Say Goodbye

by Karen Rose

  “Where did you put it?”

  “Near where I dump the pee.” He smirked. “One good thing came from the shoe incident. Everyone’s giving me a super wide berth because I’m ‘clumsy.’ Nobody gets close enough to see what I’m carrying. But back to Tamar. Do you think we can trust her?”

  “I hope so. She’s going to deliver this baby unless Sister Coleen gets back really soon.”

  Graham’s nod was grim. “When Coleen comes back, she’ll take over. I know you’re scared, but I think you have more of a shot keeping the baby with Tamar on the job than Coleen.”

  “I don’t think so, Cookie,” she said sadly. “Tamar couldn’t keep Rebecca from taking her baby. She’s not going to be able to keep her from taking mine.”

  Graham’s mouth fell open in shock. “What?” he squeaked, rather loudly.

  “Shhh.” Worried, Hayley glanced around him, looking to see if someone was coming. “I thought you knew,” she breathed softly. “I guess I forgot to tell you.”

  Graham looked down numbly before looking back up at Hayley. “Did she tell you this?”

  “No. I figured it out. Her eyes are the same exact color as Rebecca’s third child. The other wives told me that Rebecca’s other children were born to mothers who didn’t survive the births. Nobody said what happened to the mother of the third child. I wondered why. Now I know.”

  “So Tamar has a really good reason to help us.”

  “Yeah.”

  Graham’s brow furrowed. She could almost see the gears turning. “That means,” he said, “that when we go we’ll be transporting two kids. Not only one. And that’s assuming that Tamar’s baby doesn’t throw a tantrum because we’re taking him away from Rebecca. We’ll have to keep him quiet somehow. I’m considering the logistics of getting out of here. There’s nothing but rocks and mountains and trees as far as I can see, and I’ve explored way up the mountain. If we’re going to make it to civilization with two kids and you—who’ll just have had a baby—we need to have the right gear. You ever rock climb?”

  “No. I’m sorry,” she added weakly.

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m just thinking. You know how I do that.” Graham patted her stomach. “No worries, little Zit. Your uncle Graham is on the job.” He rose fluidly. “Gotta go. More pots to empty.” With a final wink, he was gone.

  Hayley let the smile drop from her face, closing her eyes as the fear swamped her. “It’ll be okay, Jellybean, like Uncle Graham said.” But she wondered who she was trying to convince.

  TWENTY

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  FRIDAY, MAY 26, 4:00 P.M.

  DJ refilled his glass with the whiskey he’d found in Nelson Smythe’s very well-stocked bar. He normally wasn’t a big drinker, but this afternoon had left him shaken.

  He’d blown it. Nearly gotten himself caught.

  He’d shot Gideon Reynolds, which should have had him celebrating—if the bastard had actually died. But the bastard hadn’t died and now DJ’s face was all over the Internet, the photo updated to the one that cops had pulled from the surveillance cameras at the radio station, reflecting his darker hair and his goatee.

  He ran a hand over his newly bald scalp and freshly shaven face. He still had the wig he’d borrowed from Nurse Innes at Sunnyside, but that wouldn’t be enough. Not if he ever intended to walk on a public street ever again.

  Motherfucking Gideon. DJ drained the tumbler in his hand and hurled it, the glass hitting the dresser mirror. The mirror shattered along with the glass.

  Just as well. He’d never been much for mirrors, but today, after the memories had obliterated the wall he’d built around them in his mind . . . he couldn’t stand the sight of his own face.

  He could have run from Pastor and Eden at any time after he’d turned seventeen. But he hadn’t because he’d had something to prove.

  To whom? He didn’t have a clue. Hours later and he still didn’t have a clue.

  He could have held a knife to Pastor’s throat at any time and demanded the old man give him the access codes to that damn bank account, but he hadn’t. He should have, but he hadn’t.

  And objectively, he knew why. He’d been brainwashed. Groomed. He knew about victims of childhood abuse. Objectively, he knew he was one.

  Never felt like it, though. He’d always felt powerful, like he was putting something over on Pastor and Eden. But he hadn’t been. Not really.

  In the end he was still tied to Pastor, even though he hated every cell in the old man’s body.

  In the end he was still tied to Eden, which was nothing but a prison. None of the fools who worshipped Pastor knew it, and if they did know they didn’t admit it, and if they admitted it and fought to get free, they mostly hadn’t survived it. But DJ had known the truth and had believed he’d made the choice to stay. For the money.

  Which he’d never demanded. He gave the now half-full whiskey bottle a bleary glance. It had been unopened when he’d started.

  He grabbed the bottle and took a healthy swig. Because who was really the fool?

  Once he’d taken over his father’s job delivering the drugs Eden produced, DJ had met Kowalski. He’d felt powerful dealing with Kowalski. Valued, even. The man had seen his potential and had taught him all of his tricks.

  Bullshit. He’d used DJ just like he’d used everyone else. He’d told DJ that he’d have a house of his own. Now he realized that Kowalski had just wanted someone else’s name on the deeds. On the leases. The bastard didn’t want anything to be traced back to him.

  We’re just his stooges. He’d fallen into Kowalski’s hands just like he’d fallen into Pastor’s.

  Because I’m the fool.

  “Not anymore,” he muttered, and if it sounded a little slurred, that was okay. Life owed him a little numbness, because everything had gone to shit.

  He’d missed killing Mercy. He’d missed killing Gideon. He still didn’t have Pastor’s money. Kowalski had tried to eliminate him. And he was front and center on the FBI’s radar.

  He sat in a stolen house, drinking stolen whiskey. He didn’t mind the stealing. But he’d had his own house. He’d had his own whiskey.

  “Not anymore,” he muttered again. The Feds had taken everything.

  The worst part of it was, DJ was on his own. He hadn’t realized how much he’d depended on Kowalski’s organization until he’d been cut off.

  Weapons, customers, safe houses. Hired muscle. Fellow operatives. Gone. He was alone.

  “So get them back.” He set the bottle aside and focused on his laptop. The document he’d been working on was nearly full. He’d noted the jobs that he’d pulled for Kowalski, the jobs that others had pulled, and the customers and suppliers he could recall.

  The jobs, the names of customers and suppliers, those filled the page. But DJ realized he didn’t know a single other member of the Chicos who had any power whatsoever.

  Only Kowalski.

  He laughed bitterly at his lists. Isolating a person from others? Making them dependent on a single source of financial and personal support?

  Classic tactics of abusers.

  He’d jumped from Pastor’s frying pan into Kowalski’s fire.

  “Not anymore,” he said again, so forcefully that he finally believed it himself.

  He’d find a way to make Kowalski do what he wanted for a change. He’d get the weapons. He’d get those damn bank codes.

  Then he’d blow everything up and shoot everyone down. It was time to take charge of his own damn life.

  SACRAMENTO, CALIFORNIA

  FRIDAY, MAY 26, 6:00 P.M.

  “I’m glad you’re all here.” Raeburn sat at the conference room table, which was more crowded than it had been Wednesday morning.

  Since DJ Belmont’s attempt on Gideon’s life that afternoon, the “Eden Team” had become significantly bigger. Molina
sat at the table, although she’d told them that she was there to provide insight on Belmont’s sniper skills, rather than taking a leadership role. Tom wasn’t the only disappointed person at the table. It seemed that Molina, while not universally liked, was universally respected.

  Raeburn was improving, though.

  There were logistics experts and a few experts in the local gangs, including Agent Rodriguez, who’d been providing protection for Mercy until now. Mercy, therefore, had new protection, as did Gideon.

  Liza finally had protection as well, which was the one good thing to come of her involvement with Sunnyside Oaks. But her detail would be staying outside Sunnyside’s gates. Tom had been racking his brain trying to figure out a way to get someone inside with her. He’d considered hiring a bodyguard on his own.

  Liza might not like the idea, but he couldn’t concentrate if he was worrying about her safety. It was hard enough to concentrate with her voice in his damn head.

  I need more than that.

  “Agent Croft?” Raeburn asked, yanking Tom’s attention back to the briefing. “Update?”

  “SacPD ballistics analyzed the bullet that was lodged in Agent Reynolds’s vest,” Croft said, having been put in charge of communications between the FBI and SacPD.

  Tom had spent most of the afternoon searching for any sign of Kowalski or Belmont, running facial recognition checks at airports and toll stations. So far, there’d been no sign of them.

  “The bullet matches the two taken from Penny Gaynor’s body,” Croft went on. “It also matches a bullet taken from a drive-by shooting a year ago. The victim was a drug dealer who, according to witnesses at the time, was infringing on the Chicos’ territory.”

  “That’s a connection,” Raeburn said. “Has Belmont been back to Sunnyside Oaks?”

  “Not today,” one of the agents answered. “We’ve had eyes on the place from outside the gates since last night. A Lexus like the one Belmont was driving when he shot Agent Reynolds was seen leaving the facility late last night, though. The driver had long dark hair and was not identified as Belmont. Unfortunately, we didn’t know about the Lexus then.”

  “So he wore a wig last night,” Raeburn said. “And had colored his hair by this morning. Agent Hunter, have you found any leads?”

  “No sir, but it doesn’t appear that Belmont’s left the area. Kowalski either.”

  “Good.” Raeburn’s face had lines that hadn’t been there that morning. “I talked to Agent Reynolds personally this afternoon. He was all right, but still in a bit of shock.”

  “Getting shot does that to a person,” one of the other agents muttered. He was one of the SWAT members who’d survived Belmont’s assault on the team the month before in Dunsmuir.

  Raeburn gave the man a rueful glance. “True. Agent Reynolds seemed surprised that he’d been shot, though. He’d assumed that Belmont was trying to get to Mercy.”

  “I was surprised, too,” Tom offered. “I figured he’d use Gideon to get to Mercy and kill them both at the same time.”

  “Reynolds said the same,” Raeburn confirmed. “He also said that in the second he glimpsed Belmont’s face, he thought Belmont was also shocked.”

  “Like Belmont hadn’t planned to shoot him?” Molina asked.

  Raeburn nodded. “And I’m not sure what to make of it. I’m happy to entertain suggestions.”

  Tom thought he might have an idea. He shared a long glance with Molina, who gave him a slight nod, seemingly thinking along the same lines.

  Raeburn caught the look they’d shared. “Speak,” he suggested with a slight edge to his tone.

  Tom sighed. “It’s not anything definite. But when Agent Reynolds was remembering Belmont from his own childhood, he said they were friends—until Belmont turned thirteen and was apprenticed to Edward McPhearson.”

  “The pedophile who tried to rape Gideon, but failed,” Croft explained. “Gideon got away.”

  “Right,” Tom said, noting a few shocked stares. Apparently, some of the team hadn’t read the full brief he’d prepared weeks ago. “When Agent Reynolds fought back, McPhearson fell and hit his head on an anvil and died. The ensuing beating that Reynolds received was what prompted his mother to smuggle him out of Eden seventeen years ago.”

  “Gideon escaped,” Raeburn said quietly. “He escaped, but Belmont did not. That might have made Belmont very angry indeed.”

  “But why didn’t Belmont shoot Reynolds when he saw him in Dunsmuir a month ago?” one of the other agents asked.

  Tom wanted to snarl, Read the damn brief! “Belmont was in the process of shooting Mercy Callahan when Amos Terrill threw himself over Mercy to protect her. Belmont’s bullet hit Amos instead. Then Agent Reynolds’s girlfriend shot Belmont. He was on the run after that. Who knows who else he would have shot that day had he not been stopped?”

  “Everyone, I would assume,” Molina said dryly.

  Agent Collins, the SWAT survivor, grimaced. “Daisy Dawson took him out,” he said with no small amount of self-disgust. “He almost took out a whole team and a civilian shot him.”

  “A civilian who is every bit as good a sharpshooter as I’ve ever met,” Molina said. “But Belmont is as good as she is. Which is how he got the drop on us.”

  “It was fast,” Collins remembered. “We were searching for Ephraim Burton and then all of a sudden, we were dropping like flies. He didn’t need time to set up his next shot.”

  “Agent Reynolds said Belmont’s left arm was in a sling,” Raeburn noted. “He might not be as fast now.”

  Molina looked concerned. “But he’s still accurate, because Agent Reynolds was standing across the street from him when he fired.”

  “A hundred feet away,” Raeburn confirmed. “At least.”

  “We have to assume he’s still as good a shot as he was before,” Molina said. “He hit Agent Reynolds in his heart. If Gideon hadn’t been wearing the vest, he wouldn’t be here anymore.”

  Tom felt a shiver prickle his skin. “But Belmont’s not as fast as he was before. Especially with a rifle. He used a tripod on the roof of that office building on Wednesday morning. If he uses the rifle, he’s going to need that tripod as a crutch. That limits his range, his speed, and his choice of places from where he can shoot. Not a huge amount, but some.”

  “Some might be enough when it comes down to it,” Raeburn said. “Belmont will return to Sunnyside Oaks sooner or later, because Pastor is still there. Correct?”

  “I assume he’ll return to Sunnyside Oaks, sir,” Tom answered. “But Belmont has been hard to predict. Pastor is still there, though. There have been no changes to the patient roster.”

  “So worst case,” Raeburn went on, “we wait him out while providing protection to Agent Reynolds and Mercy Callahan. How close are you to getting a virus into Sunnyside’s network?”

  “I have access to the HR manager’s computer.” Tom had had that as soon as Portia Sinclair had clicked on the résumés they’d uploaded. “We have ears on their phone calls now that we have the wiretap warrant. I got e-mail addresses for the network administrator and the accountant from HR’s computer and sent them messages with embedded viruses. I’m hesitant to send any additional e-mails. They could compare notes and realize that someone’s trying to break in. Now I have to wait until one of them clicks on the link. It’s called a man-in-the-middle attack. I’ll gain access to their server, but they’ll believe that their network has shut itself off, so they’ll call a network specialist to get them back up and running.”

  “Traceable to us?” one of the other agents asked.

  Tom wanted to scoff. “No,” was all he said.

  “Good,” Raeburn said. “We know that Sunnyside Oaks is hiring a nursing assistant. We’ve had several of our candidates apply. If one is hired, we’ll use the IT network specialist role to provide backup inside. If none of our applicants are h
ired, the IT person will be our insider.”

  “What will the IT person do, exactly?” one of the agents asked.

  “Damage the network physically, for one,” Raeburn said. “And they can provide cover to our nursing assistant, helping to get her out if they’re discovered.”

  “The IT person can also install cameras on the inside,” Tom added. “I might be able to get control of some of the cameras connected through the facility’s Wi-Fi, but hardwired cameras that we control would give us even broader visual access.”

  “We’re covered either way,” Croft said.

  “That’s the plan. You have your orders,” Raeburn said, rising. “You’re all on call.”

  They disbanded with Croft telling Tom to go home and take a break. Tom agreed, even though he had no intention of doing so.

  Molina, however, had other ideas. “Walk with me, Tom,” she said. She made her way from the room, not even checking to be sure he was following.

  “Can I do something for you, ma’am?”

  She stopped and stared up at him, her shorter stature having no impact on her considerable ability to intimidate. “I’d tell you that I’ll only say this once, but that’s not true. I will say it over and over again as long as you are under my command.”

  Tom frowned, trying to figure out what he’d done now. “Ma’am?”

  “Listen to me and listen well. If you’re serious about a career in law enforcement, you need to understand that it is a marathon, not a sprint. You burn yourself out and . . . then you’re done. Washed up. So go home. Eat food. Watch some sports thing on TV.”

  His lips twitched. “Some sports thing?”

  One dark brow lifted. “ ‘Thing.’ It’s a word, Hunter. A useful word. Look it up.” Then she smiled at him. “You have the potential to be an amazing asset to the Bureau. It’s my job to teach you how to do that. And I’m ordering you to go home.”

  “And if I work from home?”

  “Then you do. I figure you will. But you’ll be able to take breaks there. I understand you have a dog. Miss Barkley showed me photos. Pebbles, yes? Doesn’t she need to be walked?”