by J. Kenner
“And this is relevant why?” Winston pressed.
“Well, as it just so happens, if you poke through about a million layers of paperwork, which yours truly did—you’re welcome—you learn that the property in Thrall is owned by a company called CLM Accounting.”
“Owned by Bartlett?” Linda asked.
“No clue,” Emma said. “I haven’t had time to dig that far. But considering that Bartlett is an accountant, at the very least I figure—”
“That it’s worth us heading that direction to check it out,” Winston finished for her. “You’re right.”
“Worst case, we’ve lost nothing but time,” Linda said.
“And in the meantime, I’ll keep looking,” Emma promised. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can confirm the property’s his, unless you slap some handcuffs on the man and confirm your own way first.”
Winston glanced at Linda, who nodded. “All right,” he said. “Good work. I owe you.”
“That’s what I’m here for. But call in. I want to know you’re okay. And, guys, listen, I haven’t told anyone here about what you’re doing. But if it gets nasty, and you need help, you know that you can trust us here.”
“I do.” He glanced at Linda, then glanced away. “We’ll keep that in mind.” He ended the call, then looked at Linda again. “I do trust them,” he said. “But I trusted you. I trusted Seagrave. And I’m not liking the way it feels when trust gets pulled out from under you like a cartoon carpet.”
She moved to sit on the coffee table, so that she was right in front of him. She took his coffee away, then held his hands. “That was a long time ago, and I was undercover. You had secrets, too. And as for Seagrave, maybe you can still trust him. That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“This isn’t a new thing,” Winston said, realizing that was true even as he spoke the words. “It’s this business. If you do undercover work, you hold a piece of yourself back. Always. It comes with the territory. But I never held back with you. Not anything that mattered.”
“Nothing except who you really were,” she said, her voice serious even though her expression was teasing.
“Not even that,” he said. “You always had my heart, Linda.” He felt the sharp pang in his heart. “Did I have yours?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “What we had was real—at least as real as it could be in a bubble of lies.”
He nodded, wanting to argue that the lies didn’t make the emotions any less real. But he understood what she meant, and right then they didn’t have time.
“Thank you for last night,” she said.
“Is it terrible for me to say that I don’t mind that it took until morning for us to get a lead on Bartlett?”
Her smile was slow. “Under the circumstances, he’s a man we really need to find. But no. I know exactly what you mean.”
He leaned forward to kiss her, but she pressed a fingertip to his lips. “No. We need to go, and you know it.”
“I do.”
She pulled away from him. “Time to get dressed and go hunt an accountant.”
“Here,” Winston said, pointing to the tiny road hidden among the trees. “I think that’s it.”
Linda tapped the brakes and made the sharp turn onto the rutted dirt lane. Trees lined one side of the road, a field for grazing cattle on the other.
As far as Winston could tell, there was nothing but land ahead. He frowned, hoping they hadn’t made a wrong turn on the spiderweb of tiny roads.
For a few silent minutes, the car bounced over the uneven surface. Linda grimaced. “How far?”
Winston checked his phone again. “The GPS is shit out here, but I think it’s just another couple of miles.”
“Well, it doesn’t look like anyone’s following us, so that’s good. Of course it might also be that we’re going to a house that has absolutely nothing to do with Tommy Bartlett. In which case it’s a big old waste of time.”
“I’ve spent a lot of time in small towns,” Winston said. “If nothing else, maybe whoever we find in that house will have some nice warm cookies for us.”
She laughed. “I think you have a very Norman Rockwell view of life these days.”
“Or you’re jaded.”
“With what I’ve seen, of course I am. I’m surprised you aren’t.”
“Trust me, sweetheart, I am.” He reached over and gently touched her shoulder. “But I’m starting to learn that sometimes things aren’t as bad as they seem.”
She turned her attention away from the choppy road to meet his eyes, hers shining with something that might be hope. “Yeah. I know what you mean. I never thought—well, I never let myself think—that I’d ever see you again. Much less that you’d ever know the truth. Or that you could forgive me.”
“I have,” he said seriously. “I was broken after you died. And then you broke me some more when you came back. But I think I’ve been healed.”
She laughed. “The healing powers of sex?”
“The universal miracle cure,” he teased.
“That was only about five minutes ago. Are you sure you’ve been super glued together?”
“I’ve still got some cracks that need mending,” he said. “But I know you did what you thought best. And I believe you did it because you loved me.”
“I did.”
“And I’m sorry that the man you made that sacrifice for wasn’t the man you thought you knew.”
He watched as she nodded slowly. “Well, we both owe each other an apology for that. And I think that neither one of us can judge each other for the secrets we kept back then.”
“So here we are, moving forward, trying to extricate ourselves from the mess that lingers from the past.”
“Not just the past,” she said. “Look around. We’re in the middle of some deep shit, and it’s tied to Billy Hawthorne. And Billy’s trying to build up a network using the scattered remnants of the Consortium.”
“I know. And that’s why we’re out here in the middle of nowhere trying to find his accountant. More important, trying to find who on the inside is trading secrets with scum like Billy Hawthorne.”
She nodded, and they drove silently for a while, both thinking about their respective bosses and the possibility that either was dirty.
At least Winston assumed she was thinking about that. God knows he was thinking about Seagrave. He’d known Seagrave for over a decade now, and he had trouble believing the man would steal a stapler from the SOC’s supply room, much less national secrets.
“Collins is the one who pulled me out,” she said, and though it sounded like a random statement, Winston knew it confirmed that her thoughts had been running along the same lines as his.
“Pulled you out?”
“Yeah. I told you I was recruited from one of those career fairs, and that’s true. But what I didn’t tell you was that I was having a very hard time of it before that. I was flat broke and seriously considering dropping out.”
She shot him a sideways glance. “My childhood was a nightmare, so I was used to things being hard, and I was also used to doing whatever it took to get by. But I still wasn’t managing. I’d worked shit jobs for minimum wage to get my GED, then barely managed to cover tuition. I got some aid, but not much, and right before the career fair, I was at the end of my rope. Money,” she said, turning to look at him. “It drives people to do things they wouldn’t normally do.”
“If Seagrave or Collins really is dirty, it’s because of a payday.”
She nodded, then cleared her throat. “Anyway, I was working three jobs, I was exhausted, and I was coming close to failing all of my classes. I knew how to survive on the streets, because that’s what I’d done after I ran away, and I started thinking that maybe the thing to do was quit my shitty waitress gig and just turn tricks.”
He tensed, hating that she’d even had to consider that. “Had you done that when you ran away?” He kept his voice steady, though he dreaded the answer.
“No,” she
said. “But I had friends who did. So I figured it was an option. Either that or selling drugs, and that doesn’t sit with me at all. My body is mine to sell, but dealing drugs?” She shook her head. “No. I’d seen the effects on the street. No way I was playing in that sandbox.”
“I’m glad,” he said. “And you didn’t have to sell yourself, either, I assume. Because of Collins?”
“Yeah.” She smiled with the memory. “I was talking with this girl I knew about doing the escort thing. Better than a streetwalker, right? At least the clientele knows how to wear a suit. We were chatting on the quad, and this guy followed me after I left to go work my shit. He told me to stop, that he wanted to talk. I almost told him to fuck off, but then I realized I’d seen him before.”
“At the career fair.”
She nodded. “He wasn’t working the booth. He’d been hovering around. He asked if I recognized him, and I said I did. That’s when he smiled and said I thought you’d have the gift.” She shrugged. “He meant I could make a good spy. Apparently, I pay attention to things.”
Winston laughed. “As far as recruitment stories go, that’s the best I’ve heard.”
“Right? Well, anyway, he ended up being my mentor. I was so young that he was like a surrogate dad, too. So the bottom line is that I don’t like what we’re doing. I don’t like the fact that I believe that it’s possible. But here’s the thing,” she added, taking her eyes off the road to really look at him. “I know that it can. Because I’ve seen the dirty underbelly. And it’s nastier than anyone on the outside can imagine.”
“You’re right,” he said. “Neither one of us can ignore the possibility that a man we respect could be bad.”
“No,” she said. “We can’t.” She took one hand off the steering wheel and reached for him. He took her hand and squeezed, absurdly pleased that she’d reached out to him for the connection. “It’s probably weird, and I wish that neither one of us was going through this, but since we are, I’m glad that we’re going through it together.”
He felt a warm rush of pleasure from her words. “Yeah,” he said softly. “Me, too.”
For a few minutes, they continued down the road in silence, the ride getting bumpier and bumpier as the surface got worse. Then Winston saw the small wooden mailbox in need of paint. And, if the GPS was right…
“There,” he said, pointing. “Turn right here.”
She did, then had to stop about ten yards down the dirt driveway when the path was blocked by a wood and barbed-wire gate.
“Hang on.” He got out of the car, hoping it was meant to keep livestock in and not people out. Sure enough, it was easy to unfasten and push to the side. He did, and she drove through. He kept the gate open, just in case they needed to get out of there quickly, and hopped back in the car.
“Where’s the house?” she asked peering down the dirt driveway.
“Over that rise, I assume.” He made a forward motion with his hands. “Onward.”
She put the car back in gear, and they moved slowly down the road, the dust swirling around the car as they did. Sure enough, as they crested the gentle rise, they saw a small clapboard house, not much more than a cabin, really. Boxy and tiny and, from the looks of it, empty.
Or maybe not empty, Winston thought as he caught sight of the forest green Buick parked behind a woodshed.
Linda’s smile was broad as she said, “Got him.”
“Back up a bit so the car’s hidden by the rise. If we’re lucky he hasn’t heard us.”
She did as he asked, and they took the long way around, scoping out the house as they moved, weapons drawn. But there was no movement in or outside the building.
He made a motion to indicate that he was going closer, and she moved to cover him. He crept to the back door, wondering if Bartlett was asleep in there. Or maybe out for a walk. Or maybe someone had met him here, and he’d left in another vehicle altogether. He hoped not. If that was the case, they could kiss Bartlett goodbye. At least for the short term. And finding him again, really would entail bringing in a full team from Stark Security.
He reached the backdoor without incident. Unlocked. He signaled to Linda, who stayed low as she hurried to his side. On three, he turned the lock, and they went in, him high and her low.
Silence.
The kitchen was empty, but he caught Linda’s arm as she started toward the next room.
“Do you smell that?” he whispered.
She sniffed, then nodded. “Death.”
Winston’s stomach turned. She was right. It was the scent of blood drying in the heat.
With weapons drawn, they moved into the small living area, then into the even smaller bedroom.
Sure enough, Tommy Bartlett lay spread-eagled on the floor, face down in a pool of his own blood.
Chapter Eighteen
“His hands,” I whisper. “Oh, God. Did you see his hands?”
Winston nods, looking as queasy as I feel. They’ve been mutilated, the fingers and thumbs removed. And in this heat, the smell is horrific.
“The laptop.” I swallow the bile that is rising in my throat. “Whoever killed him wanted to make sure that even dead he couldn’t unlock that laptop.”
“You’re right.” He turns to look directly at me. “It can be accessed by a retinal scan, too.”
Oh, God, he’s right. I don’t want to, but I take a step closer to the body, putting me at his head. I kneel, then grab his hair so that I can pull his head up.
Immediately, I recoil, gagging at the sight of the empty sockets where his eyes used to be.
“They might still be nearby.” Winston’s voice is urgent but gentle as he helps me to my feet. My legs are shaking, and I remind myself that I see death all the time. For that matter, had things not gone so completely off-kilter, I would probably have killed this man myself.
I grimace. The thought doesn’t make me feel better. And God knows, I wouldn’t have tortured him or mutilated his body.
“We need to look around. The eyes. They might still be useful.”
I cringe, but nod. “I’ve seen a lot,” I say. “But that, I don’t know if—shit!”
The scream rips out of me as a bullet shatters the window and whizzes by my head to lodge in the wooden wall behind us. At the same time, Winston grabs my arm and yanks me to the ground.
“Let’s go!” He has his weapon out and rises just enough to peer over the windowsill before dropping back to the floor. “The shooter must be hidden by the trees. I don’t see anyone.”
“Head to the back. We need to get to the car.”
He nods, then urges me to follow him.
I hesitate, realizing something. “Go ahead,” I tell him, then crawl back to the dead man and carefully pull out his wallet with two fingers at the edges. I grab a paper bag from Whataburger and shove the wallet inside, then I toss in a nearby magazine and soda can, both sitting on the end table nearest the body.
From the doorway into the kitchen, Winston urges me on. I stay low as I sprint to him. He’s right, of course. Whoever fired at us was at the side of the house right then, but if he circles to the back before we get to the car…
“More than one?” I ask as we pause in the kitchen.
“I hope not.”
I grimace. At least he’s honest. “Give me the key,” I say. “You cover me. I’ll come get you.”
I can tell he wants to protest.
“Just do it,” I say. “I’m a kickass driver. And we don’t have time to argue.”
He gives me the key. “Go.”
I do, sprinting out the door, my legs churning as my thumb punches the button on the remote to unlock the car. I keep expecting a bullet in my back, but there are none, and I make it all the way to the car, then slide in behind the wheel safe and sound.
Maybe there really is only one shooter, and he’s on the far side of the house right now.
I say a silent thank you to the universe, then start the car. I hurry forward, maneuvering until I’m paralle
l to the back of the house so that Winston doesn’t have far to run. It’s not a long distance, and, since it was clear for me, I expect—hope—that it will be for him, too.
Of course it’s not, and I’ve only moved a few feet when a spray of bullets hits my side, shattering the driver's side window and coming close enough that the buzz of the bullet fills my ear.
“Shit.” I accelerate with my head as low as possible, then swing around in front of the door as Winston races toward me. A moment later, the back passenger door flies open, and Winston dives in.
“Go!” he shouts. “Just go!”
I do, the gas pedal all the way to the floor.
We skid on the uneven surface but soon get traction, and we go bouncing toward the main road, the back passenger door hanging open as Texas dust fills the car.
“At least two,” he says, shifting in the back seat and yanking the car door closed. Then he crawls into the front and straps himself in beside me.
“Get us the hell out of here.”
“That’s the plan,” I say. “We need to lose them, but this isn’t exactly the vehicle for that. Our best hope is that it takes them a while to get to wherever they hid their car.”
He turns and looks behind us. “Yeah, you’re not going to be getting that wish.”
I glance in the rearview mirror to see a BMW eating up the distance between us.
Shit.
Not only was I hoping for more time, I would have preferred our enemy not to be in a vehicle that could run circles around this one.
“We need to get to the open road,” I say. “I’ll out-maneuver these fuckers.”
How I’m going to do that on straight, shoulder-less, country roads is something I’m not thinking about at the moment. The eternal optimist. That’s me.
“Yeah?” His voice is tight. “Well, until then, we have a problem.”
I’d been concentrating on the surface of the drive, but he’s looking further ahead. I follow his gaze to see that the gate we’d left open is now closed. Not to mention locked with a chain.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” I fervently wish for manual transmission, but instead try to press the gas even harder. “Hold on,” I say, then maneuver the car so that the point of impact is right where the gate latches to the frame. We collide at full speed, and while the chain doesn’t break, the post comes out of the ground, and we’re able to bounce right over the barbed wire gate. I wince, expecting the tires to blow out, but we get lucky, and they don’t. Maybe whoever’s following us won’t be as lucky.
