Ricochet's Rogue (Agent of Mercy, Book Three)

by Miller, Robin Leigh

  Boomer’s words echoed in her head. She had good skills except for one. She understood what he was saying. They all did, Pearson, Nelson, Ricochet. She didn’t work well with others, always taking the lead and running off without thinking the situation through.

  Not this time. This time she would take orders, follow someone else’s lead and pray they had her back. By doing so, she’d be able to watch theirs. Pearson made it clear he and Nelson believed in her. Now she had to make Boomer, Ricochet and the rest back at headquarters believe.

  This was definitely it. If she didn’t trust in her team then she was sure to die. It was going to take every one of them to put Devon Grear away and keep her alive at the same time. They knew what they had to do. Would she be able to do what she needed to do when the time came?

  “I have to,” she whispered to herself.

  You will Ronnie. It’s time to put this away and move forward.

  Tears welled in her eyes. Her mother’s voice was right. It was time to move on.

  “I wish it was really you, Mama. I wish it was you I was hearing instead of a figment of my imagination.” She spoke aloud.

  Who says it isn’t? Young lady, didn’t all those years of taking you to church teach you anything?

  She laughed, the tears spilling down her cheeks. Boy, she had her mother down pat. That was exactly what she would say if she were standing here.

  “Okay, Mama.” She brushed the tears away and pulled her pillow to her chest. She needed to rest and clear her mind if she was going to be ready for tonight.

  She closed her eyes, hugged her pillow tight and cleared her mind. On that misty, floating stage of sleep she swore she felt someone lightly kiss her cheek. Not a real touch, but a feathery wisp of a touch that was barely there. Deeper. She sank into blackness.

  I’m with you.

  The words whispered in her ear, loud enough to hear, yet soft and gentle enough not to disturb her. Sleep took over, sending her stressed brain into a blissful state of emptiness.

  * * * * *

  In the twilight of the evening three men gathered to make plans of their own. Two gulped down bottles of beer while the third sipped sparingly at a cocktail. He puffed on an expensive cigar, listening while his two lackeys reminisced about past jobs pulled for the old man.

  “We should have killed that one right away,” one said opening another bottle. “I knew she was trouble as soon as she started poking around.”

  The other glared at him, willing him to shut his mouth. It was the old man’s call to take her alive, and his wishes were never publicly doubted. He himself had doubts about that particular decision but knew better than to voice it.

  “Who the hell were those people who showed up anyway?” he asked, then took another swig of his ice cold bottle. “They sure as hell took down enough of our men.”

  “Shut up, Dawson,” the other snarled.

  “Let him speak,” the old man said.

  “Yeah, let me speak. Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?”

  He glanced at the old man sitting and puffing away on his foul-smelling cigar. He knew what he was doing. He’d let Dawson hang himself. Let the guy shoot his mouth off enough to confirm their leader’s feelings that he couldn’t be trusted. Once he’d accomplished that it would be up to him to dispose of the dirtbag.

  “That bitch set us up.”

  “How do you figure?” the old man asked.

  “Stirring up all that trouble, making people think they could chase us out of town. She had to know we’d come after her. Hell, she practically gave herself to us. I told the rest of the guys that too. We should have taken her down right in the street for everyone to see. Make a statement that way instead of keeping her around. That’s what I would have done. Instead we lost half our men. Now they’re sitting in jail.”

  Better than where you’ll be soon, the second thought to himself. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. This was getting old. When the old man took him under his wing years ago, he was young and excited. Promises of a better life were drilled into his head along with assurances that the old man’d take him all the way to the top. It looked as though they were getting closer but he wasn’t sure he wanted it anymore.

  Dawson was right about one thing, keeping that woman around was a bad decision, one of many recently. The old man wanted to play with her for a while for some reason and it ended badly. He had a feeling this whole organization was going to end badly. Luckily he’d kept personal records, times, dates, names. Something told him he’d need them one day to pull his own ass out of the fire.

  “You have interesting thoughts about my business,” the old man said.

  “No disrespect, man,” Dawson said and then took another drink of beer. “I’m just saying is all.”

  Dead man drinking, his executioner quietly thought to himself.

  “Tell me, Dawson, have you enjoyed working for me?” The old man crushed his cigar out on the arm of his chair as he spoke.

  “Sure have, boss. I like your thinking. I tell ya, when you get elected president, this world will be a better place.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “Yeah, I can’t wait to see how the public reacts when you start making your changes.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Dawson.”

  Here it comes, the second man thought.

  “What do you mean?” Dawson asked.

  “First, I don’t need to explain my decisions to the likes of you. Why should I? Your job is to do what I say and keep your mouth shut. Which brings me to point number two. Keeping your mouth shut is something you can’t seem to do.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Now Dawson was getting it. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead and his skin paled.

  “I’m talking about sharing your opinion with everyone. Do you think you’re better than me, Dawson? Do you honestly think your redneck upbringing gives you the intelligence to second-guess me? You must or you wouldn’t be flapping your rubbery lips to everyone you talk with.”

  Dawson’s lips were quivering. “I don’t second-guess anything. I do what you order, no questions asked. I’ve done everything you wanted.”

  “Yes, you have, except for one thing.”

  A new twist was taking place. Instead of receiving the silent order to do away with someone, the old man was going to take care of it himself. He watched the old man pull the gun from his suit jacket and point it at Dawson’s head.

  “Boss, please don’t. I haven’t talked to anyone, just those inside the organization.”

  “Yes and by doing so you instill doubt in their heads. I can’t afford my people doubting me. You have been a good soldier in my war, Dawson, think of this as your personal sacrifice for the cause.”

  “No, I won’t talk anymore. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  “Yes you will. Please don’t grovel, it’s humiliating.”

  Then the old man did it. He pulled the trigger as simply as tying his shoe. Dawson’s head jerked back. That was all, no body flying backward, no involuntary, flailing movements. He sat in his chair with a trickle of blood running from the hole in the center of his head.

  “Now,” Grear said returning his gun inside his jacket, “let’s get down to business. I have two days before I need to be back in Washington. That should be plenty of time to take care of Veronica Holter.”

  “Yes, sir.” The old man was a cold son of a bitch. The least Grear could do is let him dispose of Dawson instead of sitting there holding a conversation with the man bleeding right next to him.

  “You said she got the message I wanted left for her?”

  “She did.” He started the fire and hung the noose himself. He didn’t write the note, he knew better than that. Instead he got another of Grear’s lackeys to do it. “She wasn’t alone when she went to her apartment.”

  “Oh, who was with her?”

  “A man.”

  “Anyone we should be concerned about?”


  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Eliminate him and bring her to me. I need to end this once and for all so I can concentrate on my election.”

  “You want me to take care of her for you? You can go to DC a few days early.”

  “No, that’s kind of you but this one I have to take care of myself. I started it years ago and I am ending it now.”

  “I’ll call you when I have her.”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll give you the location to bring her to when you call.” The old man straitened his jacked, brushed some dirt from his lapel and gave one final glance at Dawson. “Some just don’t understand the importance of keeping their mouths shut do they? Not like you. You’ve been dependable from the beginning. I won’t forget that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Take care of him.” He turned and disappeared into the early darkness.

  Thunder rumbled overhead as Grear made his exit. He couldn’t help thinking it was an omen. This would be the last job he pulled for Grear, he felt it in his bones. No point worrying about it now, he had to get rid of Dawson’s body. That was going to take half the night. He didn’t just dump bodies, he completely disposed of them.

  Not one body had ever been found in all the years he’d been working for Grear. Not so much to protect Grear, but so nothing could be traced back to him. He crouched down in front of Dawson, leaned the body over his shoulder and carried him to his truck. The bed was lined in clear plastic. That way if the cops ever had reason to scour his vehicle they wouldn’t find any evidence.

  He drove an hour to the mortuary, pulled out his set of keys and opened the door to the crematorium room. First line of business was to remove all the clothing and burn it first, then he’d begin on the body. Piece by piece he’d cut the body, soak it in fuel and then toss the pieces into the flames.

  No one would know, not even the owner of the mortuary. He wasn’t exactly the tidiest man in the world. There were always leftover ashes in the furnace. Hell, half the time people were getting the ashes of about ten other corpses beside their own.

  He wouldn’t use this method for the Holter woman though. He’d have to come up with something different for her. He hadn’t been in the swamps for a while. Maybe he’d take a drive further south and go ’gator hunting.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ricochet knocked on her door but didn’t get an answer. He knocked again louder and yelled her name. Still no response. Was she all right? Had someone managed to get to her while he sat next door oblivious?

  “Veronica,” he shouted and rammed his shoulder into the door. “Veronica.” His heart pounded hard inside his chest. Panic blossomed in his gut sprouting roots all the way down to his toes.

  He reared back to take another shot at the door when it opened. He stopped short of running her over. There she stood, her eyes heavy, her hair mussed and her arms wrapped around herself. She looked vulnerable and as sexy as hell. He couldn’t stop himself. His arms ached to hold her.

  “I thought something had happened. You didn’t answer the door,” he said stepping toward her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her tight.

  “I was asleep,” she said against his chest.

  “You must be a heavy sleeper.” Her body gave and relaxed against his. She was so warm and soft.

  “Not normally.”

  Her arms pulled out from between them and slid around his waist. She clasped her hands together behind his back and squeezed. They stood there like that, holding each other in silence. He didn’t want the moment to end. He’d give anything to stay like this for the rest of the night. But he couldn’t.

  “It’s time,” he whispered. “We have to get started.”

  “Okay,” she replied still holding him tightly.

  “You can do this, babe.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “We won’t let anything happen to ya.”

  “I know.”

  He was trying to convince himself, not her. For the first time in his life, his confidence was shaken. They were going up against a power far greater than anything else they’d ever experienced. This man had everything at his disposal to do whatever he liked. And right now he’d like to have Veronica’s blood.

  “We could run away together. Hide out in some exotic country. Sit on the beach day after day drinkin’ fruity drinks,” he told her.

  “Don’t tempt me. I’d like nothing better right at this moment.” She pulled away from him and rubbed her eyes. “But I don’t think that’s the answer, Carl.”

  Carl? She never called him Carl. That gave him goose bumps.

  “No. We do this and we do it right and then we’ll talk about going away.”

  “Promise?” he asked pushing her hair back from her face.

  “I promise,” she replied laying her cheek in his hand. “I have to get ready.”

  “You want me to leave?”

  “No. I want you to stay. Keep me company.”

  He sat on the edge of the bed while she pulled out clean clothes to change into. He thought she’d go into the bathroom but she didn’t. While he sat there, she shimmied out of her jeans giving him a wonderful picture of lacy peach panties that hugged her hips. Then she pulled off her shirt. His lungs seized. There she stood in nothing but panties and bra looking like a bronze goddess.

  It was all very innocent, on her part anyway. Did she have any idea she was sending him into a painful state of arousal? Or was she that comfortable with him? He didn’t care either way. He’d simply enjoy it.

  He was amazed when the pressure increased as she pulled on a black pair of jeans. She shifted her hips to the left and then to the right as she pulled the tight material up over her tummy. Was it possible to get turned on watching a woman get dressed? Oh yeah, it was. Especially the way she tugged the clingy, stretchy, glove-like material of her shirt over her head, lifting her round breasts up out of the cups giving him a glimpse of her brown nipples.

  His mouth dried up like the Sahara as he remembered the night his lips pulled and nibbled on them. When she tugged the tan T-shirt down it molded her figure like it was made for her. He ran the back of his hand over his mouth, never taking his eyes off her.

  “I’ll be wearing a radio, right?”

  “Yeah.” The word came out hoarse and faint.

  “Maybe I should wear something different so you can hide it better.”

  “No,” he snapped. Oh God, he wouldn’t live through another shirt. “We can hide it in your hair.”

  “Are you sure? I can change real quick.”

  “Sure as I can be.” If he stood up she’d see how sure he was.

  She sat on the bed and jammed her feet into a pair of sneakers. Smart, he thought. If she needed to run she’d be prepared, not breaking her ankles in heels.

  “Ready?” he asked when she blew out a breath to calm her nerves.

  “I think so. You’ll be going to the apartment with me, right?”

  She knew the answer to that question. “Babe?”

  “I know, I thought maybe you’d changed your mind.”

  The sweet smile she flashed him tugged at his heart. “I’ll be there, ya just won’t see me. I’ll be talkin’ to ya the entire time. Boomer, Pearson, Nelson, we’ll be around.”

  She nodded her head. “The best team in the world. I’m part of that team.”

  “Yes, y’are and don’t forget it if things get sticky.”

  “I’m not going to, Carl, I promise that,” she said standing. “Let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

  Uh-oh, he needed to stand. “Can we just take a few minutes?”

  “Why?”

  “Um, well, your little strip act kinda did me in. I need time to come down.”

  She looked at him with a blank face, a few seconds later the corners of her lips twitched and rose. She got it.

  “I’m sorry,” she snickered, “that wasn’t my intention.”

  “I know it wasn’t. It’s just I can’t seem to be
around ya without it happenin’.”

  “You had your chance,” she reminded him.

  “I did. But I also explained to you why I didn’t take it,” he said shaking his finger at her.

  “Yeah you did. I hope it wasn’t your last chance.”

  Her words were like an ice bucket being tossed on him. Everything shriveled up. “Don’t talk like that.” He couldn’t bear the thought of never having the chance again.

  “It’s reality, Ricochet. Don’t ignore it.”

  Well it seemed the problem of standing wasn’t an issue anymore. So he stood and hugged her, feeling her warmth and committing it to memory. Boomer’s low, earth-shaking voice rumbled through the door.

  “You guys ready? We need to mike up.”

  “On our way,” he yelled back. “Come on, babe. Let’s do this.”

  “Let’s do this,” she echoed.

  Pearson and Nelson were gearing up when they entered his room. They didn’t wear the traditional black ops clothes they normally would, opting for navy blue shirts and dark denim jeans. Boomer did wear his ops uniform. He was hiding in the shadows tonight.

  They all put on their radios. Boomer helped rig Veronica’s so it couldn’t be seen, hiding the wire in her long, thick hair and hooking the box to the back of her bra under her shirt. It would work as long as no one manhandled her.

  “Okay, let’s do a radio check.” Boomer said.

  “Wait. We don’t have call names,” Pearson reminded them.

  “Well, let’s take care of that.” Ricochet looked at Pearson, thought a minute and smiled. “I got it. Gunner.”

  “Gunner?” Pearson asked.

  “You handle that rifle on the range like its part of ya. Ya know every part of it, ya know how ta use it. It’s you. Gunner. We could go with Trigger, but that sounds like a horse.”

  “Gunner it is,” Pearson said smiling.

  Then Ricochet looked at Nelson. This one would be easy. “Dragon. You’re quiet, content until you’re threatened. Then you strike, all fire.”