notepad. “Your name?”

  “Pippa Smith,” Pippa said, watching Malcolm approach from the corner of her eye. A part of her heated and flushed, and the other part felt pathetically grateful. Could he stop the questioning? She gave her address.

  The agent arched her eyebrows. “That’s quite a drive for lunch.” She waited expectantly.

  “We like to go antique shopping,” Pippa said, her voice trembling. She’d mem
orized the speech in case they were ever questioned, but she hadn’t imagined a scene like this. “So we meet here for lunch and hit the antique shops in the area. It’s our hobby.”

  Malcolm reached them, his gaze intense. “Are you sure you’re both all right?”

  Pippa nodded, while Trixie remained frozen in place.

  Jackson eyed Malcolm. “Have you finished giving your statement?”

  Mal nodded. “Yes. I’ve turned over my gun and phone as well. My guess is that they’d bugged Comstock’s phone. I’ve been off the grid.”

  “Damn lawyers,” Jackson grumbled, turning back to her notepad.

  Mal nodded, his gaze raking Pippa. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “No,” she murmured honestly. “When the shooting started, we tried to run out of the booth and would’ve just been killed.” Her instincts had been terrible. “If you hadn’t shoved us under the table, we’d be dead.” Her entire body hurt all of a sudden.

  Jackson reached out and patted her shoulder. “Most people aren’t trained to deal with gunfire. Your instincts told you to run, so you did. You’re going to want to talk to a professional after this. It can help.”

  A professional. Yeah. A shrink would have a field day with her mind. Pippa tried to smile for the agent. “Thanks.” Another guy, the one kind of in charge of the scene, caught her eye. It was the same guy who’d been at Malcolm’s house with the dog, which was now following the guy around, sniffing the ground once in a while. The man Mal had told to go away. “Why is he here?” She frowned and focused on Malcolm.

  “He’s my boss,” Mal said, looking big and strong in the swirling lights. Heroic, even. “He was late meeting me and the lawyer.”

  His boss? That guy didn’t look like a government paper pusher. “What’s his name?” Pippa asked, before she could stop herself.

  Agent Jackson looked over her shoulder. “That there is Angus Force. Special Agent Angus Force. Former FBI and currently with ... somebody. Not sure who.” She glanced over at Malcolm. “I’d heard you’d retired from active duty.”

  “I have,” Malcolm said, his expression earnest. Too earnest?

  The agent glanced at Angus Force where he stood talking quietly to a guy who had ATF across his jacket. “I heard he retired as well. Got lost in the middle of nowhere and in a bottle.”

  “He’s just finishing up some business,” Mal said quietly, leaning his shoulder against the side of the ambulance. His green eyes cut through the chaos of the day. “Neither of us is active. I’m basically pushing papers just to build up a pension.”

  “Hmm. Neither of you are coming across particularly retired.” Jackson looked him over and then returned her attention to Pippa. “What kind of antiques do you like?”

  Pippa blinked. “Pink and green Depression ware.”

  “I like Belleek,” Trixie piped up, her eyes still haunted. “Always wished I was from Ireland.”

  “Where are you from?” the agent asked.

  Pippa lowered her chin and tried to focus. This woman was smart. They had to be on their game. “I’m from Seattle,” she said. “So is Trixie. We met right after high school.” God, she hoped Trixie remembered their story.

  This one anyway.

  Chapter Eleven

  Mal kept impatience at bay as he parked his truck and strode up the sidewalk to his house. Angus Force parked his truck and stepped out with his dog, while Clarence Wolfe lumbered out of the passenger side. They had insisted on following him home.

  He glanced over to see Pippa’s kitchen light on. Though he’d wanted to drive her home hours before, she’d been released from the scene long before he had.

  Because he was most likely the target. Or the secondary target, if Comstock was primary.

  It had started raining again, and darkness was beginning to fall. He could still smell the blood and hear the screams. It’d be a lousy night. He unlocked his door and shoved his way inside. “You guys don’t need to babysit me.” His right arm trembled, and his vision kept going gray. This was going to be a bad one.

  Both men ignored him, following him inside. He waited for the dog and then was unable to stop himself from locking the door. Yep. Hypervigilance. One of the classic signs of PTSD.

  Force dropped onto the floral sofa and wiped a hand across his forehead. “What a screwed-up day. We’re trying to stay under the radar, and here we are in the middle of a goddamn shoot-out.” He leaned back, strain clear on his face. “Got the report. The bug was on Comstock’s phone.”

  Thank God.

  Wolfe kept going through the archway to the kitchen. “Where’s the booze?” he asked.

  “Bottom shelf of the pantry,” Mal said wearily, sitting in the matching flowered chair. His head hurt, his hip ached, and his damaged leg felt like it was on fire. “The FBI guys did a good job of keeping the press away.”

  Force opened his eyes. “Did you see your girl? How she kept herself angled away from any cameras?”

  “Yeah,” Mal said, energy popping throughout his exhausted body like a shaken-up soda ready to explode. “I also noticed that she stayed in character. True to the Pippa Smith identity the entire time. Didn’t slip up once.”

  Wolfe strode in with three glasses—full glasses—of Jack Daniel’s in his hands.

  “Wait—” Force started to sit up, but before he could get far, the dog had leaped up and swiped one of the glasses between sharp teeth. “Damn it, Roscoe.”

  Roscoe set down the glass almost gently and slurped up half the contents in one big gulp.

  Wolfe looked down at the rapidly drinking dog. “What the hell?”

  Force shook his head. “He likes whiskey. As a dog, it should totally destroy his liver. But I’ve had him checked out several times at the vet’s after he’s snuck into the booze, and it doesn’t.”

  Roscoe emptied the tumbler and sat, looking up at the remaining glasses in Wolfe’s hands with big eyes. He whined, the sound mournful.

  “He also doesn’t know when to stop,” Force muttered. “No more, Roscoe.”

  The dog cut Force a truly dirty look, then lumbered over to the corner and lay down.

  “Huh.” Wolfe handed a glass to Malcolm and one to Force. “Is that why he’s retired?”

  “One of the many reasons.” Force took the glass, looking at the liquid as if he knew better but, at the moment, didn’t give a shit.

  Wolfe returned to the kitchen for another glass and this time brought the bottle with him.

  The dog perked up.

  “No,” Force snapped.

  The dog sighed and lowered his head onto his paws. But his gaze remained on the bottle.

  Malcolm knew how he felt.

  Wolfe took the one remaining chair, his glass now full.

  Force held up his glass. “For surviving the day.”

  “Surviving,” Malcolm answered, taking a deep drink. The liquid exploded in his gut and spread out, giving warmth and a little calm. He looked at the two men who might’ve saved his life that day. “Thank you for being there.”

  “Always, Brother,” Wolfe said, his gaze only slightly less crazy than normal. “I miss my team. It’s good to have one again.”

  Yeah. A team. “Nothing quite bonds you like gunfire and blood,” Mal murmured, taking another drink. The room started to mellow, the flowers on the couch seeming to fade. Ah. He loved this feeling. “I’m sorry I might’ve compromised our op.”

  “We’re fine,” Force said, taking another drink. “It probably didn’t hurt for your girl to see you save her life. Maybe she’ll trust you. Tell you some truths.”

  His girl. Pippa was so far from being Mal’s girl, it wasn’t funny. “Maybe. Or the fact that she saw me shoot a guy will push her away.” Mal glanced down. His glass was empty. That was fast. Before he could reach for the bottle, Wolfe was there, refilling him. Now that was a buddy. He smiled. “You as crazy as you seem?”

  Wolfe shrugged. “Maybe. Got a head injury, but I wasn’t a straight arrow before, you
know. Was across the world and an op went bad. Lost four guys. Good guys.”

  Wolfe had lost brothers, Force had lost his sister to a serial killer, and Mal had lost ... what? He’d been the one to kill the closest thing he’d ever had to a brother. So what had he lost? “My soul,” he murmured. Yeah. That sounded right.

  Force’s eyes sharpened even as he poured himself another glass. “Who needs it?”

  Wolfe paused with his glass halfway to his mouth. “We all do. Souls are important, man.”

  Were they? Why? Souls made shooting people hurt. Made seducing pretty women with stunning blue eyes a bad idea. Why couldn’t that be a good idea? “I don’t know. It seems like we’re always trying to ignore the damage,” Mal said, his voice slurring only a little. “Do you think she has a soul?”

  Wolfe gave Force a look and then took a deep drink. “Yeah. I think the blue-eyed chick has a soul. I also think she’s a good liar. Watched her at the crime scene. She was scared shitless but managed to keep her story straight. That’s talent, man.”

  Talent. Just great. “Right,” Mal muttered.

  Angus West straightened up. “Could just be a finely honed survival instinct. She looks innocent, but she’s good under pressure. Maybe it’s a necessity?”

  Maybe. Who the hell knew? Mal sighed. “Hey. Who followed her friend home?”

  “Didn’t need to. Got her address at the scene,” Force said. His phone buzzed, and he brought it to his face. “We have an update on the Lassiter case. A possible sighting, which is probably bull. But we need to check it out.” He stood, looked at the bottle, and quickly poured three more shots. “I can leave Wolfe and Roscoe here with you.”

  Ah, man. The guys were worried about him. Mal stood and lifted his glass. “It’s not my first shooting. It probably won’t be my last. You can’t cuddle and spoon me every time.”

  Wolfe snorted as he stood, lifting his glass as well. “Fair enough. Here’s to brotherhood. We’re gonna need it.”