AT Stake (An Alex Troutt Thriller, Book 7) (Redemption Thriller Series 19)

by John W. Mefford

  I closed my eyes and forced out a breath. Maintain. Maintain composure. “What did the doctors say?”

  “Dr. Thai is the surgeon. He said it’s fifty-fifty that he survives surgery. Said that was really their only hope, though. The internal injuries might just be too much.” His voice cracked on the last words.

  No, no, no!

  Tears welled in my eyes. I clenched my teeth. “How long until we know something?”

  “He’s not certain. Two, three hours maybe. He said these types of surgeries are so unpredictable. He’ll be sending out a nurse to give an update if he feels it’s necessary.”

  Whatever that meant. Necessary because it would be good news? Or bad news?

  Too many unknowns for my liking, but I’d have to deal with it.

  We each took a seat. Six other people were in the waiting area with us. One was a young couple. They looked horrified one minute, defeated the next. Periodically, one would rise, stretch, ask the other something, and then walk off for a few minutes. Part of me was curious as to what brought them here, how our lives intersected. I’d always wondered about the complexity of two people crossing paths—what things had to take place at just the right time to allow that junction, even if it was brief.

  And then it hit me. Death. No one was immortal. We would all die someday. It was unavoidable. The religious connection had never been strong inside me, mainly because of my mother’s obsessive tendencies toward God and praying and reading the Bible. Oh, and her chanting, mumbling nonsense—at least, it seemed like nonsense to a six-year-old.

  I sighed, already weary of waiting, yet wearier of my internal thoughts. Too many old, difficult memories mixing with this new wave of emotions. It was like I was somehow preparing myself for the worst news, that the doors behind me would open and I’d see a nurse or doctor just standing there, scrubs covered in blood, head shaking, expression solemn.

  Preparing for the worst. I knew it was a defense mechanism.

  I glanced over at Stan in his running gear. It was almost sad, knowing how the enthusiasm that brought him to the marathon in the first place had been snuffed out like a bad bulb. “Hey, Stan, do you want to go back to Nick’s place and clean up?”

  “No, I’m good.” He leaned his elbows on his knees, his head facing downward as he fidgeted with his cell phone.

  “Food. You’ve got to be hungry.” I lifted to my feet. “What can I get you?”

  “Nothing, Alex. I just…” He stopped, glanced at his phone. “It’s a text from Bev.”

  “Bev?”

  “My wife. I’ve been texting her. She’s my rock.” He gave me a tight-lipped smile and then went back to his phone.

  I couldn’t sit back down. I was antsy. I had to do something to keep myself occupied. I walked over to the vending machine and stared at the selections. Nothing appealed to me. I heard the vibration of my phone from inside my purse. I quickly pulled it out, looked at the screen. A text from Brad.

  Dropped off Becca at her house. Drs. Talley think she sprained her ankle. Her parents r relieved to have her home. On way to house with Erin. How’s Nick?

  My breath shuddered on the intake. . Part of me didn’t want to share the news. It was too uncertain. I typed in a quick response: In surgery. Will know more later.

  For the first time in a while, I felt alone. Nick was as constant as the sun rising every morning, but now he was clinging to life while Dr. Thai tried to piece him back together. And Brad…well, he wasn’t here. Earlier, before the explosions, I’d questioned where we were going in our relationship, if our age difference was as big an issue as I’d originally thought. I’d even internally accused him of checking out two younger girls—and he hadn’t been. It was just my own insecurities, my own overactive imagination.

  Was I preparing for the worst on that front as well?

  The elevators dinged and opened. Jerry barreled out and almost ran me over.

  “Nick?” was all he said.

  “Surgery. Lots of internal damage. They’re not sure he’ll make it.”

  He spun around and scratched the back of his head. “Motherfucker,” he said, smacking an open hand to the side of the vending machine. Jerry, who grew up in Southie, a rough section of Boston, had always been a bit of a ball-buster. But as a supervisory special agent—an SSA in the FBI acronym dictionary—he carried a lot of pressure on his shoulders.

  He peered over at Stan and then shifted his eyes back to me. He was a large man, tall, broad-shouldered, and carried a soccer-ball-sized gut. “Look, Alex…”

  “I tried calling Randy, but that dipshit wouldn’t tell me squat. Doesn’t want my help. That was before I knew about Nick.”

  “Yeah, about that.”

  “What?”

  “Randy.”

  “Hold on,” I said, lifting a hand. “Have you heard anything about the number of wounded or killed?”

  “I’m copied on all the major comms coming out of the command center. So far, they’ve counted six dead, seventy-five wounded. They think the numbers might climb.”

  A pang shot through my gut. I closed my eyes for a second.

  Then, Stan called out for me. I turned on my heels and saw an Asian man standing next to Stan. I hurried over, Jerry right behind me. “This is Dr. Thai,” Stan said.

  “I know he’s a cousin,” Dr. Thai said, nodding at Stan, “But the two of you are…?”

  I couldn’t help but stare at the sleeve of Dr. Thai’s scrubs. Blood.

  Jerry said, “I’m his SSA.”

  I jumped in. “He’s Nick’s boss. I’m his partner. But we’re his friends, his closest friends.”

  Then I realized I’d forgotten to call Antonio, Nick’s significant other. I could feel my face go cold.

  “What is it, Alex?” Stan asked.

  “Antonio. I’ve been too wrapped up—”

  “Don’t worry. I got a hold of him. He was supposed to be here today, cheering us on like you and Brad, but he had business in New York. He’s on his way back right now.”

  “Okay, good.” I turned to the doctor and stared into his eyes, hoping to get a read on what he was about to share. He had a strong poker face.

  “So, Doc, tell us what’s going on,” Jerry said.

  “He’s still with us.” He stopped, waited a second, then continued. “He’s a fighter, I’ll say that much.”

  “But?” I prompted.

  “The internal damage is severe. We’re doing the best we can.”

  My nostrils flared because . . . why the hell was he standing here, yapping, and not working on Nick? So I said it. No filter. “The surgery’s not over? Why aren’t you still in there?”

  “I called in a second team. I’m still supervising, though. Look, I understand your concern. He’s getting the best care possible, I assure you.”

  I pressed harder. “How much longer? When will we know something?”

  He tilted his head and shrugged ever so slightly. “It’s just too hard to predict right now.”

  “What’s hard to predict? The timing? Or whether he’ll live?”

  “To be honest, both. I need to get back in there. We’ll keep you updated.”

  I could feel a bit of my heart chip away.

  5

  “Everything is a fucking unknown right now,” Jerry said, anchoring his arms on his belly.

  Jerry, stating the obvious. I could barely contain my eye-roll.

  “I’m Stan, by the way.” He extended his left arm for a handshake.

  For a minute, Jerry looked like he was doing the cha-cha, his arms and hips going this way and that. Finally, he regained his coordination and shook Stan’s hand.

  “Heard a lot about you from Nick.”

  Stan gave a halfhearted grin and said, “Hope it wasn’t all bad.”

  “Actually, he said you’re a damn good cop.” I could see Jerry’s green eyes shift for just a second to Stan’s prosthesis. I just knew he wanted to say something about it, but he didn’t.

  “Nick he
lped our cause a few months ago in San Antonio,” Stan said. “Well, he helped us catch some very bad people, but he also helped me personally through the most difficult time in my life. I owe him everything. It’s kind of funny. We’ve always razzed each other relentlessly, and then something like this happens, and…” His breath hitched.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “We’ll get through this, Stan.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure he’s in there right now thinking of some zinger to hit me with once he wakes up.”

  “Even if we have to sit here for another ten hours, we’ll do it. And he’ll pull through.” I knew that was my heart speaking, not my head—certainly not my logical, if not cynical side. Prepare for the worst, Alex.

  A few seconds of awkward silence.

  Jerry coughed lightly into his hand. “Alex…”

  I looked at him, waiting for him to finish his thought. “Look, uh…”

  “Yeah, spit it out.”

  “You want to catch the bastards who did this, right?”

  “You know I do. But Randy won’t—”

  “Screw Randy. Do you want to catch him? I sure as hell do.”

  Jerry, my man! I almost jumped in the air, but I kept it down to a nod as a flare of adrenaline swept through my body. Anger, determination, hope, fear…I was ready for whatever Jerry was proposing. “So, what are you thinking?”

  “I know you worked part-time on the task force leading up to the marathon, but I want you on it again. Full-time.”

  “Randy’s acting like he’s the supreme leader, Jerry. You know how he is. And I don’t think anyone has the time for political pissing matches right now. I’m sure every leader in this city, state, and region is—”

  “You’re on the task force,” he said. Done. Firm.

  I went speechless for a moment. I had to clarify. “Say that again?”

  “I said you’re officially on it. Now, I can’t control Randy shoving you into a corner and keeping things from you, whatever he does. But it should give you at least some access to the details as the investigation unfolds.”

  “May not be enough. You know that, right?”

  He looked to the folks in the waiting area and then gestured with his head for me to follow him. A private talk. Stan stayed back, but I waved him over. “He can hear this—right, Jerry?”

  “He probably shouldn’t, but at this point, I don’t care.” Jerry leaned closer to me, his voice softer. “You have my formal authority to take this investigation wherever you think it should go.”

  I put that through my FBI filter. It didn’t compute. “What are you saying?”

  “If you can work within Randy’s world and still catch these sonsabitches that hurt Nick, killed and wounded so many others, then that’s fine. If you need to do your own thing, then…”

  I waited for the next part, but he didn’t continue. I knew what he was suggesting. “Jerry, I don’t want this to cost you your job.”

  “It won’t. Don’t worry about it. This goes more to the incompetence of the people who put Randy in a position of leadership.”

  I couldn’t disagree with that notion. “But I need to be here when Nick wakes up. He will wake up.” I knew I was trying to win an internal battle: say it out loud and maybe it will happen.

  Stan threw his shoulders back and bowed out his chest. “Alex,” he said. “What would Nick want?”

  “For me to catch the bastards before they killed anybody else.”

  He nodded. “I’ll be here, and I promise to call you as soon as I know something about Nick. You go do your thing.”

  I shifted my eyes to Jerry. “Can I use my team?”

  He took in a deep breath.

  I cocked a brow. “What now?”

  “I had to make a deal.”

  I waited.

  “Brad and Gretchen. They’re now under Randy’s direct supervision for the foreseeable future.”

  “What the hell, Jerry? Why did you make that deal? Randy has no idea how to work with Brad and Gretchen . . . nothing about their skills, all the nuances. What they’re good at.” I threw up my hands. “My God, what a waste.”

  “Hey, I got you on the task force, or at least attached to it. We need that, especially if you’re going to branch off and do your own thing when you see fit. They call it ‘quip pro’ something.”

  “Quid pro quo.” A blast back to my law-school days, way back in ancient times. My mind started cranking on next steps. Without Brad and Gretchen, I’d need some help.

  “Jerry, you said I could go solo on this if needed.”

  He nodded.

  “And if I wanted to bring someone else in to help me out, you’re good with that?”

  “Don’t ask for permission on something I know you’re going to do anyway.”

  I couldn’t help but smirk. Jerry, you devil. You know me almost as well as Nick does.

  6

  Ozzie

  The blur of a blue sweatshirt rumbled into the living room. It was Mackenzie, my nine-year-old daughter.

  “I talked to Ariel back in Austin. She said there was a bombing at the Boston Marathon.” She swallowed, turning to the TV for a second. I saw tears in her eyes. “She asked if I was hurt, but I didn’t know what she was talking about.”

  She ran over, buried her head in my stomach. I flinched—I’d been knifed in that spot a few weeks earlier. I was markedly improved, but if hit in the exact same spot, I still felt a tinge of pain. Right now, that pain was nothing compared to the shame I felt in letting down my friend, Alex….hell, my country, even.

  “It’s okay, Mackenzie. You’re going to be safe. I don’t want you to worry, okay?”

  She pointed at the TV, where it showed people scrambling hysterically in and around the course of the marathon. Every few seconds, there would be a close-up of a bystander to the terrorist act—some bleeding, others not—but they all had a story to share about what they’d seen or heard and what they were currently experiencing. I wondered how many runners or bystanders had been at the 2013 marathon, the last “worst terrorist act on Boston.”

  And this one was all my fault.

  “What’s wrong, Dad?”

  She could feel my stress. I slowly got down on my knees and touched her chin. I looked into her ocean-blue eyes, a shade lighter than my own, wondering what I should tell her. I’d found myself in these awkward moments more times than I could count in the months I’d come to know Mackenzie. She was the daughter I never knew I had, not until an old girlfriend contacted me. She turned out to be the greatest gift that I’d ever received. She was full of joy and compassion—a loving soul. On top of that, she was adorable, with a bed of curls shaping her round face.

  While we were a heck of a father-daughter team, the last few weeks had been trying. We’d been sequestered in the home of my friend, Alex Troutt—although the FBI called it “protective custody.”

  Why was it all necessary?

  It had everything to do with my late wife, Nicole. The one with whom I’d shared a marriage of both soaring love and depressing lows. We’d found our way through it all, though, and had become stronger, more self-aware of our flaws, more forgiving and open-hearted. And then, in one breath, my heart was gutted. From a distance, I’d witnessed Nicole being pushed over the side of a bridge, falling to her death. And when I learned the DA’s office had so-called “irrefutable evidence” of me being the one behind her murder, I was left with a choice. Go to jail—they’d planned on not offering me bail—and hope that the justice system would somehow work in my favor to allow me, someday, to see my daughter again, or fight to find out who actually killed Nicole and set me up.

  I went off the radar and did everything in my power to find her killer. And I did. Ultimately, I learned that the actual hitman had ties to a little-known group called JustWin. According to Alex, this group was the byproduct of some people related to corporate giants from the pharmaceutical industry and had been under the thumb of British intelligence. The group had been associated wit
h a list of violent crimes that would make the Mafia blush. Alex and others were concerned for my safety…and Mackenzie’s. So, I cut a deal with Alex’s boss, Jerry. I’d do some cyber work for him on the side as an FBI contractor, and just as an extra precaution, he’d assign agents to keep a watchful eye on us for a few weeks.

  “Sweet pea,” I said, pushing a lock of curls out of her eyes. “Sometimes bad people do bad things. And it’s impossible to explain why.”

  She frowned and glanced at the TV. “Is everyone we know okay?”

  “They’re fine.” I’d texted Alex twice, but she’d yet to reply. Her employer must have pulled her in to deal with the bombings—I’d yet to learn for certain the number of explosions, let alone the casualties. But if there was anyone who could handle themselves in a crisis of this magnitude, it was Alex. And God help anyone who got in her way.

  “Good, because I like it when Erin brushes my hair and tells me stories about high school,” Mackenzie said.

  I chose not to probe into the subject matter of those stories—at least, not until I knew everyone was safe. Right now, I was going for an even keel and positivity.

  She put her hand on my arm cast—another reminder of the confrontation I’d had with Nicole’s killer. “Is your arm feeling better, Dad?”

  “Much better. I might get the cast off in a couple of weeks.”

  “Cool. So, does that mean we’ll be able to go home? I miss Ariel, and I really miss Baxter and Rainbow and Uncle Tito and my bicycle, and…”

  She paused long enough for me to get a word in. “I don’t know the exact date, but I’m hoping it will be soon.”

  I used the couch to help me get to my feet and then walked over to the front window and looked out at the street. As I’d expected, there was no longer a navy-blue government-issued sedan parked along the curb. Given this crisis, I’m sure the FBI had to pull in every available resource. Mackenzie ran up and joined me at the window just as Brad’s car drove up. He and Erin got out and started walking up the sidewalk.

  “It’s Erin,” Mackenzie said with delight. She ran out the front door as my phone rang. It was Alex. I tapped the screen just as Brad walked through the door. His face was etched with stress lines. Before I could say hello to Alex, Mackenzie raced inside, yelling, “Erin has blood all over her.”