Jameson (In the Company of Snipers Book 22)

by Irish Winters

  “Where’s my limo?” he asked Mark, meaning the vehicle Maddie had driven to Reagan.

  “Over there.” Mark pointed to the south side of the airfield. “What’s left of it. The firemen moved the carcass before I got here.”

  Alex stared at the smoking wreckage. There’d be no forensic evidence coming from that mess. “Is Mother able to track our people?” She tracked all TEAM agents’ cell phones when they were on active ops.

  “No, which means they were frisked before they were abducted and their phones destroyed, or…” Mark let the obvious—or they were dead on the scene—go unsaid.

  Turning his head, Alex glared at the glowing, smoking wreckage of what had been a luxury jet, not willing to accept defeat just because some reporter said so. Sparks still flared orange inside the burned fuselage, and the entire tail assembly lay detached, twisted, and charred on the runway. He had no doubt there’d been an explosion aft, possibly in the cargo hold. Which declared a bomb, at least that something explosive had blown the tail off. The cockpit was intact, but was a burned, hollowed-out shell. The portable stairs lay melted on the tarmac.

  Maddie and Jameson were NOT on that jet. They WERE alive. Alex damned well knew it. “We know where the pilot is?”

  “From what the fire chief told me, her crew hadn’t arrived yet. Check this out,” Mark muttered as he handed his cell over. “Online video of the conference Lucy Shade held immediately after her jet blew.”

  Wasn’t that just like every fame-hungry reporter? Worry about her media exposure and rep more than the people who might’ve died on her damned corporate jet? God, he hated self-serving reporters.

  Alex took the phone and thumbed replay. It was her all right. Dressed in black slacks and a flashy orange, yellow, and red flowing blouse that wrapped around her tiny waist. A twitchy African American male, the width and breadth of Mark, stood at her side, but he kept looking over his shoulder as if someone off-screen was talking to him or worried him. “Is that Vladimir?”

  “She didn’t introduce him, but I assume so, yes.”

  Miss Shade didn’t act nervous at all as she glanced at the man beside her and fluttered her long, gold painted fingernails over her well-endowed cleavage. “Again,” she said, her voice breathless and fake, “I have my excellent bodyguard to thank for saving my life tonight. If Vladimir hadn’t been here, those two awful people would’ve had their way with me, and I—”

  “So you believe your kidnappers were aboard your private jet when it exploded?” another reporter interrupted.

  “Yesssss…” she hissed. fanning her face with all ten gaudy fingers. “I don’t know what would’ve happened without Vlad. Why, I could’ve been killed or… or worse. And I know this will sound awful, but I’m glad they’re d-d-dead, and I’m not.”

  “She’s lying,” Alex said flatly. If there was one thing he’d learned to recognize at an early age, it was a liar. “Why would kidnappers run into the plane they meant to blow up? And why blow it up to begin with?”

  “If anyone was onboard,” Mark replied. “We still don’t know that for certain. Wait. It gets better.”

  Sure enough. Someone in her audience asked if she knew the perpetrators or if she could describe them. She shook her head adamantly. “Once my handsome bodyguard came to my rescue, they ran for their lives. I was so scared; I didn’t get a good enough look. Sorry. Next question?”

  “She’s sure pouring it on about Vlad,” Mark commented.

  “Then why’d she contract with me to guard her ass tonight?”

  “I’ve already had Mother pull her contract. A copy’s on my phone if you need it.”

  “She’s not making sense. If Vladimir reported two people onboard when the jet exploded, then who ran away from it? Were they her abductors or not? How many people are we looking for?”

  Someone else asked Miss Shade, “When exactly did the assailants attack? Were they both males? Were they armed? Why weren’t you already inside the plane if you were cleared for take-off?”

  “Oh yes, they were both carrying great big AK-14s,” she declared, her head bobbing as if she knew what she was talking about, when it was obvious she didn’t. “Them, I saw because they were pointed straight at me. I was so, so scared. Next question.”

  Alex rolled the cramp out of his shoulder. AK-14s? What an ass.

  “She’s avoiding most questions,” Mark noted.

  Another reporter: “Miss Shade, the hotel you were staying at earlier today just released their security footage, which shows your departure this evening. Is this the man who tried to abduct you and ran away, or is he one of the two people who died in the fire?”

  The mega-screen behind her filled with time-stamped footage of Junior Agent Jameson Tenney standing in the hotel lobby, his chin up, his shoulders back, and his head canted. He was a good-looking, dark-haired young man, wearing a TEAM polo under a suit jacket, most likely to conceal his weapon. The round-framed, dark glasses perched on his nose and the white cane perfectly aligned in front of him identified him as visually impaired.

  An older woman with salt-and-pepper hair and one of those fluffy, yappy dogs in her arms, entered the hotel’s revolving doors behind Jameson. She’d no more than cleared the entrance when he stepped back and out of her path, then nodded deferentially at her. To look at his reaction, Alex wouldn’t have guessed he was blind. She nodded at Jameson, then stopped, and they chatted for less than a minute. He smiled broadly at something she’d said, then reached forward and patted Fluffy’s cute little head as if he knew precisely where it was. After she headed for the elevator, Jameson resumed his watch.

  Alex was damned proud of the caliber of man he was looking at. Clean-shaven. Straight as an arrow. Square shoulders. On duty and on time despite what, to some, would’ve been a debilitating impairment. Looked like Jameson hadn’t let that ugly incident in Iraq slow him down or define him at all.

  Exactly four minutes later, Miss Shade stalked across the lobby. Her body language spelled rage in flashing neon capital letters. When at last she jerked to a full stop, she stabbed a finger into Jameson’s chest, her jaws jacking like a damned troll. He stood there, taking her abuse with his head cocked as if he were trying to understand her anger.

  “Is there audio?” Alex asked Mark as he watched his newly hired agent maintain his cool in the face of one of America’s finest reporters.

  “No. Just video. Have no idea what she was mad about. He was early and waiting in the lobby as she’d requested.”

  “Oh, my God!” Shade had squealed during her private news show. “That’s him. Wait. There was a woman with him. Why isn’t there a clip of her?”

  “Dig a little deeper, Mark. I want the woman with the dog. Find her. Speak with her,” Alex ordered as he handed the cell back. “Shade just accused my agents of a federal crime. I’ll have her lying ass for this. But if they’re dead…” I’ll have her head.

  Which may never happen, as quickly as her fellow reporters had fired more probing questions at her than she could handle.

  “You’re kidding? Your kidnapper was blind?”

  “Where’s his AK-14?” That was asked with blatant sarcasm.

  “There’s no such thing as an AK-14. Did you mean AR-15, AK-47, or M16? Which was it?”

  “I can only tell you what the police told me,” she yelled over them. “I promise to meet with you once I know more. Thanks for coming!”

  “Which will be a cold day in Hell,” Alex groused.

  “She’s bitten off more than she can chew,” Mark added, “and she knows it. She seems to be making this crap up as she goes.”

  “So who’s running this shit show, Shade or Vladimir?”

  “My guess is Shade. He might be built, but he acts like he’s scared of her.”

  “You think she lured Jameson and Maddie to their deaths?”

  “No, Boss. I interviewed Jameson. He’s smarter than that. I’ll give you ten-to-one-odds that he and Maddie
weren’t on the jet when it blew. Miss Shade is about to become the sensational news story of the year,” Mark drawled. “I can see the headline now. Lucy Meets Bitter End.”

  Alex grunted. He had a different headline in mind. Lucy Shade Found Guilty of Attempted Murder.

  “Call everyone in who’s not out of town. Finding Maddie and Jameson is our only active operation as of right now. Mother needs to be ready to pull local traffic cams and satellite imagery the minute I can access airport security videos. I want eyes in the sky and boots on the ground. Call Harley. I need his dogs.”

  “Mother’s already on standby. Your helo pilot as well. Harley can’t make it, he’s on call at the emergency vet tonight, but he’ll bring Boris and Karloff as soon as he can get away. Don’t worry, Boss. Once we know where to look, we’ll find Maddie and Jameson.”

  Boris and Karloff were two of Harley’s best tracking dogs.

  Alex raked his fingers over his head, impatient as always and antsy as hell. Finding Maddie and Jameson wasn’t the problem. Finding them alive was.

  Chapter Ten

  Go, get help, humph, Maddie thought as she crawled steadily through the ceiling ductwork. What am I, just some brainless woman who can’t do anything but run away like a scaredy cat?

  In twenty feet or so, the ceiling level ductwork turned into floor level ductwork that emptied into an old-fashioned kitchen with worn, linoleum-tiled flooring, dirt encrusted walls, and an empty square space where a stove had been. Men’s voices came from the next room. A dim overhead light was on. A dozen or so fast food bags and empty beer bottles littered the counters.

  Pressing both palms to the grated vent, she pushed, but then cringed when one side of it held tight while the other creaked open a scant few inches. She hadn’t anticipated the vent wouldn’t pop off like they did in movies. By then her hands were shaking. When no one came running to see what the noise was, she steeled her wits and tried again. Then again.

  Good grief, the screw holding the vent in place on the left wouldn’t give. But Jameson had said this was her time to shine, and one little screw wasn’t going to stop her. Gripping the free side of the grate with both hands, she bent it outward at a ninety-degree angle, then extricated her ass and legs and scrambled to her feet. Her throat was drier than dirt by then, and her heart pounded, but she could do this.

  Looking over her shoulder as she worked, Maddie bent the vent cover back into place, then lifted to her feet and flattened her back against the wall to keep from shaking. The way out lay directly across the floor from her. But some guy in the other room was growling a terse string of angry Gaelic that sent an icy shiver up her spine. Other loud male voices followed, their tones more agreeable. Mr. Tense-and-Gaelic had to be the boss, maybe Pops Delaney?

  Maddie didn’t intend to stick around to find out. She could get herself killed, and she just plain didn’t have that kind of nerve. Jameson was the covert operator, not her. She was just admin. But tonight, he needed her help, and he was going to get it. Any minute now…

  He’d create a distraction, and then she’d run and then…

  A better idea sprang to mind. If he could create distractions, so could she.

  Ducking quickly across the open kitchen doorway to the next room, she made it to the back door and was outside in seconds, her lungs pumping for air and her heart racing from too much adrenaline. She could do this. She could save Jameson. Wouldn’t he be surprised?

  But she had to act fast. What to do, what to do? Several trucks and assorted cars were parked in the dirt outside the kitchen exit, under a dim yard light stuck way up high on a telephone pole. It gave her just enough light to see without being seen. Maddie prowled those vehicles carefully and quietly, looking for keys. She didn’t spend much time in any of them, afraid the dome lights might give her away. Finally. Bingo. Not only a set of keys, but a lighter, an unopened pack of cigarettes, and a ball cap. Those things might all come in handy, but she only took the keys and lighter.

  More quick prowling earned her a loaded pistol hidden inside the driver’s side door pocket of a topless SUV, a tire iron from the open bed of a pickup, and a deadly looking knife in a nice leather sheath from the cab of the same truck. Until she’d joined The TEAM, she’d never shot a gun. But since all TEAM members had to certify at a nearby range, she’d learned plenty. Would’ve been better if she’d found an extra, loaded magazine to go with the pistol, but the gun would do for now. She racked the slide and chambered a round, prepared to be all she could be.

  With heart-pumping speed, she retraced her steps and stabbed tires. All of them. Her dealings with Nash’s loan sharks had taught her well. Why flatten one when four ruined tires sent a scarier message?

  Okay then. The night was warm and she was sweating up a storm. Before she went any further, she sheathed the knife and secured it in the waistband at her back. Setting the tire iron and pistol on the dirt beside her boot, she wrapped her hair into a long ponytail, tied it off with a couple strands of loose hair, and shoved it over her shoulder and out of the way. She pulled out the lighter. What these guys needed was a nice big bonfire, and…

  Oh, look. A barn. If burning that down didn’t get them out of the house long enough for her to rescue Jameson, it would certainly raise an alarm among the neighbors and bring the fire department.

  Keeping an eye on the rear door of the house, she skittered between the parked vehicles to the old barn with her assorted weapons. She hesitated just inside the open barn door until her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. The interior was dark, really dark. This had to be how Jameson felt every day, feeling his way around a pitch-black world.

  At last, she could make out the wide, barren, wooden floor, a couple empty stalls to her right, and a big mound of hay piled against the back wall. No horses or cows, though. No farm equipment, either. Just a big empty barn and…

  Whoa. A shiny limousine had been backed into the far-right corner behind the stalls. Well, well, well. Want to bet that belonged to Lucy Shade? Which begged the question: where was that maniac?

  Maddie hid the heavy tire iron in the hay now that she had a killer knife and a loaded pistol. Stepping lightly and quickly toward the limo, she second-guessed herself all the way, wondering if stabbing all those tires had been a smart idea. The men inside the house needed to see just the burning barn when they ran out and investigated the fire. She expected they’d all vacate the house, because that was what people did when someone yelled fire. It’d give her the time she needed to sneak back inside and break Jameson out.

  But even if she made it all the way back inside the farmhouse and to Jameson, there was no guarantee she could get him out alive. And if even a single one of those men noticed the flat tires first… If someone stayed inside the house instead of running toward the fire…? Good grief. Actual covert operations were scary, dangerous things.

  Finally at the limo, Maddie licked her lips at all the ways rescuing Jameson could go wrong. But she was determined. That counted for something, didn’t it?

  Biting her lower lip, she smoothed her fingertips over the sleek hood on her way to the driver’s door handle. So far, so good. The door opened without setting off an alarm. Which she hadn’t remembered until she’d sprung the latch, and by then, it would’ve been too late.

  Focus, Maddie! Settle down. You can do this. Save Jameson. Save the day.

  She leaned one knee on the driver’s seat, weighing her options. Darn, this was a long vehicle, but she knew she could drive it. A key fob with no keys lay on the center console. Well, that was stupid. Decision made.

  Thinking like a real covert operator now—she wished—she climbed in and fastened her seatbelt securely. Then, with her eyes closed, she risked everything and pressed her index finger to the button that relied on the low-frequency signal coming from the fob to start the engine. It purred to life. Oh, my gosh, without any of the noises her much cheaper, economy car made.

  She opened her eyes and blew out a low,
congratulatory breath of ‘I did it!’ This time, she made sure the headlights didn’t come on. Parking lights, either. But by then, she’d also thought twice about leaving the tire iron behind. Sometimes, more really was just that, and what woman didn’t need a heavy-duty weapon when face to face with ruthless killers?

  Braking to a slow, soundless stop at the barn door, she put the car in park, unfastened her seatbelt, and quickly retraced her steps. She’d been smart not throwing the tire iron willy-nilly. It was out of sight and under the hay, but it had to be close by. She’d just delved both arms up to her elbows into the dusty pile when—a great big hand grabbed her ankle. Good Grief! Maddie scurried backward, but she was caught.

  “Let me go!” she nearly screamed, she was so scared.

  Whoever he was, the guy held on tight. His hand was so big that it shackled her entire ankle, making getaway impossible. And it was black. Dark, dark black. Like ink. And big. But his voice was weak when he asked for, “H-h-help.”

  “Who are you? One of those k-k-killers?” There was no way she’d help one of Pops Delaney’s men.

  “Vlad...” he groaned.

  “What are you doing out here?” She truly wished her voice would stop quavering.

  “Shot. She… she shot me,” he wheezed.

  “Who? Lucy Shade?”

  “Yeah. She’s insane.”

  Maddie sucked up her courage and crawled back to the man under the hay. She brushed it off his long arm, then off his shoulder and face. He was a big African American with a funny name for a Black guy. But the gooey, bloody hole in his side, under that long arm in the sleeve of a dirty white dress shirt, was telling. Maddie knew what to do. Back when she’d been homeless, she’d been smart enough to duck into an American Red Cross class in emergency first-aid. She’d been hungry and cold that wintry evening, and she’d only gone in because she’d heard on the street they served hot coffee and donuts after class, and the class was free.

  Despite the fact she hadn’t showered in days and her clothes were wrinkled and dirty, and she had no doubt she’d smelled, she’d learned a lot that night. She’d even made a couple friends who’d told her about the women’s shelter in Roanoke. Hop, skip, and jump a couple months forward, and she was tossing greasy fast food into tiny bags, going home to a warm bed in her very own small but affordable apartment, and attending night classes at the local community college.