He smiled for the first time in days. Yeah. Harley would remember Judy in no time at all. She was too formidable to forget.
Twenty-Two
“Who the hell are you?” Jeff asked, his hand fisted into his stomach. Poor Newton lay curled to his side, his knees pulled up to his chest.
Ethel stopped directly over him, the revolver pointed at his head.
“No!” Kelsey let her spear fly, but instead of impaling Ethel, it glanced off her shoulder and bounced away. She’d dropped the gun though. Jeff was safe. For now.
Kelsey wasted no time barreling into her. The impact sent both women tumbling over backward, and clear of the weapon. Before Ethel could recover, Kelsey grabbed her by the throat and pushed her to her back. Ethel grunted and dragged her fingernails over Kelsey’s forehead, nose and eyes.
It hurt. Kelsey released her and Ethel pushed her off. Now Kelsey was back to the ground and fighting to breathe, but Ethel had chosen poorly. With her hands in Kelsey’s hair, she pulled, tearing a handful out by the roots. Kelsey thrust her knee upward and into the old woman’s unprotected gut. Then she head-butted Ethel hard enough to hear the crunch.
Blood spewed out of Ethel’s nose. She rolled to her side, groaning and her hands to her face. Kelsey wasted no time. She flung herself across Ethel’s shoulder, reaching for the weapon. Just that fast, Ethel rammed her elbow into Kelsey’s solar plexus, knocking the wind out of her. She crawled on hands and knees, her hand outstretched and her fingers nearly on the business end of the barrel.
Terror gripped Kelsey. She’d never fought with anyone like this before, never even raised her hand in anger, but Alex’s words echoed loud. Never lay down to a bully. Never! He might get a meal, but make sure you get a sandwich.
With her fingernails full of dirt, she pushed off the ground and launched another attack. Her eyes watered. Her scalp and stomach hurt, but pain she could live with. Ethel Durrant—never again.
Kelsey dropped, digging her knee square into the middle of Ethel’s back. The old hag whimpered, but the time for tricks and sympathy was past. Somewhere in the background, Raymond whined, but rage ruled the schoolhouse tonight. Kelsey was in a take-no-quarter mood. Linking her hands together into one mighty fist, she slammed the side of that ugly face with the best powerhouse sandwich she could muster. “Stay. Down.”
“Stop it.” Ethel whined, spit and bled, her hands flailing to block the blows coming at her from behind.
Shaking with strength she’d never realized, Kelsey hit the other side of Ethel’s head.
“I said stop it. You’re hurting me.”
Well, too bad. Her jowls bounced, but Kelsey recognized a lying snake when she saw one. She had the psycho pinned. Her head pounded with adrenaline she could not and did not want to control. Not now. This was what self-defense training was about, sending the other guy bloodied and beaten to the corner. Better yet, scoring the ultimate KO and kicking her ass!
She hit her again.
“I give. You win. You win,” Ethel complained, face down in the dirt and all ten fingers twitching like little flags of surrender at the side of her head.
Kelsey wanted to hit her one more time, but her decent streak prevailed, darn it. Alex had better be on his way because he’d never explained how to deal with a prisoner. She didn’t have a pair of handcuffs or a piece of rope, but there was no way she’d let Ethel get away this time. Maybe Jeff or Newton had something?
She looked up to see how they were doing, but it was too dark to see that far and her head was full of noise. Righteous revenge bellowed to finish the job. Kill the witch.
God, she wanted to. Instead, she leaned over Ethel and grabbed the weapon, instantly checking its chamber. Three rounds left. She slapped the six-round cylinder shut and wished she were cruel enough to use it.
The sweet side of her soul waged war with the devil she’d never realized lay within. She didn’t want to be like Nick. Never like Ethel. Yet here she was, wearing another person’s blood on her hands and proud of it. The ugliest, most gloriously fierce beast roared to life within the heart that had once sought God. Revenge swelled to the uppermost heights of her being.
Even justice demanded its due. Do it. Kill the damned witch. Now!
She could do it too. The old woman squirmed beneath her, and Kelsey felt powerful. She’d won. Ethel Durrant would either die by lethal injection or spend the rest of her worthless life in prison. She could have been a grandmother, singing lullabies to two little boys who would have loved her despite herself, but no. Ethel had chosen bitterness over joy. She’d lost everything and everyone. And she’d done it to herself.
Experience whispered. Don’t trust her.
“Stop moving.” She dug her knee into Ethel’s meaty back, content to torture her until Alex showed.
“But I can’t hardly catch my breath. You’re hurting me, girl.”
“Good.” For once in her timid, good-little-girl life, Kelsey wanted to walk the streets knowing Ethel Durrant lay six feet under. Most of all, she wanted Tommy and Joey to know their mother thought of them every single day; that the woman responsible for their murders would never hurt anyone again.
“Kelsey?” Raymond’s gentle voice stilled the storm in her head.
She looked across the clearing amazed he was flat on his back after the ruckus. His hand stretched out to her, his fingers curled and beckoning. The frightened look in his eyes stabbed her. Kelsey knew in an instant.
Raymond needed her now.
Roy knew where he was headed. A short cab drive across the Potomac to Arlington would get him there. If his gut was right, he’d have a tough decision to make before the night was through. If he was wrong? Well, maybe he’d have a beer with an old friend and call it good. He hoped to hell he was wrong. A cold beer would be the better way to end the day.
Wouldn’t Emmet be surprised to see him? They could laugh about the odd coincidence of that thirty-aught-six shell. Hell, they could laugh about a lot of things. Then Roy could go home and get a good night’s sleep. But if he was right....
Mother’s voice sounded in his earpiece. “Hey, Roy. You copy?”
“Yes. What do you have for me?”
“Ran the facial identification program you requested. Sorry it took so long. There were a lot of faces on all the photos you and Connor been taking. It took a while to cross-reference.”
“Tell me what I don’t know.” The lights of D.C. flew by. Down the Potomac, the Jefferson Memorial glowed across the tidal basin. A string of headlights spanned the Fourteenth Street Bridge while the ugly job that lay ahead rankled deep in his gut.
“There is one face that doesn’t add up. An African American male, about your age, dressed as a Metro police officer in one shot, but he’s wearing an FBI badge on his belt in another. He was in the last batch you sent too. In a SWAT uniform.”
“You got a name?” God, not Emmet.
“Yep, sure do,” she rattled cheerily on, “I ran it through—”
“Just give me the name.” He didn’t have time for Mother’s never-ending explanation of how much she knew, or every step she employed in the course of doing her job.
“Emmet Grant.”
Roy hung up, angry with her for being annoying and himself for losing his temper, but damn it anyway, his gut was right. He faced his reflection in the cab’s window and cursed heaven for bringing this duty to him. There was no time to contact Alex, and Roy chose not to engage the FBI. No bureaucratic know-it-all should make the decision that need making. Not tonight.
He stilled the relentless banging in his heart. All roads led to Emmet.
At his destination at last, he paid his fare and sent the cabbie on his way. Giant oaks sheltered the street, their roots buckling the sidewalks in some places and cracking it in others. The older neighborhood of Arlington spoke of simpler times where hard working mothers and fathers had once raised good boys and better girls; where grace was offered at every meal and television sets didn’t get turned on unti
l homework was done, dishes washed and put away. Chores were a fact of life for kids back then. That’s how life was in the fifties, least ways in his parents’ home. Simple. Honest. Fun.
He stuck his hands into his pockets, very aware of the pistol holstered against his ribs. The damned P238 Scorpion should not feel like the friend he’d always considered it to be, not tonight and not for the work that lay ahead. How many times had it saved his life? He couldn’t count that high. Didn’t want to any more than he wanted to rely on it again.
He shuffled onward, kicking against the relentless prick of honor bound duty. Gradually, his parents’ old home came into view. They were both gone now, but the sentimentality of the moment warmed him like it always did. Here he was the good son, the war hero, and his father’s pride and joy. Home. His nose twitched remembering when his family moved north to Virginia from Georgia. Everything had smelled so different. Of all things, he’d missed the dust of Alabama and hated the change in his life until he met the next-door neighbor who would become his best friend. Emmet.
Roy took twenty more steps to the house next door and ducked behind a tall ornamental shrub where he could wait without being spotted. He’d been here before and not too long ago either. The cigarette butt can behind him stood next to two folding lawn chairs where a couple old soldiers had told stories and lies ’til all hours. Those were good times.
But this was now.
Emmet still lived in his parents’ home. An older building of bricks and the standard white trim of past decades, it said nothing about the lonely African American man who lived inside other than Emmet Grant was tidy, kept his lawn mowed and the weeds out of the cracks in his driveway. There was no hint of the bitter widower, or the angry father who’d lost his only son in a far off desert conflict.
Roy did not have to wait long. Within minutes, his friend walked up the same sidewalk with the purposeful strides of someone who meant business, someone who still had a job to do. Did he know he’d missed and Senator Hyde was still alive? He had to. It was a sniper’s job to know.
Roy stepped out of the shadows. “Emmet.”
His friend stopped cold, his hand automatically reaching for the bag at his side. The telling expression on Emmet’s face flickered from surprised to concerned and ended at guarded. He answered with words as cold as his sniper’s rounds. “What do you want?”
Roy stepped between Emmet and his front door, his hands spread wide to reveal his intention of paying nothing more than a late evening call. “Can’t an old friend stop by for a cold beer and a little conversation?”
Emmet eyed the six-foot-three friend blocking his path. He still wore the black uniform of an FBI SWAT officer, minus the bold lettering on his jacket and the badge. But Roy saw the angular shapes hidden within Emmet’s bag, no doubt a short stock breakdown rifle and scope. The thirty-aught-six shell was a misdirect.
“Let me by. I got no use for company tonight. Go home.”
Roy took a step toward him. “You been out for a walk or something? That don’t sound like you. What happened? You turning into an exercise freak in your old age?”
“What’s it to you? You ain’t been by since Ben’s funeral.”
“You’re right about that, and I’m sorry,” Roy admitted. “It’s been a while since I’ve stopped by for a visit. Work’s been busy. We’ve all got hectic lives, but hey, I’m here now. How about we throw back a few beers? You’ve got time for that, don’t you?”
“Not tonight. Come back tomorrow if you’re so interested in talking.”
Roy crossed his arms, fingering the weapon at his side. “I can’t do that.”
Emmet glowered in the weak glare of his front porch light. “You been a good friend up to now. Don’t make this any of your business. Don’t get in my way.”
Roy took another step toward his friend. “What’s in your pack?”
“It ain’t what’s in my pack you ought to be worrying about, now is it?” Emmet dropped the bag to the sidewalk behind him and squared off against Roy. As quickly as he snapped his revolver up and targeted his old friend, Roy did the same. The two highly trained and decorated soldiers faced each other, comrades in arms devolved into opposing sides of the law.
Roy’s aim was every bit as deadly. Both ex-Marine scout snipers, they’d hooked up in the jungles of Vietnam when luck brought them together under the same commander. That was back in the day when their hero, the legendary USMC Gunnery Sergeant Carlos Hathcock, held the record long shot of two thousand, two hundred and eighty-six yards. Neither Roy nor Emmet came close, but their combat experience forged a bond like no other.
“You didn’t use a thirty-aught-six to kill Covington,” Roy stated the obvious.
“You found the shell? Figures. Damned cops ain’t worth a lick these days.”
“Was it just another decoy? Like the truck?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re as good a shooter as you ever were.”
Emmet sneered. “You weren’t supposed to be there.”
“What you use, Emmet? Winchester?”
“You’re so smart, why don’t you tell me?”
“I figure a Winchester Magnum. Maybe .338 Lapua.” Roy hoped to tie down the details of the murders before things got out of hand.
“A lot of weapons use those rounds. Specs don’t really matter, do they?”
“Try telling that to the two FBI agents you murdered tonight, or my junior agent with second degree burns. Don’t you worry about collateral damage anymore? We never targeted innocent civilians in Vietnam.”
“Why don’t you jump on off your high horse and grovel in the mud with those of us who ain’t had it so easy ’fore you start judging. Some civilians ain’t innocent. You know that as well as I do.”
“I’m sorry you had to deal with Ben’s death.” Roy brought the conversation back to what was really eating at Emmet. “Especially so soon after Lois passed away. That had to be a lot of grief for one man to bear.”
“Shut up. Stop being the concerned friend who just happened to be walking by. You don’t care. We both know why you’re here. It ain’t cuz you’re my friend.”
“But I can get you help. It doesn’t have to go down like this.” Roy pleaded for common sense to rule the night.
“And then what? What happens when another idiot in Congress decides to pass a bill, you know, maybe make it illegal to fund the boys they voted to put in harm’s way in the first place? My boy didn’t want to go to war, Roy, anymore than you and I did.”
“You’re right. We were a couple kids doing the best we could to stay alive, but it wasn’t all bad. Remember China Beach? Bangkok? We had some good times even in the middle of a stinking war, didn’t we?”
“Knock it off.” Emmet’s eyes glittered. “I don’t need a trip down memory lane. Leave me alone.”
“Is that what this is all about, the funding cuts? Some stupid men in Congress? Hell, Emmet. That’s life in America. It’s always been like this.”
“It ain’t about the funding cuts,” Emmet ground out. “It’s about good boys who lost their lives doing what their country asked ’em to do. It’s about honoring them instead of treating ’em like they’s nothing. Ben did his duty to his country. He died, Roy. My boy died so jerks like Hyde and Winston, Conway and Covington can shoot their mouths off to get a few votes. My son died so bastards back home can be media darlings and look like heroes when...” He choked. “When the real heroes are coming home missing legs and arms or not coming home at all.”
Roy saw the hesitation. Emmet lowered his gun a fraction, lost in the anguish of his only son’s death.
“It’s about my boy,” he bellowed. “My boy died, Roy! You wanna know how that feels? He’s gone. Do you think Hyde, Winston, or Conway even know? Do you think anyone cares?”
“I care, Emmet. I know your boy died. I came to his funeral. I helped you carry him down the chapel steps.” Roy swallowed hard. If not for the weapons between them, he would’ve g
one to his grieving friend and crushed him in his arms. He tried another tactic. “And my son’s in Afghanistan right now. Stephen’s a Marine. I’m damned proud of him. You should see him in his dress blues. You’d be proud too.”
“Is he?” Emmet’s gaze wandered heavenward. For a moment, it seemed the long lost memories intruding into his plan were working every bit as hard as Roy to change the outcome of the night. “Stevie’s a good boy. He ever get married?”
“He did.” Roy breathed a sigh of relief. Maybe there was a chance. “He met a real nice gal, and they got a little boy now. Jacob Roy. Named him after his ornery old grandpa and me. You want to see a picture?” He reached into his back pants pocket for his wallet.
Emmet’s eyes glazed over. “You had a good father, Roy,” he said quietly.
“I did. A mean bugger when I crossed him, but like you say, he was a damned good father.” Roy offered the photo, anything to distract Emmet from the path he was on.
“Stevie’s a good boy. So was Ben.” With that calm statement, Emmet’s gun moved back to target. “Put your pictures away. I ain’t got time for reminiscing. Too many good boys ain’t coming home. It ain’t right.”
“You don’t want to shoot me.” Roy returned his wallet to its place, hoping the truth still mattered. “Come on. You and me should be pulling through this together, not fighting each other. Look at us. We’ve done good. Ben and Stevie are sons to be proud of.”
“Was, Roy. Was. Ben was a son to be proud of.” The finality in his voice rang sad and cold on the warm spring night. He stuck a sharp finger eastward toward the National Cemetery. “You know where I go to chat with my boy? At a chunk of marble over the hill. I ain’t going easy.”
“You don’t have to go at all. I can help. We can get through this thing together.”
“Walk away. That’s all I’m asking.”
Harley (In the Company of Snipers Book 4) Page 19
