Terminal Vendetta (A Diana Weick Thriller Book 3)

by Cate Clarke

  “Why don’t you stay here a couple of days?” Laird offered. “Figure out what you want to do. It ain’t much but the couch is pretty comfortable.”

  Asher straightened up. “Really?”

  Laird turned his eyes to him and said, “Yeah.”

  The boy did a circle, starting to pick up the money he’d scattered and putting it back into the duffel bag. Just as he saw some of Wesley in him, he saw himself in Asher as well. It wasn’t that long ago that he’d been lost in his mid-twenties too. Longer than he’d like, but it didn’t feel that long ago. Asher was lost and alone—suddenly, an orphan.

  What would Weick say? It crossed his mind—to write her another letter. But this time, it wasn’t the Readers, it wasn’t an organization. It was just a man coming to his home for help. Did Weick really need to know this? If he told her, there was a possibility, however small, that she might come and kill him herself, not letting Snowman get the chance. But how mad was she going to be if he didn’t tell her? The Readers were her enemies that she’d been fighting through for weeks and months. Maybe, she deserved to know.

  “I’ll give you two days,” Laird said. “Then, I’m telling Weick.”

  “Another one,” Asher murmured as he picked up the last of the cash bundles from along one of the baseboards, stuffing it back into the bag. Pinching the zipper between his hands, Asher shut the bag back up. His hands had stabilized a bit, less trembling.

  “Deal?” Laird asked, standing up from the couch and taking one step toward him.

  They looked each other in the eyes, nodding and understanding. Asher’s attention drifted from the scars on Laird’s bare chest, down his arm to the joint between his fingers. Grinning to himself, Laird passed him the left-handed cigarette.

  Asher sucked back way too much but managed to hold in the cough this time. Bloodshot eyes watering, he said, “Deal.”

  Chapter 31

  Cameron Snowman

  Near Laredo, Texas

  They had stolen from him. Betrayed him—went behind his back and crushed his trust like it was made of glass, smashing it against a concrete wall. After everything he’d done and everything he’d given to the Readers, they had been lying to him this whole time.

  Asher wasn’t just in it for the money. He had been in it from the beginning to prove something to his daddy, Zabójca. And when they had successfully completed the transfer, they had all disappeared, leaving Cameron behind with nothing to ruminate on but his mistakes and anger.

  Then, he’d seen them on the news, and things had gotten worse. Not only had his trust been stolen from him but so had his opportunity at revenge, taken away by Diana Weick.

  She thought that forwarding this information about them all being related would somehow rectify this.

  Dead wrong. Dead fucking wrong, Weick.

  They’d all been sitting on this information, parading around like they actually stood for their cause when they were really in this for some type of nostalgic reunion. But the money, the billions of dollars, didn’t hurt. It made things easier. Cameron would complete it himself. He spent hours and days making up packages without stopping. Because who now would bring retribution to his brothers and sisters if not for him? All of this had been for his father and if he left this incomplete, it would just be insulting. But after this, he would find Asher—the only one left—and he would rebuild the Readers from his death.

  There was some blame that he put on himself, for letting himself trust and be manipulated by known terrorists. That was on him. Zabójca had certainly gotten him farther than he ever would have been able to alone. Without his resources though, without the technological prowess of Asher or even Laird, Cameron’s task would be twice as difficult. Eventually, he would have to recruit more help. They—he—still had a couple more men on the inside, a few in the Army, one or two up high, one in the FBI and one in the MI6, but he worried about their allegiances faltering with Zabójca’s death. Cameron would have to step forward as leader, and he was ready for it.

  There was no other option.

  But in the meantime, where he really needed an inside man was with the United States Postal Service. He delivered as much as he could by hand; the others used drones that had been set out by Asher in advance. There were some that were going to be missed. That was the reality of working alone—he couldn’t provide the retribution in the capacity that he’d wanted and that he’d dreamed about. They hadn’t left him with nothing. As if that was enough to compensate for what they’d done. It wasn’t about the money. It had never been about the money. It was about sending this message—their message—to the people that needed to hear it. People like Hoagland and, at one time, Ratanake. At least, one out of two of those old bastards were dead.

  Now his message was coming out of his share. He wouldn’t be able to afford that house on the coast of Georgia, but it wasn’t time to retire anyway.

  He chewed on a pepperoni stick and sipped on a Slurpee in a gas station parking lot, just outside of Laredo, Texas. The Ferrari had been parked on the other side of the lot only a few days ago according to the cashier inside. It was an easy car to remember.

  Asher thought he was hidden when Cameron had been following him for days. So many people underestimated him. As soon as Asher had used that fake passport to get back to the States, he’d known he was here. That was the thing about being an ex-FBI agent, especially one that had just walked out. He still had resources. He still had his badge, and after flashing the expired gold seal to a DC TSA agent and a quick lie, it had taken only a few hours to find footage of Asher coming through the airport.

  If there was one thing he’d gotten good at since establishing the Readers, it was taking advantage of other people’s mistakes, including Asher’s.

  He’d picked up smoking. With all of the money and the freedom, the passenger’s seat was covered in snacks his mother had never allowed him as a kid as well as two full cartons of cigarettes because he hadn’t known which ones to choose. Rolling down the window, Cameron tried the menthol and then the regular, deciding on the menthol and tossing out the other carton into the garbage as he waited.

  It was goddamn hot.

  Asher had chosen a black Ferrari with, likely, the coolest air-conditioning that money could buy. Cameron was still driving his old Taurus, not wanting to draw any more attention to himself than necessary. Asher was young and stupid. Though they were actually the same age, Cameron was much more mature.

  Once they’d started down the gravel roads of Texas, Cameron had known where they were headed, back to Laird. Why? Was Asher closer with this stoner ex-SEAL than he’d let on? Another secret that he was keeping from him, maybe.

  But if that was the way he wanted it—to put Laird, his farmhouse and his mother in danger—then Cameron would oblige.

  He couldn’t follow him all the way. Since Laird lived in the middle of nowhere, he wouldn’t be able to hide himself sufficiently, and he needed to confirm that was where Asher was headed.

  So Cameron went to the next closest house, pulling into the long driveway, approaching a wide bungalow with pale blue shutters and flowers planted in barrels out front.

  An older man with wispy white hair and a large woman behind him with graying roots and the line between her chest and her stomach completely obscured came out of the house, both staring at the unfamiliar car that was parked in the expanse of dirt that made up their yard.

  The man pulled out a shotgun from behind his back, pointing it at the car.

  “We ain’t buying what you’re selling.” He moved the gun to Cameron’s chest.

  Cameron’s eyes moved to a mailbox that was affixed to the front porch. The name “Roethlisberger” was printed across the green metal in white paint.

  “Mr. Roethlisberger.” Cameron cleared his throat. “I’m not here to sell you anything.”

  “Get your ass off our property,” Mrs. Roethlisberger cried out, stepping forward next to her husband, her hands on her portly hips, sinking into her cl
othes.

  “It’s the Lairds that live next door, right?” Cameron asked, ignoring her. “About a mile or two down?”

  The Roethlisbergers exchanged nervous glances. The wife whispered something but she wasn’t very quiet about it. Considering the empty hollow of sound that made up these plains, Cameron heard her very clearly.

  “I’ll go call Dottie,” she whispered.

  “You guys see a Ferrari go by here recently? Real nice one. Probably haven’t seen a car that nice in your whole damn lives,” Cameron said.

  Mr. Roethlisberger coughed and spat out a huge loogie onto the dirt as he said, “Yeah. I seen it yesterday. I know more than you do about cars, boy. I guarantee it.”

  Cameron raised his pistol from the back of his black jeans. He shot them both, starting with the husband and then the woman, getting them both in the stomach and letting their heavy bodies fall to the ground.

  Stepping over them and onto the front porch, Cameron sat down on one of the rocking chairs, lighting up his new favorite menthol cigarettes. He wasn’t in a rush. This was the only road in and out unless Asher planned to continue on to Mexico. Which Cameron supposed he could do but if he did, he would be right on his tail, following him into death in order to seek and gain what he was owed.

  Chapter 32

  Nehemias Laird

  Nowhere, Texas

  It was a day of sitting around and smoking with Asher before Laird realized that he really did like this kid. He provided him with perspectives he’d never considered before when he did decide to speak up. He became much more talkative when he was high, and it seemed to relax the anxiety and grief that he was holding on to.

  They swapped war stories, and Asher thanked Laird’s mother for her horrendous cooking. They watched The Big Lebowski because Asher had never heard of it, let alone seen it. Another sign for Laird of how old he was getting.

  He found himself thinking that he wouldn’t mind if Asher stayed for a while or even permanently. They had no shortage of money to fix up the house, and they could maybe even build him his own place out of one of the abandoned outbuildings. They could finally do something with all of the acreage they had. Maybe, make it into an actual farm again, and not just a bathroom for stray cats and raccoons.

  Asher was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at an upside-down jar, when Laird walked in the next morning, immediately going for his weed tray and the coffee machine.

  “What you got there?” Laird asked, rubbing at his eyes.

  “Look,” Asher whispered, pointing to the jar, his nail delicately clinking against the side.

  Turning away from his grinder and leaning over Asher’s shoulder, Laird squinted at the jar. It was a small brown, almost orange spider with long crooked legs.

  “That’s a brown recluse,” Laird muttered, scrutinizing the small creature as it ran along the edges of the glass. It hopped up suddenly against the side and both Laird and Asher jumped. Asher scrambled up from his chair, holding on to the back of it and staring at the jar.

  “You don’t want to make that thing too angry,” Laird said. “They’re venomous, you know?”

  “That little thing?” Asher asked. “It was crawling on my face last night!”

  “Well…” Laird leaned back and went back to the tray on the kitchen counter. “You’re lucky it didn’t bite.”

  “You’re lucky too,” he replied. “I bet the closest hospital’s like miles away.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  The sound of tires coming up the driveway caused them both to freeze. Laird had made Asher move the Ferrari around back to the falling-apart garage so it wouldn’t draw any attention from the eyes of the neighbours who had nothing better to do than get up in their business. As fast as he could, he finished up the rolling of the joint and tucked it behind his ear.

  With a quick glance out the window, Laird saw an older Taurus with tinted windows pulling up to the house. It stopped out front, and Cameron Snowman got out, holding a huge gun in his hands.

  “Fuck,” Laird said and then yelled, “Get down!”

  Just as Laird yelled, Snowman unloaded on the house with a submachine gun. The patter of the gunshots crashed through the walls, the windows, through the wires he’d spent years organizing. Splinters of wood and glass exploded through the farmhouse as both Laird and Asher stuck themselves to the tile of the kitchen floor, hands over the back of their heads. In between the rapid-fire shots, they could hear the clanging of the metal casings falling against the dirt outside.

  “Asher, you motherfucker!” Snowman stopped the shots to scream out. “Come out here, you little bitch!”

  “Basement. Now,” Laird hissed, pointing and crawling simultaneously as he dragged himself along the kitchen tile, kicking past his destroyed lawn chair at the base of the stairs and around the back of the couch.

  Everything was destroyed. Stuffing from the couch flew across the room—the wood from the banisters of the stairs had fallen into sharp piles of nails and chipped paint.

  “Go,” Laird whispered, pointing to the basement door underneath the stairs.

  “What about you?” Asher whispered from behind him.

  “I gotta go back up for my ma,” Laird replied. “If I’m not back in five minutes, you lock that door and get in the crawl space.”

  Asher gave a fearful and hesitant nod. This kid wasn’t a soldier. He was a drone pilot and behind-the-scenes type of guy, not unlike Laird, but at least Laird had rigorous SEAL training and field experience to back him up.

  Snowman unloaded the gun again, more shots ripping through the house, destroying what was already past the point of destruction. He was screaming something underneath the gunshots that they couldn’t make out.

  Laird pushed Asher’s leg with one hand, pointing frantically toward the basement door. His pant legs slid along the wood, catching on a nail. He panicked, unhooked himself and managed to crawl his way toward the door, reaching for the handle from the ground, narrowly avoiding another smattering of shots.

  Laird waited, crouching by the stairs, almost underneath the legs of the lawn chair that he’d once sat in to greet Asher and Snowman the first time they’d stopped by.

  Finally, after another full minute of shooting, Snowman stopped again to scream.

  “Fine!” Snowman screamed.

  Laird heard boot falls outside, approaching the door that was now filled with so many holes that the sun was coming through it like a flashlight through a colander. He sprinted up the stairs, his feet slipping several times on the destroyed wood.

  “Ma!” he hissed.

  “Stop,” Snowman said from behind him.

  Laird froze three-quarters of the way up the stairs. Slowly, he turned around with his hands by his head, looking down the staircase at Snowman. His face was covered in dust and rage, streaks of yellow bits of Texas across the dark skin on his forehead and neck. Beads of sweat were dripping off of him, every muscle in his body flexed around the submachine gun in his hands.

  He still had so much ammo, a string of it jutting out from the magazine. The farmhouse didn’t stand a chance. They didn’t stand a chance. He was going to kill them all.

  “Where’s Asher?” Snowman asked, pointing the gun at Laird’s chest.

  “Who?” Laird asked.

  “Don’t play dumb,” Snowman growled.

  “I’m not.”

  “So you just are dumb?”

  “That’s certainly a possibility,” Laird muttered.

  “Shut the fuck up, jackass,” Snowman screamed. He laid out a couple of shots on the bottom of the stairs. More wood flying up as Laird covered his eyes with his arm. “I know he’s here. You don’t have to die, Laird. Where is he?”

  Laird thought, staring down the stairs. “Where’s who?”

  Snowman let out a scream of anger, giving Laird just enough time to dive up the rest of the stairs and into the hallway as he unleashed more gunshots where he’d just been standing. Scrambling through the hall,
Laird threw open the doors, searching for his mother. He whispered for her, crawling along the floor, keeping his head down. He found her curled up in the master bedroom, ducked down in the closet. Maybe, she was actually safer than anyone else up here. Laird couldn’t get her out now unless he sold out Asher.

  There was a moment when he considered it, selling out the son of a terrorist in order to save his mother’s life.

  After a frustrated growl, he heard the boots coming up the stairs.

  Shoving his way into the closet, Laird set himself in front of his mom, closing the slotted doors in front of them.

  “Laird!” Snowman called, stomping his way down the hallway, kicking open doors.

  With each kick, his mom whispered, “Oh Lord. Dear God. Christ in Heaven.”

  Laird threw a shush over his shoulder as he put one arm in front of her, holding it behind him as another bullet barrier. All he could hope was that Asher could get out from this, run to the Ferrari and escape across the desert. He could follow the Rio Grande and escape into Mexico—start a new life away from all of the Reader shit and his parents and Weick.

  Laird didn’t fear death. He hadn’t feared death for a long time. It was the supposed desensitization of being a SEAL who’d watched dozens, hundreds, of people dying through a computer screen. The things he’d seen were ingrained into his mind so much that—even in the last moments of his life—he couldn’t think of anything but the image of bits of Snowman’s, Cameron’s father’s, brain and blood dripping across a plain tile floor through a grayscale monitor.

  The boots got to the bedroom, punting their way inside. The door flung open, cracking against the opposite wall.

  Laird crouched closer to his mother, her nervous, hot breath against the back of his neck. Through the slotted light of the closet doors, he watched Snowman walk around the room, tearing up the bedcovers and crouching to look under it. The submachine gun teetered by his side, hanging loosely in his fingers.