I let out a breath of air and stared hard at him, willing him to hurry the fuck up and take charge of things. He shook his head, held onto his temples. Whatever Weston had done to knock him out had been painful, but I thought perhaps there was more going on. He blinked his eyes, then lifted his face to the room.
He spotted Damon and Stretch. Carole and Weston. Anger and vengeance spread swiftly across his features.
“Trevor,” I called softly, hoping Weston was too deeply traumatised to hear me; he hadn’t responded to the gunshots in the house, which seemed to have ceased completely.
Trevor looked across the room to me and flinched. And then he staggered to his feet and made it to my side, producing a pocket knife from somewhere and sawing at the zip ties.
“Keen,” he said, and so much was said in that one word. Apology. Regret. Heartache. So much.
“Later,” I replied, rubbing my wrists as they came free. “Give me the knife and contain Weston.”
He nodded his head and handed me the blade, turning to approach the man who had taken so much from him.
Trevor Jones had lost his wife, his honour, his career in the span six months. I was surprised he was still functioning, actually. But Jones had always, until recently anyway, been a damn fine cop.
He took a step toward Weston just as I freed myself and rolled to a sitting position. I dashed across the room to Damon’s side. He was staring up at the ceiling, unseeing. He’d stopped calling for Carole.
My heart leapt into my throat as my stomach dropped to my toes.
“You son of a bitch,” Trevor growled throwing himself at Weston.
Weston dropped Carole like a sack of potatoes, uncaring of the damage he did to her body. Considering I thought she was dead, I wasn’t surprised. But still, the move had been unexpected. I slid the pocket knife’s blade under Damon’s first zip tie and cut. Then moved onto the next quickly. Trevor was going to need help, but for the life of me, I could not leave Damon tied to a bed.
He said nothing. He turned his face away from me and just stared at the wall.
My heart thudded painfully. Tears streaked down my cheeks unhindered. But I kept cutting the ties and kept an eye on Trevor and Weston as they faced off.
At some stage, Weston had dropped his firearm. I couldn’t see it, but the spook was well trained in hand to hand combat. Trevor was taking a beating, only managing to land one blow for every five he got.
Damon came free of the binds, and he sat up, immediately moving off the bed and practically crawling towards his sister. I gave Stretch a brief check with my eyes to confirm he was still breathing and then turned to help Trevor.
Weston had him at gunpoint.
I should have left Damon tied up and helped Jones. It was Carl all over again; letting him get away when I should have been arresting him. But Weston was not my former CIB partner, and this had to end. I slipped off the opposite side of the bed to Trevor and Weston and crept up behind the spook.
“I will shoot him, Detective,” he said without looking at me. “Stop where you are. Now.”
“It’s over Weston,” I said. “The AOS are here. Your guards are down.”
“I see no AOS here, Detective. You are mistaken.”
“Someone’s been taking your assets out one by one. You missed it, seeing as you were mourning Carole.”
He spun the muzzle of the gun toward me, keeping both Trevor and me in his sights.
“Don’t say her name.”
It was the most emotion I’d seen in him.
“You think you have more right than I do? Than her brother does?”
“I am her salvation. She is no longer the woman either of you knew.”
“No,” I agreed. “You fucked with her head. Like you fucked with Trevor Jones and Joe Cawfield. But look at Jones now, Weston. Is he yours? Or is he mine?”
“I can get him back in an instant, Detective. Don’t fool yourself.”
“Then why the gun?”
“Because I am… angry.”
“I don’t think that’s it,” I said, shaking my head. “Oh, you’re angry. You’re full of rage, aren’t you, Weston? It’s boiling up inside you, and it needs to come out. But I don’t think you can get Trevor back. Those words I said. That Latin. It was final, wasn’t it?”
He stared at me, the gun steady in his hands, aimed at my chest. I was still wearing my stab-vest. It wouldn’t stop a bullet at this distance, but it would slow it down. And if I threw myself to the side, it could deflect it. Maybe. Possibly. I hoped I wouldn’t have to find out.
But Weston was not leaving this room. I would make sure of it.
“It’s over, Rhys,” I said. “Cawfield’s been freed of your mind control. Eagle will be too in short order. Jones is standing there, his own man, facing off against you for what you’ve done to him; what you’ve made him do.”
Weston looked me in the eye and smiled. It was chilling. And not what I expected him to do. He had an ace up his sleeve, I was sure of it. Like that explosion down in Christchurch. I wracked my brain, trying to figure it out. He seemed so sure of himself. So superior.
“What’s so funny, Weston?” I asked.
“You are. You’re pathetic. Trying to hold your own in a man’s world. Trying to be something you are not. You crave acceptance, and yet you hold everyone at arm’s length; you don’t let them get close, no matter what. You’re a small, frightened little girl trying to live up to Daddy’s high ideals. But you can’t. You never will. He sees it. We all see it. You’re a pathetic waste of space, playing dress up with the men, lowering yourself to their gutter level in a failed attempt to fit in.”
I arched my brow at him.
“Is that right?” I murmured. He stared at me, his eyes searching my face.
I smiled. He almost scowled. Almost, but not quite.
“You can’t be the boy your father wanted,” he said. “You can’t replace the child he lost.” What? His smile broadened, it looked wrong; twisted. “Yes, you didn’t know, did you? Your mother was pregnant when she died. She was carrying someone to replace you. Perhaps a boy. One who could follow properly in Ethan Keen’s footsteps. Finally someone good enough to carry the Keen name.”
I said nothing, trying to decide if what he was saying was the truth. Had my mother been pregnant? I couldn’t remember. I had vague memories of her laughing and smiling up at my father as he leaned over and kissed her on the lips; his hand moulded to her stomach.
I staggered. My arm reached out for the bed to stop my fall.
Damon’s hand slipped into mine.
“Your father loves you,” he whispered. “He’s proud of you. He’s broken, we all are. He can’t show it, but it’s there. He’s so proud of you, love; like I am. Like we all are.”
I gripped his hand in mine and straightened my back.
“Oh, how sweet,” Weston said, slowly clapping his hands together, the gun hanging ineffectually in his fingers as if he didn’t really need it to keep us under his thrall. “You always needed someone to protect, didn’t you, Michaels? But you couldn’t protect your sister, so you turned all that misplaced care to something else; someone broken; someone you could mould into your perfect partner. Does she let you tie her up in bed? Does she let you spank her like I spanked Carole?”
Damon roared and threw himself at Weston. I tried to reach out and grab him; to stop him from doing exactly what Weston wanted.
Terror licked through me, making my skin cold and my heart burn. The world slowed down. My life crumpled into that single moment. I shook with dread. Alarm coursed through me. My heart rate skyrocketed.
Fear is what makes you a good detective. But mindless terror kills.
“Damon!” I yelled.
Weston raised his gun.
Everything slowed down.
I held my breath, fighting to control my terror.
I was too far away.
I was out of time.
Damon lost his sister this evening, and I would lose the
man I loved.
I took a step. Damon was still flying through the air at Weston. Weston watched him with a crazed look of anticipation on his face. The more the world unravelled, the more he showed emotion. Because chaos reigned and chaos was what made Rhys Kyle Weston come alive.
I watched the man I loved, the man I had let closer than any other, the man who saw me for the capable woman I was and never judged, always trusted, just… loved.
And I couldn’t stop this.
I screamed. Jones started moving. He was too far away as well.
The gun went off. The sound of the bullet firing rattled around inside my head; shredded my heart. I stumbled. Trevor reached Weston. I saw the red of blood as it splattered across Trevor’s stomach.
I couldn’t make out what was happening. My vision was wavering as tears filled my eyes. I blinked them, but they still fell.
Like Weston did.
He fell down to the floor.
Trevor stood over him; blood splattered across his checked shirt. Damon flew past them both, missing his target and landing hard against the far wall. It had taken mere seconds.
I ran to him; somehow my legs able to carry me that distance by sheer force of will alone. My hands pressed to his stomach, his chest, his head, face, arms, sides.
“I’m fine,” he said. “I’m fine. It wasn’t me. He didn’t hit me.” His hands ran over my body in turn. “Are you hurt? Where did it get you? Where, Lara? Where?”
I shook with adrenaline and too much emotion. The ice had crumbled, and I was a melted mess. I couldn’t stop touching Damon’s body, making sure he wasn’t hiding an injury from me. He must have felt the same because he never stopped touching me either.
It was probably only minutes, but it felt like hours. But finally, we both realised the gunshot hadn't hit us.
I turned and looked at Trevor. He was still standing. Still covered in blood. But he was staring down at the crumpled form of Weston, who had an enormous exit wound on his back.
Which meant…
I crawled over and flipped him with more strength than I thought I possessed. A single small bullet hole had been punched through his chest, right above his heart. Trevor reached down and picked up the expelled bullet off the floor.
“Fuck me,” he said. “That could have gone right through my body as well.”
“Not likely, darling,” a voice said as Ava the Spook sauntered into the room, a sniper’s rifle over her shoulder. “I know what I’m doing,” she added.
“You killed him,” I said, looking down at the deceased form before me.
Ava looked at her fingernails.
“We had questions,” I told her. “He needed to pay for what he’s done.”
I glanced over at Carole. Damon was crouched beside her again.
“Is she…?” I started to ask.
He nodded his head. “She’s gone.”
Dammit.
“He needed to pay,” I repeated.
“And he has,” Ava said.
“All clear,” Charlie announced, entering the room.
She took in the scene, including Carole Michaels’ dead body, and for a second I thought I saw sadness. And then she hid it away behind a steely mask.
“You done?” she asked Ava. “Cops are almost here.”
“Well, that’s our cue to exit stage left,” Ava remarked.
“You can’t walk away from this,” I said, standing, my fists bunched.
“Detective,” Ava purred. “We were never here.” She reached forward and plucked the spent bullet out of Trevor’s hand and then bopped him on the nose with it. “Nice use of the Latin, by the way,” she murmured, looking at me. “We’ll let you keep that because Nick says you can be trusted. But betray us, and there will be a price to pay.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?” I demanded, taking a step toward her. Jones reached out and held me back.
“Easy,” he said softly. “She’s the one fully armed; that’s who she is.” He had a point.
I seethed inside as Ava blew Trevor a kiss and then winked at me.
“Until next time,” she drawled.
“There better not be a fucking next time,” I snapped.
Ava’s laughter pealed through the air as the spooks exited stage left.
I turned and looked at Trevor.
“Keen,” he said. So much emotion. So much regret.
“Not now, Trevor,” I whispered, sounding exhausted. I walked across the room to the man I loved. The man I loved who was heartbroken.
I crouched down beside him and wrapped him up in my arms as he stared at the dead body of his sister.
Carole and been through so much. And it had looked like she might have made it out the other side in the end. We wouldn’t know until Stretch woke up - if he woke up - what had actually happened here in this house. But my money was on Carl helping her because that’s what my former partner did. He helped people. He would have fucked with Weston just enough for the ex-spook to trip up when push came to shove. He would have counselled Carole. Just enough so she tended to Stretch and started to break Weston’s hold on her mind.
Carl would have kept fighting for me so that I could join the dots.
I listened, Old Man. I heard. It just wasn’t enough.
Chapter Thirty-Four
“It’s A Shit World. And Shit Things Happen.”
The AOS came. So did Pierce and Hart. Ava and Charlie were long gone, and all that was left was a house full of dead King assets, and a dead Weston and Carole.
It was the latter that made everyone pause.
We don’t always catch the bad guys. And we certainly don’t always catch them before they do horrific things to the people who are loved. Today was one of those days, and we all felt it keenly.
I felt it like a knife to the gut.
Damon sat on the tail of Marc’s HEAT ute, a blanket wrapped around his hunched shoulders, surrounded by his HEAT brothers. Stretch had been taken out by ambulance through an honour guard of HEAT officers. I felt excluded from their club.
But I was surrounded by another type of club, one I’d wanted to be a part of for so very long now and thought I had let down beyond all measure tonight. Even though those CIB detectives that surrounded me offered me a chin-lift or shoulder slap, I felt I didn’t deserve it.
Carl was dead.
So was Carole.
And Weston wouldn’t pay for what he had done.
“What do you mean you have no idea who I’m talking about?” Hart yelled into his cellphone. “If you think you can hide behind that flimsy façade of a PI license, then you better think again, arsehole. I want to know who the hell the spook with the rifle was!”
I blinked up at Pierce. He grimaced. We couldn’t hear what Anscombe was saying, but it was no doubt colourful. Hart was going beet red the longer he listened to him in silence.
Trevor came out of the house, catching all of our attention, and wearing handcuffs. Hart cut off his call with ASI without saying a word. I was sure he did it on purpose, and Nick had still been speaking. The detective inspector ran a hand through his hair and then straightened his tie.
Trevor blanched.
“Take him away,” Hart said softly. Softly was not good coming from Detective Inspector Hart.
He spun back to look down at me, where I was leaning against Trevor’s car.
“There were minor injuries in Christchurch,” he said, not acknowledging the Trevor situation at all. “Hennessey managed to get word to his brother, and Professor Hennessey took precautions. Weston failed to tie up that loose end.”
I nodded. It was something at least. I would have expected little else from my shrink, though. Andrew Hennessey was an astute man. But like Trevor, his career would now be in tatters.
Weston needed to pay, and I’d let a spook kill him. He got off way too easy. My fists clenched and I scowled at the ground, taking my anger and rage and heartache out on my tormented thoughts.
“We can assume,” Ha
rt went on in his gruff voice, “that whatever government funded department Charlie Downes and that other one belonged to is still active to some degree because the word has come down not to pursue that angle of enquiry.”
Despite the fact, he’d been pursuing that very thing with Anscombe not two minutes ago.
I nodded. I didn’t really have it in me to worry about some shadowy organisation that came and went without leaving much of a trail other than dead bodies.
“Anscombe did confirm one thing, though,” Hart went on. “Jones was trying to leave us breadcrumbs.”
He stared off at the sedan Trevor had been placed inside of. It hadn’t left the scene yet, because all the detectives were surrounding Hart and me.
I didn’t think it was just for the impromptu debrief Hart was giving. It was for support. For comfort. To heal a little of our black hearts.
“He tried to shine a light on the Declan King angle,” Hart said, “by being seen with his known associates in the drug world. All it did was confuse ASI and those who use Radar. But it’s something.”
It could be used in Trevor’s defence.
“Mount Eden Prison sent over their CCTV footage,” he added. “Compu Forensics have confirmed the person impersonating Carl was likely Weston. Same height and build.”
I nodded my head.
“We can also assume that Weston’s upbringing played a part in his desire to be financially independent,” Hart said as if he needed to get this all off his chest. “Add in his isolation from the Department and what you uncovered, Keen, of his inability to access his own funds, and we get the financial angle we needed to explain his targets.”
I said nothing. Hart stared at me for a beat.
“Gentlemen,” he finally said. “Leave us. You all have work to do and know what to do, so get on, and bloody well do it.”
“Yes, sir,” the detectives said and started to disperse. Several offered me another shoulder slap; some gave chin-lifts. All of them met my eyes before walking away at their superior’s behest.
Hart looked at Pierce.
“You too, Detective Sergeant.”
“Yes, sir.” Pierce looked at me and smiled. “We’ll catch up later, Keen,” he said.
A Lick Of Heat: H.E.A.T. Book Four Page 30
