Connor (In the Company of Snipers Book 5)

by Irish Winters

  “But it wasn’t me, Mom,” a familiar voice insistently whispered behind him. Another glance back at the Dennisons and Alex caught Rory’s dark eyes roll in semi-aggravation as he endured another emotion-filled hug from his thankful mother, Ruth. Rory was another who’d insisted on attending Brigham Coltrane’s funeral. His mother hadn’t stopped crying since she and Rory’s father arrived at the hospital courtesy of Alex. Even now, Ruth stood hanging over the back of her son’s wheelchair, her arms around his neck and her teary cheek against his. It could have been him in that lovely bronze casket beneath the pines, no doubt about it.

  Sawyer Dennison coughed. Ruth sniffed. But Brigham Coltrane’s mother and father wept. And Alex wished he were home with his wife in Alexandria, and this day was behind him.

  It was newly hired ex-DEA Agent Brigham Coltrane who had caught a bullet as he and Cassidy fled with the Ramirez girls and their nanny. The round pierced his jugular. He never stood a chance. His last whispered words to Cassidy were simple and fast. Keep them safe. And another mother had no son to smother with hugs, no freshly pressed shirt to drench with tears of gratitude.

  At the funeral service in the chapel, Alex learned Brigham had been a missionary for his church. Well, he’d fulfilled the greatest mission in the universe as far as Alex was concerned. Brigham had died to save another. Better yet, he’d died to save the children of his enemy, the very man who’d brutally ordered the killing of three of Coltrane’s DEA brethren a year earlier. There had to be a pretty damned good reward in heaven for a kid like Brigham.

  Alex winked at Rory. Ruth kept hugging her son, and Rory kept holding onto his mother’s arm. Somehow, he didn’t look very annoyed at all. He’d taken a hit to his left shoulder, left leg, and right elbow. The worst injury and the one that required the most extensive surgery was his leg, damaged in nearly an identical wound as Roy’s. Yet here he was, honoring a fallen hero as if Brigham had already been one of The TEAM. Which he was. Alex just never got the chance to meet the heroic agent he’d hired sight unseen.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” the preacher said. “The seventh ward has prepared a meal for you at their building. Directions are located on the back of your programs. We would certainly love it if you would partake of their compassionate service.”

  Alex glanced at Connor.

  “Not me,” he said. “Izza’s waiting. I just moved them into my hotel today.”

  “Already?”

  “I’m telling you, my little girl’s going to whip the world some day. She’s a fighter.” Connor beamed, his face warm with fatherly love. Now there was a sight – the biggest womanizer on The TEAM wrapped around two little girls’ fingers and their pinkie fingers at that.

  “I’m out of here,” Roy grumbled. “I’ve got company.” Alex suspected part of Roy’s grumpiness lay in the fact that Collette, his ex-wife, had shown up at the hospital. She’d become a permanent fixture at the hotel he’d been holed up in the last couple of days, too. He and Collette hadn’t been together in years, and yet neither of them had remarried either. Interesting.

  After a short word with Brigham’s grieving parents, Alex and his men headed back to their respective vehicles, Rory Dennison with his doting parents while Alex loaded Roy’s wheelchair in the back of the his SUV. Connor assisted in getting the grumpy senior agent settled.

  “I’m not dead, you know,” Roy grouched when Connor latched his seat belt for him.

  “Damned good thing. I hear you and Rory were having wheelchair races in the hospital halls.”

  “Just one. The damned kid was up walking before I was. He came into my room and challenged me. Said I was old and lazy. What was I going to do? Turn him down?”

  “Have you already started rehab?” Alex asked when they were all inside the SUV and ready to go.

  “Couldn’t. Had a damned staph infection. My leg’s been in a damned brace. How do you expect me to workout like that?”

  “Which hurt worse?” Connor asked. “Chest or leg?”

  “Hell, why don’t you tell me?” Roy snapped. “How’s a bullet hole supposed to feel?”

  Connor grinned at Alex. “Yeah, Boss. He’s feeling better.”

  Thirty-One

  Izza found herself humming a baby lullaby. With Connor at Brigham’s funeral, she’d done nothing but hold her newborn infant. The rocking chair he’d positioned at the open balcony doors was perfect for the job. She’d made herself a cup of hotel room coffee, left the deadbolt unlatched so she wouldn’t have to get up when he returned, and there she and Jamie stayed and played.

  Nothing compared to the swell of love in her heart for this tiny little girl. Jamie was perfection come to earth, a ray of pure light from heaven. Motherhood. Who’d have thought it could change a woman so radically and make her so protective? Or so humble...

  Connor’s hotel room was a suite with a view of bustling Salt Lake City below and the Wasatch Mountains to the east. A sudden summer shower had quenched the last of the fires set by the cartel. Utah smelled fresh and clean and Izza was at peace for the first time in—forever. Not since her mother was alive had she felt so loved or relaxed.

  Her memories strayed to the days when sweet Lucia would gather both Jamie and Izza to her lap in another wooden rocking chair in front of another open window just like this one. There were no scary monsters living in the Ramos house then, just a hard-working father named Pablo who truly loved his dark-haired wife and their children. Izza and Jamie didn’t need hiding places or escape routes then. The coat closet in the hallway was simply a place where boots and coats were stored. It never had a padlock until....

  Izza shivered the ugly memories away and vowed. Jamie Bridgette would never know a harsh word or a mean hand. She’d never cry herself to sleep or lie in her baby brother’s arms too sweaty and beat up to move. Placing a kiss in her sweet baby’s hair, Izza promised with all her heart to be Lucia. Never Pablo. God, no.

  The prettiest yellow bird lighted on the balcony railing.

  “See that songbird, Jamie?” Izza whispered. “He’s singing just to you.”

  She closed her eyes as that tiny bird’s joyful chirp heralded the start of her new day and with it, her new life. Connor did not have a mean bone in his body. She would know. She’d bullied him enough, but not once had he struck back when she’d stepped over the line. And she’d been so mean. All he’d ever done was take her crap, and Izza just plain did not understand how. He seemed to have an ocean of patience. And love.

  Her heart ached to make amends. Tears brimmed in her eyes and Izza let them fall. Holding the tiny person she and Connor had created filled her heart with the oddest emotions. The oddest realization. More tears and Izza let her old life go so she could embrace the new.

  “You’re a good girl,” she whispered to her baby—and to herself. “You never did anything wrong. It wasn’t your fault Mama died.”

  She took a deep breath. “And it wasn’t your place to make him happy. Papa was sick. He was a very sad man who should have gotten professional help. You were just a little girl who wanted something he could no longer give.”

  Jamie arched her back and stretched. Izza looked down into the darkest eyes and saw herself. She choked at the lovely truth staring back at her through dark, thick lashes and dreamy eyes. Now was her time to be a mother, to teach and to love, to protect and guide. With Connor at her side, she knew without a doubt that she could make the kind of home she and Jamie should have grown up in. She and Connor really could make their world.

  Maybe he was right. Maybe she should let him locate her father if only to show him that she was nothing like him. That she’d made better choices. That she’d lived. That Lucia still lived through her.

  “I’m going to marry your daddy,” Izza promised Jamie. “And we are going to live happily-ever-after if it’s the last thing I do.”

  An angelic smile flittered over Jamie’s face. Her eyes rolled back into preemie dreamland once again.

  “But first.” Izza reached for h
er cell phone on the nearby desk. “Daddy’s going to bring us girls some of the best fajitas north of the border.”

  Connor tapped his fingers impatiently on the display glass. For a girl who grew up in Seattle, Izza sure lived for Mexican cuisine. And for a boy from Boston who’d grown up on blue crab and Icelandic cod, he didn’t mind the spicy menu at all.

  “You want habaneras?” the clerk asked.

  “Are they hot?”

  “Oh, yes. Only one pepper is hotter. The Reaper.” She lifted a brow. “You want that instead? It will make you wish to die after just one taste.”

  Connor deliberated a half-second. Izza did like the heat. He remembered the bottle of hot sauce she always carried with her in Iraq. “Sure, but on the side. Throw in a double order of guacamole, too.”

  “You bet,” she replied as napkins, plastic utensils, and a large carton of salsa joined the nachos already in the carryout bag. “Have a seat. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  He took position on one of the many wooden stools lining the window and wall. Knowing Izza and Jamie were safely tucked in his hotel room should have made him happy. She had recovered enough to leave the hospital and Jamie was doing outstanding for a preemie. It had to be all those tough-girl attributes she’d inherited from her mother. The little thing didn’t do much more than eat and sleep. Come to think of it, that’s all Izza was doing right now, too.

  But he wasn’t happy. Maybe it was Brigham’s funeral or waiting for his order that bugged him. Connor couldn’t put his finger on that creepy sniper sixth sense poking at him. He glanced out the window to his right. The normalcy of the city streets only irked him more.

  “Your order, sir.” The very helpful clerk held up two bags of the best Mexican food in SLC.

  “Thanks.” He tossed a couple twenties on the counter and grabbed the bags.

  “Wait. Your change.”

  “Keep it,” he muttered, his hand already flat to the exit door. He knew what bugged him now. Izza was alone. His cell phone rang. Sweet Mother Mary and Joseph, it was Izza’s pretty face on his caller ID. That girl could read his mind.

  “Hey, Mama,” he answered in the deepest, sexiest baritone he could muster, already imagining her in his arms again.

  But Izza did not respond. Connor listened to the racket over her phone, rapid words in Spanish, but nothing he understood. It was not her voice. Whoever was in the room with her was angry. Definitely not a man’s voice either. Maybe a woman’s? A young man’s?

  And then Izza said strong and clear, “Put the gun down.”

  “Izza?” Connor barked. Panic lengthened his stride. “Talk to me. What’s going on?”

  More noise answered as if the phone was being bumped and jostled. He ran, dodging traffic on the busy city street and a fire in his gut. Shoving through the hotel doors, he grabbed the nearest elevator and ran to his hotel room. The door was open. The same angry voice he’d heard over the phone could be heard in the hall. “No way! No way! You and your boyfriend are gonna pay. I’m going to do to you what you did to my mother and father.”

  Connor set the bags of food on the floor outside his door and peered cautiously at the stranger’s back, his SIG drawn and ready. He could easily end this confrontation. It was a clear case of self-defense and intruder alert, but he also caught the slight shake of her head.

  She stood against the open balcony door facing someone in a black hoody over baggy black jeans. Black running shoes with bright neon green laces, both untied and dirty, adorned his or her feet. The person’s clothing looked new, but he or she was a lightweight, somewhere between a hundred and a hundred ten pounds. Connor could not identify gender, but he guessed male. The person had a speech impediment. He lisped when he talked.

  But he also waved the gun erratically, not necessarily focused or aiming at Izza. If anything, he used it like an exclamation point. Just then the stranger turned on Connor. “I see you now. Get over here.”

  But Connor had already drawn his weapon. They stood locked in a standoff. And worse yet, he was face to face with a child. An angry teenager boy who handled his weapon as if it were a toy. And that was the problem with a kid and a gun.

  “What’s going on, Izza?” Connor asked calmly.

  The kid exploded. “Hey, dumb ass, what are you asking her for? I’m the one you need to be talking to, not some stupid bitch. What! Can’t you see me or something? I ain’t invisible. Look at me. I’m the guy with the gun!” He lifted his weapon over his head in an erratic circle almost as if he were batting flies.

  “Okay then. You tell me what’s going on.” Connor stared at the young man in his line of sight. “Who are you?”

  “That’s a good question, but you’re a little late asking, aren’t you?”

  “So enlighten me. What do you want?” Connor eased inside the room and closed the door behind him.

  “I want you guys to die. Both of you. You killed my father and my mother. I’m here to make you pay!” Again the gun jerked back and forth between Connor and Izza. By all rights, Connor should have shot him. Izza and Jamie’s lives were in danger. He could have. Maybe he should have. But he didn’t.

  “You’re Ricardo. You are Alejandra Ramirez’s son.”

  “Alejandra Quinones!” the boy spat. “At least use her right name.”

  Connor drew a deep breath and calmed. “How about we both put down our weapons and talk for a minute before either of us does something drastic?”

  “I ain’t putting nothing down but you three pigs.”

  “So you’re here to kill me, a woman, and a baby, is that right?” Connor verbalized the threat, hoping to get through to this young man.

  “What? You don’t hear so good? Yeah! That’s exactly why I’m here, dirt bag.”

  Connor had no trouble reading this young man’s body language. One second angry and the next afraid, he was obviously frustrated, hurt, and a whole lot of mad. Every emotion rampaging through his brain revealed itself through his dark brown eyes. Despite his threat, tears welled up, his nose dripped, and he was sweating like a prizefighter. Ricardo’s lisp was the product of a mild harelip that lifted the middle of his upper lip and no doubt his palate. Connor would know. His youngest brother was born with the same condition.

  Taking the first step toward what he hoped was a peaceful outcome, Connor raised his gun over his head in a sign of surrender. “I’m putting my weapon down, son—”

  “I’m not your son!” Ricardo screamed. “You’re the boss man. You’re the big man who sent that guy to kill my father. And my mother, too.”

  Ah, so Ricardo thought he had entered Alex’s room. That put a slightly different spin on the situation, not that it alleviated the danger, but it did reveal what little Ricardo knew. Did he even realize that he had two half-sisters? Did he know how his mother used two little girls as human shields or that she fully intended to kill them? But most of all, did he knew who his parents really were?

  Now the gun was totally on Connor. He stared the young man down. “Have you ever killed anyone before?”

  “Course I have. I’ve... I’ve killed lots of people. Most of them were American pigs just like you.” The gun waved like a matador’s red cape at a bullfight.

  “It’s pretty hard to take that first shot, don’t you think?”

  The kid’s wild eyes narrowed. “What? Oh, yeah. But then it gets easier. What do you care?”

  “I don’t. It’s just that a man has to get himself psyched up every time, doesn’t he? It’s harder in close quarters like this hotel room. You’ve got to look your victims in the eye. Women are harder. Children are hardest. But babies....” Connor paused to let the reality of shooting an infant sink in.

  “Yeah, but... but....” Ricardo’s false bravado wavered. His gaze drifted to Izza and the baby in her arms. Izza crooned softly into the top of Jamie’s head, but her dark eyes never left the other child with the gun.

  Connor continued soft and low. “I’m sure glad this isn’t your first time, R
icardo. I’d hate to have to kill three people once I’ve looked them in the eye. They say it gets easier, but it didn’t for me. By the way, that pretty lady’s name is Isabella, and the baby in her arms is a little girl named Jamie. Jamie isn’t even a week old yet. She was excited to get here so she’s two months premature.”

  Ricardo blinked hard. The gun lowered a fraction before he caught his second wind and screamed, his hands covering his ears like a spoiled child, the pistol against the side of his head. “I can’t hear you. I can’t hear you.”

  Connor offered another quick nod of encouragement to Izza. She winked back.

  “Okay. I get it. You’re just here to kill us. Can you at least let Izza sit down while we’re talking, I mean, before you murder us?”

  Ricardo gulped. The kid’s eyes widened at that stupid request in the middle of his insane plan for revenge. He waved his gun at Izza and then the chair. “I don’t care. It’s not like I said you hafta stand around all day. So sit.”

  She lowered into the rocking chair. “Thank you, Ricardo.”

  The poor damned kid looked confused. “’S okay,” he muttered with a shrug.

  “That was a very kind thing you just did. Thank you for being so polite to Izza and Jamie.” Connor kept trying to breach the wall of anger.

  “Shut up. I am not here to be kind and polite,” Ricardo snarled.

  Connor still held his SIG in his hand, but it was not aimed at the young man. “You’re right. A man’s got the right to be mad when his father and mother have been killed.”

  “You killed them.”

  “You loved your father, didn’t you, Ricardo?” Connor ignored the young man’s angry accusation.

  “No, I didn’t.” The gun snapped back to Connor again. “That’s the thing. I didn’t love him. He was a pig. I didn’t love my mother, either, if that’s what you’re gonna try next. She was worse than he was. You should’ve seen them together. You’re all liars. You people are just like them.”