by Amy Vansant
Snug in his new jacket, Tyler walked between the neighbors’ houses and approached Viggo’s back door, hoping to get lucky. Peering through the window, he could see straight through the small kitchen to a man beyond, sitting at the dining room table—
Something about the shape of the things on the table in front of him looked very familiar.
Is that a pile of guns?
Tyler chewed on his lip.
Who is this guy?
Probably a bad idea to burst in there. By the time he recovered from shouldering the door, the old man might have lit him up. He had a policy against sneaking up on a guy surrounded by weaponry. His target looked like Tony Montana lording over his mountain of cocaine, except Viggo’s cocaine was guns.
As if he could hear the call of Tyler’s thoughts, Viggo stood. Tyler tucked back against the house and then took a second peek.
The giant had moved to his front door.
Someone there. Nice timing.
Tyler tried the knob.
Open.
He slipped inside and quietly shut the door behind him, hoping Viggo’s visitor wasn’t another giant bringing his own pile of hardware.
He crept toward the dining room, listening to a voice he assumed to be Viggo talking to someone else.
A woman.
Viggo invited her in.
Tyler slipped inside the bathroom off the kitchen, closing the door enough to hide his presence, but not so tight it appeared someone was inside.
Time to make a decision.
He could swing around the corner, pop the woman and hold a gun on Viggo until he extracted the information he needed, or he could wait until she left and then take care of Viggo without distractions.
Tyler tapped the muzzle of his pistol against his lips.
Decisions, decisions...
&&&
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Shee and Mason pulled up to a suburban home on the outskirts of Minneapolis in a rental car ill-equipped for icy roads. Shee missed the nosey lady beside her in the plane. Alone in the car, the secrets between them felt like a churning moat of sea monsters.
“We should have ponied up a little extra cash for a better car,” said Mason as they slid to the curb.
“Sorry. Freelancing skip tracing isn’t exactly the fast track to riches. I’m used to automatically choosing the cheapest option.”
He put the car in park. “Remind me not to eat shellfish with you.”
Shee studied Viggo’s home. The previous night’s snow had melted from his roof but not his neighbor’s. That meant Viggo’s house was heated, so he was probably home, and he probably didn’t have sufficient insulation in his attic. She’d have to tip him to the money he could be saving on his heating bill, right after she beat out of him why he tried to have her father killed.
“What now?” asked Mason.
“I’m going to knock on the door. No need for subterfuge.”
Mason’s eyebrows raised. “Well, except that he killed your father. Maybe he’d like you dead, too.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. I think he’s the one who left him in the rental for us to find.”
“Then, gosh. He’s practically Santa Claus.” Mason put his hand on the door handle and moved as if he were about to get out of the car.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“I’m going with you.”
“No. Stay here.”
Mason frowned. “Again—you don’t know anything about this guy.”
“But he might recognize you and see you as a threat. I need him talking and you parked around the block.”
Mason set his jaw, his blue eyes lasering his determination into her brain. “I’m coming.”
“Did you forget the part where I stayed alive my whole life without your help?”
His body recoiled. Shee grimaced.
That sounded crueler than I meant...
“I just mean—”
“Fine. Go get yourself killed.” Mason lifted his hand from the door, and flicked his wrist as if he were tossing his fingers into the back seat.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
“But I’m staying here where I can see the door.”
“But he—”
“I’m staying here.”
Shee felt the urge to continue arguing leaving her. She wanted to get to Viggo. “Fine. Stay here and ruin everything.”
“Still bullheaded,” she heard him mutter as she left the car.
A frigid blast ate through Shee’s hastily packed puffy vest, as if she were wrapped in nothing but cheesecloth. Shuffling across the icy road, she rang Viggo’s camera doorbell, noting it had a less obvious cousin nestled in a tree and another mounted on the eaves.
Someone’s a little paranoid.
The door opened and an enormous blond man peered down at her. His graying beard, combined with his wrinkled plaid shirt, gave him the feel of a Swedish hobo-lumberjack.
“Who are you?” he asked without taking his eyes off the idling rental car. He’d already clocked Mason.
“I’m Mick McQueen’s daughter.”
The man’s attention snapped back to her, his once ruddy cheeks paling.
“Little Shee?”
“Not so little anymore, but yeah.”
He looked back to the car. “He here to kill me?” Viggo’s flat tone said he didn’t care much if Mason was loading a gun as they spoke.
“No. I just want to talk. Can we do that?”
He stepped back. “Come in. Bring him if you like.”
She shook her head. “This is between you and me.”
Shee moved into the warmth of the small home and stamped her shoes on the mat. Viggo lumbered toward a dining room table and pulled out a chair for her before dropping into his own seat as if standing had been a strain. His home was neat, but not clean, and badly in need of a remodel. There were signs a woman once lived there—a small Hummel collection and pillows on the sofa with frilly edges—but something about the pile of guns on the dining room table suggested she hadn’t been around in a while.
“Ignore them,” he said, motioning to the weapons. “I have a little business cleaning and repairing. They’re spare parts.”
Shee eyed the pile.
Spare parts. For making untraceable guns.
“You make ghost guns.”
His eyes shifted in her direction. “Cleaning and repairing.”
“It’s okay. I’m not here with ATF. I want to talk about what happened.”
The fact that he didn’t ask about what? told her he had answers. Instead, he glanced at a half empty tumbler of golden liquid on the table.
“Sit. You want a drink?”
She shook her head and sat.
“I was hoping someone would come,” he said. “Never dreamed it would be you.”
“Someone might have come sooner if you’d copped to your involvement.”
He shook his head. “It’s complicated. How is he?”
“In a coma.”
“Still? Damn.”
Viggo seemed regretful. She needed to push before he changed his mind.
“Tell me what happened.”
He leaned back in his chair and twirled a spare barrel on the table as if he were playing spin the bottle. “There isn’t much to tell. They had my grandson. I didn’t have a choice.”
“Who’s they?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why you?”
“Huh?”
“Why did they have you lure him here.”
Viggo slapped the spinning barrel to stop it. “First off, you should know they never said they were going to shoot him.”
“No? You thought the people who snatched your grandson just wanted to chat?”
His expression darkened. “That’s what they said. Next thing I know there’s a shot and he drops.”
“Someone walked up or—”
“Sniper. From somewhere in the back of the parking lot.”
“Fine.
But, again, why you? It had to be someone who knew you’d been on his team, right?”
Viggo shrugged his rounded shoulders. “I guess.”
“Who would know that?”
He stared at her, dumb, so she prompted for answers. “People you ran up against?”
He laughed. “Everyone we ran up against is dead.”
“Their families aren’t.”
“No. But I was by his side on almost every mission. They’d want me dead, too, wouldn’t they?”
“What about other SEALs? Who’s still alive?”
“Other—” He rubbed a large paw across his bulbous red nose, brittle fingernails scratching his cheek. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
She jumped as he reached out and clapped her hand between his own with unexpected speed. “I beat myself up every day for what happened. When I saw he was alive—I did everything I could.”
“You left him in the rental? Made the call?” She asked, sliding her hand from his grasp. She didn’t like the feeling that he could twist her arm from her body if the spirit moved him.
He leaned back. “They left him in the parking lot. No clean up, thank God.” Viggo cocked his head, as if he’d had a new thought. “Why did they leave him? To pin it on me? Make it look like I lost my mind and killed my friend?”
“Maybe. Maybe that’s why they had you draw him out in the first place.”
“Yeah. Maybe.” Viggo’s gaze drifted past Shee. “Hey, let me show you something.”
He stood and she followed him into the kitchen. Two doors led elsewhere from there. The windowed one revealed a frozen tundra the locals called a back yard. The other hung nearly closed, but through the crack she spotted the edge of a toilet.
Viggo motioned to a familiar news clipping framed on the wall beside the bathroom. In it, young Viggo and Mick stood in full uniform beside the then U.S. President.
“Did Mick ever show you this?” he asked, his shoulders straightening.
She nodded. “He has a copy.”
The titan looked at her, his eyes watery and tired. “Yeah?”
He returned to his seat, avoiding her eyes, his face pointed toward the front window even after he sat.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “For everything. Tell him for me. Please.”
“I hope I get the chance.” Shee sat and put her elbow on the table, lowering her head into her hand, thinking.
“Could you write down your team’s names for me?” she asked.
Viggo shook his head. “We all loved him. We’d run through hell for him. Hell, we did.”
“They used you. Maybe they approached one of them, too?”
Viggo growled and jerked a yellow legal pad from beneath a pile of gun magazines. “I hate this shit.” He flipped to a clean page before scribbling a list of names.
“Some of them are dead.” He said, putting an X beside a name.
“Understood.”
He looked at the ceiling and cricked his neck before ripping off the page and handing it to her.
“Here. This is everyone I can think of.”
Shee scanned the sheet. One name caught her eye.
“What does this say?” she said, pointing to his child-like scrawl.
He squinted at the page. “Bracco?”
Shee swallowed. “What’s he look like?”
“Big kid. He was the last to join the team before Mick left.”
“He have any problems with Mick?”
“Not that I remember.”
Shee folded the sheet in half and pulled a card from her jacket to hand to him as she stood.
He took it, folding himself out of his own chair. “This says Hunter Byrne.”
“Alias I was using. Number still works.” She pulled out her phone. “Give me your number in case I have more questions.”
He rattled off the digits.
As she turned to go, he grabbed her arm in his powerful paw. “You are Shee, aren’t you?”
She smelled the whiskey on his breath as he thrust his sallow face toward hers.
“I am. I used to eat your mother’s cookies.”
He smiled and released her, but his grin dropped as quickly as it had appeared.
“They can’t find out he’s still alive,” he warned.
“Your grandson. Understood.”
She moved to the exit and he let her go without following. With a final nod she left, closing the door behind her.
Striding to the idling rental, she fumbled with her phone as she threw herself into the passenger seat.
“How’d it go?” asked Mason.
“He’s drinking himself to death. But I might have something.”
Angelina answered the opposite end of her call.
“Don’t let Bracco anywhere near Dad,” she said.
“Why?”
“Did you know he was on Mick’s team? That he knows Viggo?”
“Yes and no. He didn’t mention knowing anyone from Minnesota, but he’s not real chatty either. You found him?”
“Yes. I’ll fill you in when I get back. Just keep an eye on Bracco. He might know more than he’s letting on.”
“He loves your father. And if he wanted him dead he could have done it years ago.”
“They took Viggo’s grandson to make him help.”
“Who’s they?”
“He doesn’t know. Does Bracco have family?”
Angelina hesitated for a moment. “I’m not sure.”
“Keep an eye on him.”
Shee hung up and pointed forward. “Back to the airport.”
Mason threw the car into gear. “Yes, Ma’am.”
Two pops echoed outside and Shee slapped her left hand on Mason’s arm.
“Wait.”
Mason looked at her.
“That sounded like gunshots.”
&&&
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mason twisted to reverse the car back into their previous parking spot as if it were pulled on a string. Shee scanned the street. The shots had been close.
“He might have killed himself. He had a ton of guns in there,” she said. “He’s not a happy guy.”
Mason shook his head. “I heard two shots. Suicides don’t usually get a second chance.”
Shee grimaced. Good point.
She opened her door and Mason put a hand on her thigh.
“Hold on. We don’t have guns, remember?”
“We can’t just leave.”
“No, but let me take point on this one.”
She consented and they left the vehicle to pick their way across the icy street, gazes sweeping the area for shooters.
Mason ignored the front door in favor of heading around the side of the saltbox home. He hugged the building as Shee followed in his footsteps. Pausing, he pointed at a set of footprints leading his own.
Someone’s here.
Reaching the back, Mason glanced around the corner and whispered his findings to her. “Footprints to the door and then heading across the yard, over the back fence. Hang back a sec.”
He crept toward the back steps to peer inside before opening the door and disappearing inside. Shee followed, staring at the tracks in the snow leading to Viggo’s chain-link fence. The footprints continued beyond it, disappearing around the corner of the rear neighbor’s house.
Whoever had been there had jumped the fence to get away rather than heading back out front.
Because we were out front.
Though Shee was tempted, it didn’t make sense to try and follow. Whoever had been to Viggo’s was probably both armed and long gone.
She entered the house. Mason crouched at the threshold between the kitchen and the dining room where she’d sat with Viggo. She saw a portion of the big man’s body on the floor at his feet.
“Is he dead?” she asked.
Mason held up a finger and slipped around the corner into the living room. Shee headed for Viggo, squatting to feel for a pulse. The hole in his forehead didn’t look promising.
>
Mason returned a moment later.
“House is clear.”
Shee straightened. “He’s dead. One to the head.”
“Two shots,” said Mason.
They both homed in on the gun near Viggo’s hand.
“He got a shot off?” Shee backtracked to the kitchen to find a bullet hole marring the wall left of the back door. “Yep. It’s here. He missed.”
Her attention moved to a dark patch on the wall near the bathroom. Something square had protected the paint there.
She’d been staring at that very spot with Viggo.
“The picture is missing.” She pointed at the square. “There was a framed news clipping of Viggo and my father getting a commendation from the President.”
Mason scowled. “Why would someone kill a man for a news clipping?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he had something in the frame?”
Mason moved toward the back door. “We should get out of here.”
“Should we call nine-one-one?”
“Maybe from a safe distance. Did you touch anything during your visit?”
Shee glanced at the dining room. Viggo stared back at her with unblinking eyes.
“The chair. The door knob.”
She grabbed a kitchen towel from where it hung over the handle of the stove and wiped down the dining room chair and the handle of the front door.
After a final visual sweep of the house, she followed Mason out the back door, taking the towel with her and wiping down that knob as well.
“We have to get home,” she said as they made their way back to the car.
“We should circle the block, see if anyone is walking around in this cold.”
She nodded. “Why kill him now? They saw me talking to him?”
“I doubt they’ve been watching his house all this time. Coincidence, maybe. They’re slow tying up loose ends?”
Shee slid into the rental car and looked at Mason as he pulled away from the curb. The right corner of her mouth curled into a smile.
How could she not trust a man leaving the scene of a homicide with her?
