They’d told her the human brain was capable of that much and more at Blakely Manor, in between the electrical shocks.
The scar on Laine’s face tightened like her hand around the rifle’s grip, and she went from prone behind the gun to curl up in a fetal position on the roof, warm despite the settling darkness. Her brain felt like it was curling in on itself too, like one of those plants that closes up at night; she had a hard time believing that was Wolfe, but how many other men did she know that appeared in a flash of red-blond hair and scars? And if that was Wolfe down there, when push came to shove, could she still pull the trigger?
Of course you can, Aiden’s voice said in Laine’s head. What’s that guy ever done for you? The objective hasn’t changed.
Was that right? Was anything Laine thought right? Had she really saved Wolfe? Had all those men actually died? Sometimes she didn’t know, but she did know that men like Christopher Sullivan were the reason she’d wound up this way, and she wasn’t going to sit back and do nothing while another generation of boys and girls got sent to terrible places to die.
And if a bullet needed to blow off Sullivan’s head in front of Sergeant Wolfe to make that happen, then so be it.
~***~
Chapter Six
The last time Wolfe was at a baseball game he was five or six years old, and the only things he remembered clearly was that his seat smelled like vomit and that his dad was pissed because the Red Sox lost (not an uncommon occurrence before 2004). Other details—the tightness of a new hat on his head and the way Josh had talked him into forking over the foul ball Wolfe caught—were blurry, running together like beads of sweat on the back of a player’s neck.
Nothing about tonight was blurry. They’d already been on camera at least once that they were aware of, Christopher nodding in modest acknowledgement before putting his good arm around his wife, ignoring the equal amount of cheers and boos his presence received. Wolfe was surprised someone hadn’t either tossed nachos at them or asked Christopher to kiss their baby.
On the outside, Wolfe looked like any other guy out with his friends, sitting in the primo seats behind the Sox’s dugout, nursing a singular overpriced cup of Bud Light with an arm draped over his “date’s” seat. Inside, however, his situational awareness was cranked up to maximum, eyes constantly moving as he watched the stands across the field, the field itself, and took the occasional inconspicuous glance backward at the rows of fans behind them. At the other end of their little grouping, he knew without checking that Scarlett was doing the same thing while laughing at Kevin’s lame jokes and destroying a hot dog with onions.
Beside him, Sebastian shifted in his seat, a vertebrae in his back cracking audibly. “How the fuck do people sit in these chairs for so long?” he whispered. “I can barely feel my legs.”
Wolfe looked at him sidelong and smiled, saying in a conspiratorial tone, “Most people buy more than one beer and they’re so hammered they can’t feel their legs anyway.” He flicked his gaze toward the Green Monster to check the score. “And it’s the top of the ninth—three more outs and I’ll pry you out of that seat.”
Sebastian snorted. “That may not be an exaggeration.” He shifted again, knee brushing against Wolfe’s, warm and firm even through two layers of denim. He pulled away quickly, like he’d been burned—or like he figured Wolfe would read more into it than he should. “Sorry.”
Wolfe swallowed the last of his beer and squeezed the hard plastic of the chair back, squashing the urge to do something catastrophically stupid, like lean in and brush his lips across Sebastian’s razor-sharp cheekbone. “Don’t worry about it.”
He felt Scarlett’s eyes on him, telling him without saying a word that he was an idiot.
The Yankees bats went down in order and the Red Sox won, much to the jubilation of the fans, who leapt up to scream and clap as soon as the final out was called. “Dirty Water” by The Standells blared from the speakers around Fenway, and everyone began the tedious shuffle out of their seats and up the concrete stairs to the exits. This was the stretch of time that concerned Scarlett and Wolfe the most; if nothing happened on the way in, it was entirely possible somebody would make a run at Christopher and Melissa while they were leaving the ballpark. And of course when they walked outside, they were immediately greeted by a group of thirtyish people who wanted to talk to the Republican candidate.
“Christopher, maybe you shouldn’t—” Scarlett began.
He waved her off with his working arm, moving in to shake the proffered hand of his nearest supporter.
Wolfe took a panning look around the area, and in that single instant, something moved in his peripheral vision, a visceral flashback to the worst day of his life. Most people didn’t realize it, but bullets travel faster than the speed of sound, meaning that by the time a shot “rings out” like it does in the movies, someone is usually bleeding or dead. Then again, most people weren’t trained to see light reflecting off the scope on a high-powered sniper rifle right before the shooter pulled the trigger.
“Get down!” Wolfe shouted, pushing those closest to him—Sebastian on one side, Kevin on the other—to the relative safety sidewalk.
Adrenaline licked through his chest like fire, and he saw Scarlett tackle Christopher to the pavement as the hood of the car parked on the street next to where he’d been standing crumpled under the velocity of a bullet. The sound of the shot reached their ears in the next instant, and the screaming started as panic rolled through the crush of people exiting Fenway. Nearby BPD officers were mobilizing but not fast enough to catch the shooter, and they were about to have their hands full with frantic tourists and locals alike.
Wolfe grabbed Scarlett’s shoulder, pushing aside a cascade of blonde hair. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine!” She had to shout to be heard over the commotion. “Did you see where it came from?”
Wolfe nodded, glancing back to check on the others before refocusing on the rooftop where he’d seen the glint. “Stay with them!” he said to Scarlett, and took off running.
~***~
The instant after she squeezed the trigger, Laine knew she’d missed the shot.
Her aim had faltered when Christopher Sullivan emerged from the ballpark with his wife and siblings—she recognized them from the research materials Aiden had complied on Sullivan—to a crowd of admirers. The same short blonde and model-type guy who were with them earlier came next, and bringing up the rear was the tall redhead. She got a good, long look at him, and he was most definitely Sergeant James Wolfe.
Her whole body had jerked like she’d been poked with a live wire, and in the same second her index finger had applied the pressure necessary to fire the Steyr. The fifty-cal round ripped through the night air, missing its intended target by less than a foot and embedding itself in the hood of parked car. Laine didn’t see where the bullet went because she was already hefting the Steyr under her arm, hooking the rucksack over the opposite shoulder and rushing for the fire escape.
~***~
Wolfe followed the shooter’s southwest path down Brookline Avenue, dodging around the people on the sidewalk they shoved out of their way and ignoring the occasional scream from someone who noticed their giant sniper rifle. He kept his eyes trained on that gun and forced his legs to move faster, knowing that even if he’d been allowed to bring his Glock 22 into Fenway it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference now; the after-game flow of people was thick, and it would’ve been too easy to catch a bystander in the crossfire.
That and Wolfe liked to think he wasn’t the type to shoot someone in the back.
After it passed Fenway Park, Brookline continued for a few blocks before hitting a busy four-way intersection, the right-to-left one-way of Park Drive meeting with the end of Boylston Street in a star shape. Even at ten o’clock at night, the stoplights had to work to contain the cars, and both the shooter and Wolfe had to slow down to try and navigate between the piles of pedestrians waiting to cross.
; The shooter glanced back at Wolfe over their shoulder, the movement loosening the ball cap on their head and causing a bright red ponytail to slip out. She—and it was almost certainly a she, between the hair and the feminine jawline—didn’t like what she saw and picked up her pace, even going as far as to use the butt of the rifle to push people out of the way. As they reached end of the sidewalk Wolfe made a lunge for her arm and missed, but caught a better glimpse of her face before she stepped out into the intersection against traffic.
A woman with red hair and a ghoulish scar that sliced her face in half.
Wolfe felt the ice of recognition freeze his spine, and thought, no, it can’t be her as the people around him gasped and shouted as the oncoming traffic threatened to run her down.
A silver sedan tore down Park Drive and screeched to a brief halt less than a foot from the shooter, who had never stopped moving even though in Wolfe’s mind, time had. In fact, he mused dully as she folded herself into the getaway vehicle and it raced off to the west with the snarl of burned rubber, it was almost like time had rewound, wrenching him back to a place and a person he’d thought he’d never seen again.
Wolfe was positive the woman who had almost killed Christopher was also the woman who’d saved his life in Iraq.
~***~
By the time Wolfe jogged back down Brookline, the area around Fenway was cordoned off by BPD officers and campus cruisers from neighboring Boston University. He probably wouldn’t have had a hope in hell of reaching Scarlett and the others—everything was a cacophony of lights, sirens, and the murmurs of latent fear—except that right as he arrived, two familiar figures emerged from a BPD cruiser.
Kamienski took one look at Wolfe and started rubbing his forehead. “Oh, Jesus Christ—what the fuck are you doing out here? Aren’t you supposed to be protecting Sullivan?”
Wolfe nodded, slightly winded from the chase. He worked out every morning, but now that the adrenaline was fading, every scar on his body (and there were a lot) felt taut like a bowstring. “Scar and Bash are with him. I need to use your dash computer.”
Kamienski and Silent Mark exchanged a look, and then Kamienski gesticulated toward the crime scene, saying, “Uh, we’re a little busy? Active shooter?”
“She’s gone.” Wolfe gave the detectives a quick rundown of what had happened during and after the shooting before clasping his hands in front of him imploringly. “Seriously, Jeff, I wouldn’t ask to use your goddamn police property unless it was important. I think I know who the shooter is, but I have to look something up to be sure.”
Kamienski sighed, his whole gangly body shifting with it. “Fine, fine—Mark, open your door.”
Silent Mark obliged, and Wolfe slid halfway into the passenger’s seat of the unmarked car, legs sticking out onto the sidewalk so they could all see the monitor and he could reach the computer’s keyboard without folding himself up like a pretzel. He clicked around for a minute until he found the database he wanted and typed LAINE PARKER into the search box. It wasn’t a common name, and the right result came back immediately.
A former corporal in the United States Army, specialization in field medicine and proud owner of a marksman patch, Laine received almost as many medals as Wolfe had for what happened in Iraq. She’d been honorably discharged about three months earlier than him because her injuries were less severe. She had a brother named Aiden who lived in Mattapan, and her last known address was someplace called Blakely Manor; other than that, current information about Laine Parker was scarce.
Kamienski whistled. “That’s an impressive service record. You know this lady?”
“You could say that.” Wolfe licked his dry lips, suddenly aware that he was almost painfully thirsty. For the bottle of water he’d left in the Mustang, sure—but with the memories boiling under the surface of his consciousness, a bottle of whiskey wouldn’t hurt either. “She’s the only reason I’m here talking to you. Corporal Parker kept me breathing until we were rescued.”
Silent Mark’s eyebrows furrowed, and Kamienski voiced the question the three of them were all thinking: “Why would she do this?”
Wolfe pushed the dashboard computer away and wiped the sweat from his face with his forearm. “I have no idea.”
“We’ll look into her, keep you guys updated,” Kamienski said. “Good job running after her like that. I mean, you’re fucking crazy, but good job.”
Wolfe shrugged, a modest smile gracing his features. “Been accused of worse.” He got out of the cruiser in time to see a flash of Scarlett’s blonde hair by the area cordoned off closer to Fenway; he waved, and she came trotting over with Sebastian after a quick word to the cops who were standing guard near Christopher, Melissa, and Kevin. “Hey. You guys okay?”
Scarlett punched Wolfe in his good shoulder—she was considerate like that. “We’re fine, dumbass.”
“Ow! What was that for?”
“For taking off after a goddamn sniper without backup!”
Sebastian cut in, calmer than Scarlett but no less agitated: “We were worried, Jim.”
“I get that, but what was I supposed to do? Somebody needed to watch out for Christopher and Mel, and I didn’t figure Kevin and a bunch of ballpark cops were going to cut it.” Wolfe did not rub the spot where Scarlett hit him, even though it burned like a bastard. “Besides, I was just telling our favorite detectives I think I know who our shooter is.”
He told them about Laine, and in the midst of the conversation Kamienski interjected to say that he had a couple of cruisers he could spare to shadow Christopher and the others home. Scarlett reminded Wolfe she had to be at Caitlin’s last dress fitting for the wedding the following morning, so she volunteered to take the overnight shift at the Sullivan home and Wolfe would spell her in the morning.
They parted ways, with Wolfe and Sebastian walking back to the Mustang amongst the continuous white-blue flashing of cruiser lights and the ever-growing glare from news reporters setting up their lights for live shots. Police helicopters circled the neighborhood, and even though the noise from their propellers was different from the choppers in the Sandbox, Wolfe felt the muscles in his arms twitch as they tried to reach for an M4 that wasn’t on his back anymore. Even getting behind the wheel of the Mustang brought back flashes of Humvee dashboards and trying to drive and shoot at the same time.
Careful fingers touched a ridge of scar tissue on his wrist. “Jim? Are you sure you’re all right?”
Wolfe glanced at Sebastian’s face, his features earnest in their concern. “I’m…” he trailed off, the lie caught on his tongue. “Actually, no, I’m not fine. The shooting alone I could’ve dealt with, but seeing Laine again… it threw me a little.”
“She saved your life the last time you saw her, and this time she tried to kill our client,” Sebastian said, raising his voice to be heard over the roar of the Mustang’s engine starting up; Wolfe pretended he didn’t feel a warmth in his chest when Sebastian called Christopher their client. “It is understandable that you would be upset.”
“I guess.” Wolfe swung the car out on to Brookline Avenue, passing through the police barricade and over the David Ortiz Bridge, I-93 a trail of lights in either direction underneath them. “But it also bothered me because her sniping us like that was a lot like what happened… over there.” A lot like what made me like this, he added mentally, trusting that Sebastian would understood what he meant.
Sebastian opened his mouth to respond but closed it again, lips pressed into a hard line as he peered into the rearview mirror. “Jim, I think we have a problem. We appear to have picked up a friend.”
Wolfe looked in the mirror too, and didn’t like what he saw. A large black SUV—Cadillac, he noted as they passed under a streetlight—had fallen in behind them when they made the right turn on to Commonwealth Avenue, and it was gaining on them with alarming speed. The traffic at this time of night was thinner than during the day, so it was easy to tell when two more identical SUVs flanked the first, clearly preparing
to try and cut off the Mustang.
“Hang on, let me see if I can lose them.” Something occurred to Wolfe. “Those aren’t from your old man, right?”
Sebastian shook his head. “No, he only uses German cars. Don’t ask me why.”
“Something to do with slovenly Americans, I’m sure.”
Wolfe hit the gas, and the Cadillacs followed, once again much closer than he would’ve preferred. Instead of taking the first left on to Beacon Street—the way he would go to take Sebastian home—Wolfe continued down Comm Ave, wishing for once in his life that a BPD cruiser would appear out of nowhere to pull him over. No luck. “They’re gonna cut us off at the Charlesgate bridge,” he guessed. “I can probably outrun them, but it’ll be messy.”
Sebastian shrugged, retrieving Wolfe’s Glock 22 from where he’d left it in the glove compartment before the game, racking the slide to check the load in the chamber. He flashed him a grin that, despite the situation, was so damn pretty it made Wolfe’s heart skip a beat. “I can handle messy. Go for it.”
Wolfe punched the gas, and they made it under Charlesgate first, if just barely. He heard the grind of fiberglass on concrete and saw sparks in his rearview as one of the SUVs clipped a concrete pylon but kept coming. Ahead, Comm Ave eastbound narrowed from four lanes to two as it intersected Massachusetts Avenue. Sebastian buzzed his window down and leaned outside, firing off three rounds from the Glock in quick succession. The same SUV that had lost some paint back at Charlesgate got a blown tire and skidded off the road into a tree.
Scar Tissue Page 8