by Karen Rose
And if Mercy wasn’t in the Sokolovs’ house when he blew it sky- high? She’d show up to the funerals of whoever had been. DJ wasn’t picky and didn’t care if he killed the entire Sokolov family. He wanted Mercy and Gideon gone. Then he’d pick off Amos for stealing his truck and Daisy Dawson for shooting his shoulder.
Which, while not at a hundred percent, was far better than it had been a week ago. After a few nights in a soft bed, nightly soaks in Smythe’s Jacuzzi tub, and doses of the painkillers he’d found in Smythe’s medicine cabinet, his arm was steadily improving.
He still couldn’t lift his rifle, so he now had it propped on the trunk of the Honda Civic he’d stolen from the woman near the airport.
It was time to get this show on the road. Kowalski’s wife had finally turned out her bedroom light an hour before. He wasn’t sure where the kid’s bedroom was, but he had a decent idea. One of the windows had a very faint glow, like it might have been a night-light. He’d soon find out.
Centering the sedan’s driver in his sight, DJ pulled the trigger. He wouldn’t have a lot of time now, especially if the driver had been on his radio. His rifle had a damn good suppressor, but glass still made a shattering sound. And the driver would be unable to check in.
Someone could show up soon, so he slid the rifle to his back, adjusting the strap, then grabbed his nearly empty duffel bag. It was for carrying away any treats he came across. Hopefully lots and lots of rifles, piles of ammo, and a pound or two of explosives.
His handgun was holstered at his waist. In the duffel was the service weapon he’d taken from the cop he’d killed the night before, the drugged hamburger he’d taken from the schoolteacher, and zip ties that he’d taken from the dead cop’s gun belt. He’d also brought rope, duct tape, and a can of black spray paint in case he encountered any security cameras.
Another of Kowalski’s tricks.
He was sprinting from his car toward the house when a burly man came from a gate in the electric fence. The man approached the black sedan from the passenger side and peered in.
DJ dropped to a crouch behind a tree and slid his rifle from his shoulder, propping it on the ground. He slithered to his stomach and checked his scope.
Well, damn. He knew the burly guy. He’d met with him several times. He was Kowalski’s right-hand man, responsible for the Chicos’ security. DJ centered the crosshairs on the man’s head and pulled the trigger.
The guy dropped like a rock.
DJ ran to Kowalski’s security man and checked for a pulse. There was none, so he helped himself to the man’s gun, phone, and keys, stowing everything but the keys in the duffel. The keys went into his own pocket.
He was relieved to find the tree near the back fence standing tall. The lowest limb was a little too high for him to easily reach, so he fashioned a pulley from the rope and a few minutes later was standing on the limb, looking into Kowalski’s windows. The house was grand, of that there was no doubt. It had to be ten thousand square feet, the backyard enormous.
So far, so good. No lights in the house came on, so the wife and kid were still sleeping. There was no sign of the dog mentioned in the teacher’s notes, which was a relief. It would take precious minutes for the drugs to incapacitate a Rottweiler. Plus, he liked dogs.
He heard the next security guard before he saw him, softly speaking into a walkie-talkie.
“Keating isn’t answering. Be on alert and do not leave your post,” the man commanded. Once he came into view, DJ realized he knew this guy, too. They’d done a drop-off a few years ago.
Drawing his handgun, DJ waited until the man was walking under the tree limb, then fired two quick shots into the man’s head. He then jumped from the limb to the ground, landing in a crouch a few feet from the remains. He headed for the garage door, figuring the six-car garage was as good a place as any to store weapons, as the house appeared to have no basement.
He saw the third guy long before the guy saw him. Creeping along the back wall, the third security guy was definitely lower tier. He was young, maybe twenty years old, and scared.
DJ shoved his handgun to the back of the young man’s head. “If you make a sound, I will kill you. Nod if you understand. Do not speak.”
The man nodded frantically and did not speak.
DJ patted him down and found a knife and two guns. He added them to his duffel bag. “Good. I’m looking for weapons. Take me to them and I’ll let you go.”
The guy began walking toward the garage, where he unlocked an exterior door into the cavernous space. The entire wall was covered with cabinets and safes, and while the garage could easily hold six vehicles, the only ones inside were a van, a pickup, and a red Jaguar.
The young man made a grunting sound, and DJ realized that he was asking for permission to speak. “Go ahead. But if you scream, you’re dead. I got nothing to lose.”
“I don’t know the combinations to the safes. I don’t have keys for the cabinets, either.”
DJ took the first guard’s keys from his pocket. “Open all the cabinets.” The safes would have to wait for another day.
The third guard complied and a few minutes later, all the cabinet doors were open. DJ was thunderstruck. There were enough guns here to stage a revolution.
DJ dumped the contents of his duffel bag on the passenger seat of the panel van, then handed the bag to the guard. “Three rifles. Ten boxes of ammo. Six handguns. Fill it.”
The man sprang into action and a minute later returned with the bag mostly full. “Here,” he said, his hands shaking.
“Explosives?”
The man swallowed. “There’s some C-4, but it’s in the safe. Dynamite is in the cabinets, though.”
It would have to do. “Bring a box and put it in the back of the van.”
The man complied, scurrying like a mouse. When he was done, DJ checked the contents of the bag before stowing it on the floorboard of the van. “Keys.”
The man handed him the keys. “I did what you said. I’m gonna go now.”
“You must be new,” DJ said dryly.
“Real new. My first night was last week.”
“Should have picked a different boss.” DJ shot the man in the head, firing a second time before checking his pulse to be sure he was dead. He found the garage door opener in the van and hit the switch. When the door rose, he wasn’t sure what he’d find, but he was pleasantly surprised to see no one there.
He drove down the driveway and past the black sedan to where he’d left the Honda Civic. Leaving the head of security’s phone in the van, he transferred the box of dynamite and the duffel bag full of weapons from the van to the Civic, then slid behind its wheel. And drove away.
Two in the win column. If Kowalski had been home, he hadn’t done a thing to save his men. Hell, the man probably had a panic room or some kind of a bunker he could hide in.
If he hadn’t been home, he’d be hearing all about this from his missus.
Either way, DJ had gotten what he’d come for.
ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, MAY 29, 4:00 A.M.
Tom bolted upright in bed, waking Liza. Hearing the ringing of a phone, she propped up on her elbow to see him grabbing at all three of his cells, looking adorably confused.
“It’s this one,” she said, taking the other two from his hands. “The one that says ‘Jeff Bunker’ on the screen. You want to touch the button that says ‘accept.’ ”
He gave her the stink-eye as he answered the call. “Jeff? . . . Well, yeah, I was asleep, but it’s all right. What do you have?”
Liza sat up, giving him a stink-eye of her own. Speaker, she mouthed.
“Gonna put you on speaker, if that’s okay?” He did so, then said, “Liza is here, just so you know.”
Jeff was silent a moment, then cackled. “She’s there? In your bed? Dammit, Liza.”
&nb
sp; “What?” Liza asked.
“I lost the bet. Shit. Zoya’s going to make me pay, too. Thanks a lot, Liza.”
She narrowed her eyes at the phone. “You bet on me and Tom?”
“What?” Tom burst out. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Apparently Jeff has been betting on if we’d get together,” Liza said dryly, then patted Tom’s arm. “Are you awake now?”
“It wasn’t if,” Jeff said, still cackling. “It was when. I said it would be after Tom solved the case. Zoya figured before. I guess I don’t mind paying up, though.” He snickered. “Go, Liza.”
Tom was shaking his head, utterly nonplussed. “You bet on me and Liza?”
“Keep up, honey,” Liza said lightly.
Jeff laughed louder. “Oh my God. Am I the first to know? Oh, please say I can tell.”
Liza met Tom’s eyes. Are we keeping this a secret? she wanted to ask.
His eyes narrowed at her and then at the phone. “Of course you can tell. This isn’t a secret.”
“Good.” Jeff sounded serious now. “I wouldn’t have told if you’d said no. I’m getting better at not being an asshole.”
“I know,” Tom said gently, then yawned. “What do you have?”
“I found Craig Hickman.”
Tom blinked. “I thought you were going to text me.”
“I was, but this might be important. His new name is Zachary Goodman. He’s a reporter for a local paper in Richmond, Virginia, and teaches English at the high school. I’m going to tell you how I found him first, because that explains what he knows.”
Tom pulled his tablet to his lap, ready to take notes. “Whenever you’re ready, kid.”
“So. You remember that Hickman was beaten severely after he helped expose Pastor’s crimes in his old L.A. church, right? That was after Pastor and his family disappeared. The L.A. church was left in shambles, with parishioners having screaming fights and flinging threats at each other.”
“Those who wanted Pastor to stay versus those who wanted him gone,” Tom said. “I know.”
“Some of those were death threats, but Hickman kept digging. All of what I’m telling you came from Erica Mann. She’s the L.A. reporter who wrote most of the newspaper articles back when the scandal first broke thirty years ago. The two have kept in touch all this time. I contacted her after we texted yesterday and asked her point-blank if she could get a message to Hickman. She was quiet for a long time, then said she’d forward him a message with my contact info but couldn’t guarantee he’d answer it. But he did. He called me right before I called you.”
“What did Mr. Hickman tell you?” Liza asked.
“That he’d been contacted twelve years ago by Erica Mann. She’d received an e-mail from a woman who wished to make him reparations. Hickman was interested only because he wanted to know who was looking for him. He’s . . . really paranoid, even now. So he contacted the woman using an untraceable phone. He actually took the train to New York City to make the call because he didn’t trust that they couldn’t find him and he didn’t want his family involved. He recognized her voice right away, even after all those years. It was Pastor’s wife.”
Tom glanced at Liza with a frown. “Why did she want to find him?”
“She said she felt terrible for the wrongs done to his family. I mean, this was twenty years later, so Hickman wasn’t interested in her apologies and told her so. She said she understood, and that she wanted to offer him reparations in the amount of—wait for it—a million bucks.”
Liza gasped. “Oh my God.”
Tom whistled softly. “Wow. Did he take it?”
“No, but he didn’t turn her down right away. He talked to his parents first. Hickman didn’t want it for himself. He figured it was blood money, but his folks had lost everything, so he offered it to them. They didn’t want it, either. So Hickman contacted her back and said no, but that if she was truly serious about reparations, she’d donate the cash to an L.A. charity for the homeless, for drug addicts, or for LGBTQ youth. All were groups that Pastor preached against.”
“Did she?” Liza asked.
“She did. About three days later, there was an announcement that one of the LGBTQ youth shelters in L.A. had received an anonymous million-dollar donation. Hickman didn’t know what had made her contact him or if she’d actually changed, but he was still suspicious. He knew that Pastor had left with some of the wealthiest of the congregation, all of whom had sold everything they owned, just like Amos did. Hickman figured a million bucks was a drop in the bucket to them and that if they really wanted to find him, they might donate the money as a trap.”
“Ordinarily I’d say he was paranoid, but not in this case,” Tom said.
“I know, right? He hired a private detective to trace her phone call,” Jeff went on. “The call came from a Margo Kitson in Walnut Creek, California. You’ll find her online.”
Tom was already typing. “Oh my God, here she is. Margo Kitson. Married to Hugh Kitson. Here’s her photo.” He turned the tablet so that Liza could see.
A woman in a floor-length evening gown stood with a man in a tuxedo. When Tom zoomed in on the woman’s face, Liza could see that it was an older version of the woman in the grainy photo with Pastor and the then-five-year-old twins on Tom’s bulletin board.
“Is that the political fund-raiser from last year?” Jeff asked. “I found that one, too. Was going to send you the links. I have their address, too, if you’re interested.”
“I just found it,” Tom said. “This is amazing. Thank you.”
“If you can tell me where the million bucks came from without having to kill me, I’d really like to know,” Jeff said. “I think Hickman would like to know what caused her to reach out to him in the first place. She wouldn’t tell him when they talked years ago. That’s all I got.”
“That’s a lot,” Liza said warmly. “You did good, Jeff.”
“Well,” Jeff said, sounding embarrassed. “Least I can do for Mercy Callahan. If you can eliminate this threat to her and the others, I’ll be glad. Are you going to Walnut Creek, Tom?”
“I am. I’d already put in for a personal day. I figured Rafe would need help getting the guests to and from the airport. But the security firm is doing a good job and there will be an FBI presence at the Sokolovs’ for at least another day or two.”
“I know. I’m here,” Jeff said glumly. “It’s like we’re in prison. I hope it’s over soon.”
“Your mouth, God’s ear.” Tom held his finger over the end button. “We done?”
“Yep. I’d go to sleep, but I want to be the first one in the kitchen when Irina wakes up so I can tell her that she’s out twenty bucks.”
“She bet, too?” Tom asked, clearly affronted.
“Oh yeah. We had ten people in the pool.”
Liza chuckled quietly, patting Tom’s hand. “Who won?”
“Karl,” Jeff grumbled. “He always wins. Zoya and I had a side bet that she won. But I get to announce it, so I’m good. Bye.”
The call ended and Tom set the phone and his tablet aside. “We’re going to Walnut Creek.”
“We as in me and you?” Liza asked, hoping. “Or you and Croft?”
“I’ll see if she wants to come with us.”
Liza beamed up at him. “Thank you. It means a lot to me to help right now.”
“I know.” He kissed her lightly. “Will this be enough, though? Once we get Belmont in custody and the folks in Eden to safety, will your need to help be satisfied, or will I need to always worry that you’re exposing yourself to danger?”
She wanted to frown at him for asking the question, but she supposed it was fair. She was trying to make amends for the people she hadn’t saved. “It should be enough. By July I’ll be in nursing school and can focus all that guilt on getting good grades and being a damn good n
urse.”
“The best.” He shut off the bedside light and slid back down until he was under the sheets with her. “You wake up unfairly chipper.”
“I was a soldier,” Liza said, snuggling into him when he wrapped his arm around her. His chest was the nicest of pillows. “We learned to sleep with one eye open.”
“I bet you’ll go right back to sleep, won’t you?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m awake now.” He guided her hand to his erection. “What do you say?”
She wrapped her fingers around him and squeezed, his answering hiss like music. “Yes.”
TWENTY-SIX
ROCKLIN, CALIFORNIA
MONDAY, MAY 29, 8:30 A.M.
Tom reached for his coffee cup, frowning when he found it empty. He’d been looking for a way into Sunnyside’s security network for the past few hours and had come up with nothing.
Liza had gone back to sleep after he’d made love to her for the second time, but he’d been unable to quiet his mind. All he’d been able to think was that she was going into a hostile situation from which she might not return. And that he’d lose her after just finding her.
So he’d crept from bed, kissing her forehead as she’d burrowed her cheek into his pillow, muttering for him to come back. He’d promised he was just getting a drink of water, but he’d returned to his office.
He had nothing for his trouble except a sleepless night.
A creak in the floorboards had him looking up a second before she appeared in the doorway, holding two cups of coffee.
“Did you sleep at all?” Liza asked.
“No. Is one of those for me?”
She placed the mug next to his keyboard. “You said you were getting up for some water.”
“I couldn’t sleep. I’m sorry.”
She put her cup down and moved to stand at his back. “Lean forward.”
He obeyed, then groaned when her hands did that magical thing to the muscles in his back.
