Mark (In the Company of Snipers Book 2)

by Irish Winters

  The second Alex leaned forward Mark held his breath. Game time. Castor was going to lose. He had to.

  “I want you to meet Libby’s friend,” Alex said calmly. “This is Mark Houston.”

  Castor glanced up, but immediately bowed his head onto his arms again.

  “Look at him, Marine.” One minute Alex was respectful, the next he turned belligerent. It worked.

  Castor looked up at Mark, shaking but not breaking eye contact. “Why? You gonna beat me to death?”

  As a matter of fact, yeah. Mark grunted, his knuckles tight on the edge of the table. Now was not the moment to bait him.

  “He’s not here to hurt—” Alex barely spoke when Castor exploded.

  “Cuz that’s what you’re gonna have to do!”

  That’s all it took. One minute, Mark was sitting. The next he was on his feet, reaching across the table with both Alex’s hands in the middle of his chest. He would’ve had him too, if Castor had known when to shut up.

  “Kill me. Do it. I wish you would!” Castor bellowed. “You’re a big guy. At least with you, all this bullshit would be over. Do it. God, just beat me to death right here and now. Choke me. Break my neck. Just freaking kill me!”

  His plea took the wind out of Mark’s sails. Common sense re-engaged. He still towered over Castor, his rage filling the small room, and by the looks of him, Castor felt it. But he wasn’t taunting Mark. The man really wanted to die. Fear glistened in his eyes and all over his damp sweaty body.

  “Tell me where she is,” Mark ground out. Alex’s hands were still nailed to his pectorals, pushing him back into his seat. He shrugged it off, half wanting to knock his boss on his butt, too. “Where’d you guys stick her? What’d you do with her?”

  “Sit down,” Alex commanded.

  Mark stared at Alex, but the damn smug man did not even look up to meet his eye. He assumed Mark would simply obey because he was boss. Well, guess again. Breathing hard, Mark took another second to think. Alex was no match for him. He might get a sandwich, but Mark could make a meal of him if he wanted to. And he did.

  Mark dusted his boss’s hands off his chest. Alex finally decided to look up at him. Castor had just tossed a wrench into the works. You can’t intimidate a man who wants you to kill him. Mark swallowed hard and sat, glaring at Castor.

  “How about a deal, Mike?” Alex sat, pulling his chair closer to the table. He’d turned into the the good cop, even using Castor’s real first name.

  “I got nothing to say,” Castor whispered, his furtive gaze on Mark before it hit the table again.

  “You might want to reconsider. There’s no way out of this mess.” Alex was extremely calm, compared to the scene Mark had witnessed earlier. “Your next stop is prison. Hard time.”

  Castor grunted, his eyes full of tears. “I wish.”

  Alex leaned forward like a good used-car salesman. “Listen to me. I’ve got one deal to make. Only one. I’m talking to you first because frankly, I hate that sonofabitchin Russian friend of yours. I can’t keep you out of prison, but I can make sure you live.”

  “How?”

  “I have some influence. I can ensure that you’ll serve your sentence in a secure facility.”

  For a second, Mark saw a flicker of hope in Castor’s eyes, but the man was simply too scared to think. His chest rose with short, hurried breaths, and his tongue continually skimmed both lips when he wasn’t biting them. He started rocking from side to side, his foot tapping hard against the table leg.

  “Tell me what you need.” Alex changed tactics. “What can I do to sweeten the deal?”

  Castor rolled his shoulders, blinking away his tears. “You feds. You don’t get it, do you?”

  “What don’t I get?”

  “No! No! I’m not saying anything.” By now his chair bounced off two legs each time he rocked. “I can’t.”

  It dawned on Mark slowly. Hitting this man wasn’t going to get him what he needed. Killing him? No way. His heart plummeted. Mike Castor would go to his grave before he’d confess where Libby was hidden. It was his life or hers.

  “Then we’re done here.” Alex stood to leave. Castor had stopped rocking and buried his face in his arms again.

  Mark couldn’t get out of that room fast enough. Nothing Alex had said or done had helped. Both Yuri and Castor were dead ends. Time was running out. The clock was ticking. Wherever she was, Libby was suffocating to death right this very minute. She couldn’t breathe. Neither could he.

  “Mark.”

  He heard Alex say his name, but he shoved past him. Libby’s dying.

  “Mark!” Alex called to him again.

  Mark walked away. He had nothing decent to say. Quick strides took him down the hall. He had to get out of this building. Her lack of oxygen stifled him. Her panic flooded his senses. Across the essence of time he could feel all she was going through—her panic, her fear, the dark smothering darkness of whatever they’d buried her in. Sympathetic claustrophobia brought the walls of the police station crashing in too close. She’s dying!

  With a shove, he burst through the nearest exit doors, pushing them wide open. Air gushed into his lungs, but he’d nearly hit the pretty woman coming up the stairs. Kelsey.

  “I’m sorry,” tumbled off his lips.

  “Mark.” Her brown eyes filled with tenderness the moment she looked up.

  He choked at his thoughtless action. He’d almost hurt her. “Ma’am. I’m sorry. I—”

  In less than a second, she had hold of him, her hands barely circling his muscular forearms. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her eyes bright with tears. “We thought Libby needed to be with her mother.”

  “I know,” was all he could manage to speak. “I understand ... that.”

  “Alex will find her.” Tears covered her cheeks. She meant encouragement, but she hadn’t seen what he had just witnessed.

  “No,” he croaked. Not true. Castor and Yuri won’t talk. Yuri wants his drugs. Castor wants to live. Alex won’t negotiate. Libby’s dying!

  Mark pushed Kelsey gently out of his arms and set her aside before he bolted down the stairs.

  I. Have. To. Go!

  Libby squeezed her eyes shut against the darkness. She had already prayed so many prayers, but with every bright, positive picture she had conjured, an uglier one stood in the shadows, like a bucket of ice water ready to drown any glimmer of hope. She had found moments of sanity by repeating favorite songs and poems she’d memorized in school. It helped divert her mind from her awful conditions.

  No light. No heat. No water. No Mark.

  She revisited them now with meticulous attention, trying not to shiver, trying to lick her dry lips with her moisture deprived tongue. There were so many poems she had loved over the years. Like long practiced prayers, she set her mind in a loop and repeated Robert Frost’s words over and over. Her English teacher would be proud how she had dissected and analyzed those poems.

  Eerily, her mind returned to the hopelessness of ‘the darkest evening of the year.’ Again and again she focused on the lovely woods, the downy flake, or the poor little horse out in the cold wintry weather, but her mind circled relentlessly back to ‘the darkest evening of the year.’

  I’m in the darkest evening. Stuck in blackest night and hopeless day, but Mark will find me. He’s coming for me now. I feel it. I know it.

  Fear pushed against the faint pulse of hope in her heart.

  Fight it. Push it back before it takes over again.

  Gulping a quick breath, she pushed back one more time and started to recite another poem, her teeth chattering through the lovely verses of Rudyard Kipling. She used to love the world of possibilities contained in the little word ‘if.’

  Her teacher would be so proud.

  Mark ran.

  He’d become a human volcano primed to blow, and he didn’t want to do that around Kelsey. He hit the sidewalk with one intention only. Get as far away from Alex as possible. The only thing he could do right no
w was pray, and his mind was already hell bent on heaven. It just wasn’t enough.

  Mark headed east and away from the police station. Kelsey would tell Alex which direction he’d gone. He didn’t care. Right now, he needed room to breathe. He couldn’t take the not knowing anymore. He had to find some place to think before he tore the police station apart and Alex with it.

  The blocks flew swiftly by as his legs became fiery pistons pounding the sidewalk, eating up the anger stored too long inside.

  I can’t lose her. Not Libby. Not again. Please. Not again.

  He poured all of his angst into running. Sweat poured down his face, neck, and chest, but still he ran. People stepped out of his way. Traffic held at intersections when he disregarded crosswalks and stoplights. Stores, service stations, restaurants and cafes—everything blurred as the sidewalk became a treadmill through town.

  God. Help me. Help me find a way.

  His marathon ended at the manicured baseball diamond of the local sports park. Grinding to a halt at home plate, Mark bowed his hands to his knees, panting and gasping for air that didn’t bring any relief. The burn in his lungs matched the pain in his side, but they were nothing compared to the gaping hole in his heart. He was drenched to the bone with sweat, tears, and the dirty feeling of despair.

  Light glimmered from the few lampposts in the park. He dropped to his knees and sobbed like a baby with his face in the dirt. The place was quiet. No one witnessed him heave and vomit—he hoped. The irony did not escape him. This was home plate, the place where winners were made – and losers. And he, the biggest loser of them all.

  God, anything. Please let her live. This time—please let her live. Don’t take Libby, too. Bitter tears fell into the dust. Hopelessness settled in. Take me instead. I deserve to die. Not Libby. Take me.

  Instead of the wise voice of God, he heard his father again. John Houston, the angriest man in the world. Mark had never known what made his father so mean, but he was. The tragedy was that he owned the best farm in the county. He had a good life, a wife that adored him, and a son that forever tried to please. If he’d ever once looked up from his angry path, he might have seen all that, but he didn’t. Not once. He was locked into looking down.

  Get used to it, you damn baby. You’re a worthless excuse for a son. Grow up.

  That was the bitter man’s version of consolation the day of JayJay’s funeral.

  God, how Mark missed his mom.

  Endless stretches of stony silence followed, punctuated with outbursts of contempt and derision. The old man kept himself absent and occupied, turning his dairy farm into a twenty-four seven workload and avoiding his only child in the process.

  Never knew what she saw in you. You ain’t nothing but trouble and another mouth to feed.

  Mark blocked the relentless words. Still, they came.

  What’d she think dying like that? I was gonna raise a snot-nosed kid by myself? Why do you even bother coming home?

  Young Mark had withered before his father’s suffocating reproach. He became an invisible child, a burden and a millstone around a hateful man’s neck. In the hopelessness of utter rejection, the boy spent his time proving himself, making up for failures that weren’t his to make up for. It was never enough. Nothing mattered, not excellent grades at school or how many bales of hay he could toss in a day. His father looked through his only son like smoke. The boy was never seen again.

  Those ugly memories crushed the hope out of Mark again. His father was right. Mark was nothing. He deserved nothing. Unloved meant unlovable. He could not change his fate anymore than he could find Libby. He wasn’t worthy. That’s why he had lost his mother then, and why he would lose Libby now.

  Stupid boy.

  So lost in the hate-filled rant in his head, Mark didn’t hear the quiet footfall behind him until a hand rested on his shoulder. It was a man’s hand. A strong hand. Damn.

  Alex.

  “What do you want?” Mark twisted away from the touch. The last person he needed was his boss. Harley or Zack maybe, but Alex? Never. Hell. He was the problem.

  “Come on, Mark. We’ve got work to do.”

  And he was so freaking calm.

  “Let me be.” Mark jerked his shoulder out from under Alex’s hand.

  Alex ignored him, brushed the dirt off Mark’s shirt, and hooked his hand through Mark’s arm to pull him to his feet. That was the last straw. He pushed Alex away again with an elbow flying. He wiped his face as he finished getting to his feet by himself, and he came up swinging. Half of him wanted to knock Alex down, maybe even knock him out. He could take Alex. Maybe then he’d feel a little better.

  But the other half wanted so much to believe. Harley and Zack trusted Alex. Murphy and Roy, too. Not Mark. He didn’t respect Alex, and he didn’t like him, especially now that he had given away their only leverage. No ransom? How would they ever get Libby back now?

  But Mark trusted Harley and Zack. That’s all that restrained him now. Like it or not, it was Alex who stood on home base with him. Damn.

  “Why’d you tell him no ransom?” Mark demanded.

  “They’re not going to give her back.” Alex was as calm as Mark was angry. “You already know that.”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t know anything for sure. Neither do you. I could get that dope out of Jon’s casket. It’s only a couple hours away. You could work with the FBI to open the rest of those graves. We could get it done today. I know we could. They’d get what they wanted. They could tell us where she is and then—”

  “They have no intention of giving her back, Mark.” The calm turned to steel in Alex’s voice. “We have to find Libby ourselves.”

  “But you don’t know that.” He shoved Alex away. “God! You’re so damn sure of everything, aren’t you? Well, I’m not. I have to try. I have to do something. We don’t even have to dig that crap up. You could get your hands on that much opium from the FBI. Couldn’t you? They keep some on hand for things like this. They’d give it to you. I know they would.”

  “Think about it, Mark.” Alex met him head on. “The Russians killed the family in West Virginia for no reason. They hit the safe house in Spencer for no reason. They never went near the cemeteries where the dope’s buried. Nothing about this has to do with recovering the opium. It might have started out that way, but that’s not what is going on now.”

  Mark stared at his boss. Logic penetrated his out of control emotions.

  “We are going to find her.” Alex still sounded so sure of himself.

  Mark’s last shred of resolve evaporated into outright panic. “I can’t do this anymore,” he ground out. “God, Boss! I can’t sit here and wait for her to die. That’s all I’m doing. I can’t do it! Not again!”

  Alex stared, and Mark stared back. In his frustration, he had just revealed too much of his soul to the man he wanted to hate. Neither blinked.

  “You might not believe this,” Alex began softly, “but I can be an ignorant ass.”

  Mark looked twice at that incredible understatement. Yeah. That’s one of the words I’ve used for you.

  “I’ve only given up twice in my life, once when I lost my wife and daughter, and once with Kelsey. I’m not letting you make the same mistake.”

  “I don’t care what you think,” Mark said. Nothing made sense right now, especially the words coming out of his boss’s mouth.

  “Then maybe I don’t know you like I thought I did,” Alex said quietly.

  With a frustrated swipe over his face, Mark tried to concentrate. Alex finally said something right—he didn’t know a damn thing.

  “Let me tell you what I see. First of all, son, you are no quitter. You’re a damned fine sniper. That doesn’t say quitter in my book, not by a long shot. Speaking of which, I happen to know you held the record for the long shot in your unit. Second of all, that little girl loves you, Mark. Anyone can see that. And she’s out there somewhere. What do you think she’s doing right now?”

  “She’s dying.�
�� Mark’s voice cracked as his fear poured out. He squeezed his head between both hands like that could ease the failure that consumed him from the inside out. “God! She’s dying because I can’t find her. What do you think she’s doing?” He hurled his words like a fistful of daggers, wishing they’d mow Alex down like the house of cards he was.

  Alex steadied him with a hard grip on his shoulder, his voice as stern and tough. “No. No. No. That’s not what she’s doing. Get that out of your hard head once and for all. Think better, Mark. Think. Picture Libby. Do you honestly believe that little girl of yours has given up?”

  Mark looked straight into those icy blues. They seemed to pierce straight into his soul, as if Alex could see what he was thinking, what he was truly made of instead of the emotional mess he’d turned himself into. His eyes and ears opened. There was something else mixed with that raw power that Alex wielded so effectively, something Mark hadn’t seen until now. Something he needed more than anything else.

  Alex said that little girl loves me.

  The memory of Libby swimming at Lake Wissota flashed into his mind. She was a competitive swimmer, even against two men who could easily out distance her. Man, did she give them a run for their money. She was so gorgeous in her red swimsuit, her gold hair piled high on the top of her head, always working at getting her way with that teasing smile. She’d charmed him and Jon both. They were both head over heels in love with her.

  What would Libby be doing right now? What would she be thinking? Would she give up? Would she just quit breathing? Would she wish to die? He couldn’t imagine her doing that, not for the life of him. Nothing about her said quit. Like mother – like daughter.

  The image of Rosemary patiently waiting at the hospital for Marie to wake up crystallized in his mind. Wherever Libby was, she was waiting, too. For him. She had faith. She believed.

  Alex said I’m a damn fine sniper.

  Alex had been so full of rage on the drive to Spencer, but he had selected Mark to go with him into the cornfield. Not Zack.