A Shot Worth Taking (Bad Karma Special Ops Book 3)

by Tracy Brody

  “Jarrod has a tell. Not when he bluffs in poker—he knows you’re watching for one—but when he lies, he has a tell. And I know what it is,” she said with absolute confidence. Light glinted in her eyes.

  Tony listened, though waterboarding Jarrod was still an alternative. Or pulling out his teeth. He’d start with an incisor since Jarrod was a vain prick and would hate that. “Say you decide he is involved, what then? Will it be enough to get the Bureau to hold him? I’m not letting the son of a bitch slip away.”

  “Might want to bring along flex-cuffs. Or would he be able to get out of those as easily as handcuffs?”

  “I’ll bring enough to subdue him. Though getting them on him might be a challenge,” he admitted. “Jarrod would rather die than go to jail. When we were overseas, he joked that if he ever got captured, Mack was to take him out with a clean headshot rather than let him be tortured. He doesn’t like confined spaces, either. Liked to ride with the windows down. Taps his fingers when he’s in an elevator. The reason he didn’t join the Navy and become a SEAL was the possibility of being on a ship in those eighteen-inch berths or, God forbid, he had to be on a submarine.”

  “I’ll let you cuff him and put him in a dark closet until the Feds show up if he’s guilty.”

  That sounded good. “How soon until you’re ready to hit the road?”

  “You want to leave this morning? What about planning?” she asked.

  “We’ll do it in the car. You can sleep afterward. I’ll drive. If we can get there in daylight. Catching him at home gives us an advantage over showing up at Federal Plaza.”

  “I can be ready in half an hour.” She didn’t debate the wisdom of winging it.

  That gave him time to do a little investigative work. Blood raced through his body, providing energy and building his urgency. For this, he’d take the chance the team wouldn’t get called for a mission, and he’d be back Monday morning for work.

  He strode to his bedroom. Cuffs. Kimber. Vest. Recorder—he could use his phone. Binoculars and better pack the night-vision goggles, too. He added two changes of clothes, MREs, cash, and a fake ID to his mental packing list as he pulled a bag from his closet.

  He paused for a moment. God, give us a hand here. He still believed in the power of prayer, and right now, he needed some divine intervention.

  Forty-Three

  Outside Jarrod’s house on Staten Island, Tony sat lethally still. The tree-lined street of neatly maintained clapboard houses was quiet. The leaves and tree branches swayed and danced due to the pending summer storm darkening the sky. The good thing was the weather might keep any nosy dog-walking neighbors from calling the police to report a suspicious vehicle parked on their street.

  It’d only been about five minutes, but static energy filled the SUV. The distant flash of lightning and rumble of thunder increased the nervous tension and made Angela’s limbs ache. They were here and needed to follow through—only would she like what they found out?

  On the first part of the drive up, she and Tony had run through scenarios for confronting Jarrod. They’d were on the same page with showing up in the hope that seeing her alive rattled him. That’d be key for her discovering if he’d been involved. From there, the rest of the plan was freer flowing than she preferred, but she trusted Tony—trusted him with her life, even after all the years of trusting only herself.

  “I say we go now.” His hand moved to the door handle. “Lights are on. TV’s on in a back room. The minivan’s gone. Jarrod wouldn’t drive it.” Tony tapped a finger on the Google map image of Jarrod’s house.

  “His wife could be out, but she may have left the kids here.”

  “That could work to our advantage.”

  Tony had a point—though, with Jarrod’s impulsive nature, it might not impact his response. She took several deep breaths and debated the possibility of kids in the house. “We look inside. If we see kids, we knock.”

  “Agreed.”

  With the goal of a face-to-face with Jarrod, spending time sitting here wasn’t going to garner any vital information. Time to get this over with.

  A simple head nod had Tony out of the car. She kept an eye on the street while he dug through his gear. With her back to the SUV, she tucked her Glock into the waistband of her jeans and pulled her top down to conceal it in case the neighbors were watching. Tony seemed less concerned as he put on his Kevlar vest and pulled his shirt back on over it.

  He stuffed a couple pairs of flex-cuffs in his jeans pocket. “If we don’t need them for Jarrod, sure we can find another use for them later.”

  The suggestion took off the edge enough to draw the full breath she needed. It gave her something to look forward to once they got past dealing with Jarrod.

  They crossed the street and approached the house from the far side of the narrow drive separating Jarrod’s house from the one next door. Tony glanced in the window of the dark sedan parked between the houses before striding to the front porch.

  They scooted past the sidelights, using the solid door as shelter. Tony turned his phone in a semi-circle in front of the glass, videoing the interior, then examining the clip. “It’s clear.”

  She reached out, but he stopped her before she pressed the doorbell. Releasing her arm, he tried the knob. When it didn’t turn, he dropped to one knee, then swapped his phone for a leather case containing lock-picking tools.

  “This is so illegal,” she stated.

  “Not as illegal as murder.”

  True, but the end didn’t always justify the means. Talk about being a hypocrite.

  Tony rose to his feet. “Go ahead. You can say you found it unlocked.”

  Like Jarrod would believe that. She was still an accessory to breaking and entering. They turned on the record function on their phones before pocketing them. She turned the knob and gently pushed the door open, listening for children’s voices or the telltale beep of an alarm system. Nope. Good to go.

  Tony entered first. He glided silently through the foyer, past the stairway leading to the dark second floor. The front room had only a small desk with an office chair and floor lamp, giving off a Spartan vibe. She’d expected living room furniture or toys.

  An announcer’s muted voice came from whatever sporting event was on the TV. They moved down the hallway, past a closet, and the open door of a half bath. A framed family picture sat on the hallway table along with a set of keys, a bowl of change, wallet, and pieces of mail.

  The full impact of invading Jarrod’s home hit her. She wanted to grab Tony and get out. Do this another way. Her heart beat so hard her body shook. What were the chances she could change his mind?

  She froze when Tony crossed the entranceway into the next room.

  A deep, startled hoot sounded along with glass hitting the hardwood floor.

  “What the fuck? Vincenti? Jesus Christ. I could have shot you. What the—”

  She stepped forward. Jarrod’s words stopped, and his mouth dropped open. His hands hung at his sides. No gun. Thank God. A beer bottle lay on the floor, a foamy puddle glistened in the light.

  “Angelique. You’re …”

  She cringed to hear Jarrod use her birth name. The name she’d gone by when they’d been together. “Alive?”

  “Obviously. It’s great, but what happened?”

  “When I took her back to D.C., someone had disabled her security system.” Tony’s voice possessed a calm, controlling quality.

  The left side of Jarrod’s mouth twitched as Tony sketched out what happened.

  “You remember the Vasquez family put a bounty on her life?” Tony continued.

  “Really?”

  Her arm jerked of its own accord. “It’s why I said I didn’t want to go to Rio,” she responded.

  “Oh. Yeah. You never mentioned who. You’d think they’d have dropped that after all this time. So, what happened?” He tried a classic-Jarrod redirect. His gaze darted around, not making contact with Tony or her.

  “I called the Bureau i
n, and they found a bomb in my condo.”

  “Jesus. It’s good you found it. So, you fake your death. Smart. I get you want to keep it secret, but you could have called to let me know instead of breaking in my house.” Jarrod took a step away from the couch, his face wearing a smile like a plastic Halloween mask concealing what lay beneath.

  “That’s not why we’re here.” Tony’s voice dropped, his tone laced with malice.

  A shiver ran up her spine. Right now, she could envision Tony killing to protect her.

  “What? You need some Bureau resources to investigate? I can make a few calls.”

  “The Bureau’s already traced the money from a Vasquez account to a bank in Singapore,” Tony told him.

  “Damn. You able to get any info then?” Jarrod bent over and picked up the beer bottle from the floor.

  She couldn’t see his eyes, but her gaze never left him as he set the bottle on the end table, not that it’d be much of a weapon.

  “Account’s in the name of an Austin Kufer. That ring any bells?”

  Jarrod appeared to contemplate, his mouth pursed, and his head shook slowly back and forth. It took several seconds for him to visibly breathe. A chill spread through her despite the heat radiating off Tony’s body.

  “They run the name through Interpol?” Jarrod asked.

  “They did, but no hits. Not that I’m surprised. I don’t think that alias was ever used. Didn’t you say you ditched it after the fiasco at the airport in Libya?”

  “What are you talking about?” he gruffed out. “You think I’d forget a cover ID?” Jarrod took another step closer to the bookcases that lined the back wall.

  “No. I don’t think you’d forget. And I’m sure Staff Sergeant Jewett kept a record.”

  It was like watching two animals readying to battle. Jarrod had answered every question with his own—leaving no doubt in her mind that he’d been involved. How deep, she couldn’t say.

  She held onto the microscopic hope that he’d only fed them her name and location. That Jarrod hadn’t grown so callous that he’d kill for money. Yet remembering his willingness to torture innocent civilians in Afghanistan, she knew it wouldn’t be a huge leap to cross that threshold of justification.

  Jarrod’s eyes narrowed, and one side of his mouth turned up in a cold sneer that made her skin crawl.

  “I told you, I dumped a passport in the airport trash can on that mission. Couldn’t risk both of us getting nabbed by security with multiple IDs. Now, if someone found it and used it, I can’t be held liable.”

  “That’s gonna be your story? Or that someone set you up?” Tony mocked Jarrod.

  Hate brewed in Jarrod’s darkening eyes when his gaze shifted to her.

  “This is all your fault. This vendetta to fuck up my life like you have every guy you let get in your pants. You should watch your back, Vincenti.”

  She lunged to shut the bastard up. Only he maneuvered to grab her around the waist, using her momentum against her. She crashed to the floor, then struck the paneled doors of the bookcase. Her head exploded in pain, and sparks of light clouded her vision.

  She reached for her Glock. Her hand came up empty. When she turned her head to see what was happening, more pain resounded through her skull. Jarrod had moved out of reach, his arm extended. His hand held her weapon, pointed at Tony’s head.

  “Don’t try it.” Jarrod’s voice was a savage growl. “Put your weapon on the floor and kick it to me. You were always too predictable, Angelique. You let emotions get the best of you. Thanks for that.”

  Tony held his Kimber by two fingers and leaned over to set it on the floor. His eyes darted to where she lay a few feet away on Jarrod’s other side.

  The same icy fingers gripped her throat as when Hakim had beaten her to her purse. Only this time, the gun was pointed at Tony by someone with everything to lose. This was her fault, and she had to do something.

  “Stay down, Ang, or I will shoot him.”

  “Why? Why would you decide to kill me?” She tried to draw Jarrod’s attention her way.

  “Killing you wasn’t originally my plan. But you were shot, flatlined twice, and the surgeon said it didn’t look good. I figured I should cash in on your death. Claim I killed you. Only. You. Didn’t. Die. You already cost me my job by running your mouth. Fucked things up letting my wife know about us—”

  “That’s on you. You lied—”

  “I told you what you wanted to hear. But that wasn’t enough for you. You had to blow my first solo case with the Bureau and let al-Shehri get away. You owe me. And since Vasquez paid me a retainer, either I do job, or he kills me. The explosive in your bed was supposed to finish the job. But, this time, you lose.

  “You won’t get away with this.” Tony hadn’t kicked the gun away, but he’d taken a step backward.

  “Watch me. Wait, you won’t get to.” Jarrod sounded nearly delusional in his conviction.

  “What about your family?” Angela took a stab at any remaining humanity to get his focus on her and give Tony an opening.

  Jarrod scoffed. “A little late for that. Cheyenne took the kids and moved out weeks ago. Just as well with all her bitching about me not being a good husband or father. Not a good enough provider.”

  Her hope of Tony kicking the gun her way died when Jarrod motioned to Tony.

  “Now back up.” Jarrod squatted to pick it up.

  Tony was a blur of motion. His leg struck Jarrod, knocking him on his ass. Before he could aim, Tony was on him. The two rolled across the floor, tussling for control of her Glock. A hand shot out, reaching for Tony’s Kimber. It skittered further away from her. She pushed up onto her knees and launched forward.

  Two shots rang out before she reached the weapon.

  Her hand grasped the gun. Her fingers instinctively wrapped around the textured grip and slid over the trigger. She flipped her body, raising her arms into firing position.

  One body lay prone.

  Tony’s body.

  Jarrod, weapon in hand, lurched to his feet.

  Tony emitted a guttural groan—it was better than silence.

  Blood dripped from Jarrod’s nose down his chin. He lifted his arm, aiming at Tony’s head.

  “Don’t do it!” she ordered.

  As if playing out in slow motion, Jarrod turned his head her way. Not a trace of fear shone in his eyes. He smirked at her, then turned back to Tony.

  She didn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

  Jarrod’s head snapped to the side. The pounding in her head and the strong recoil from Tony’s Kimber caused her second shot to go wide. Or it missed because Jarrod’s arm dropped. The gun tumbled from his hand, and his body crumpled to the floor.

  Angela scrambled over and secured her Glock. Nudging Jarrod with her foot produced no movement. Though his chest didn’t move, she didn’t trust him. She kept out of reach, training her gun on him as she moved around to his face. His mouth gaped open, and his eyes stared unseeing. Even Jarrod couldn’t fake blown pupils.

  Still holding her breath, she spun on her heel. “Are you hit? Where?”

  Pain contorted Tony’s face. “Vest. Be … okay. Gotta … catch my breath. Your head?”

  “Rang my bell is all.”

  “You weren’t … supposed to rush him,” he scolded through gritted teeth. “Should’ve stayed behind me.”

  “He pissed me off.”

  “But I had on the vest.”

  Thank God he had it on. Her hands trembled as she lifted his shirt. Relief flooded through her. Two flattened slugs were embedded side by side in the vest. However, they’d been fired at such close range they could inflict blunt force trauma, especially so tightly grouped.

  “Lie still. We need to call this in. I hate to do this to you, but I need your phone.”

  “What? Ooh.” He grimaced when he raised his hips, and she reached underneath to pull his phone from his back pocket.

  “Gonna need you to make the call, too. Better not to have my name or
voice on the 9-1-1 call.” Great, how was she going to avoid being exposed when the cops showed up?

  The shattered screen on Tony’s phone evidenced his struggle with Jarrod. But, hallelujah, it was still recording. Damn brilliant call on Tony’s part. She pulled out her phone to get the Bureau’s New York number.

  Jarrod’s lifeless body looked smaller sprawled on the floor, less threatening as she searched for the number. “I didn’t want him dead.”

  “Jarrod wasn’t goin’ to jail. He didn’t give ya a choice. Took the coward’s way out.” Pain punctuated his words.

  She dialed Tony’s phone and held it to his ear. Listening to him make the call to the Bureau, she let his assurance settle in. Jarrod knew she’d shoot him to keep him from killing Tony, but would he have shot his former teammate? The two rounds in Tony’s vest said he would. And she would have been next. She had to take him out first.

  Tony requested they get in touch with Special Agent in Charge Grochowski, masterfully delivering urgency while providing the minimum information necessary.

  “Now, we’re calling 9-1-1, and you are requesting an ambulance for yourself.”

  “It’s only a cracked rib. We should wait. Give the Bureau a head start on getting here,” he said.

  “The neighbors probably called the police. Better to get ahead of it. And you may have a collapsed lung, so you’re getting checked out.”

  “I know what a cracked rib feels like—”

  “Don’t piss me off, Vincenti.”

  Tony gave a short laugh, “Ow, ow, ow.” He winced. “Yes, ma’am. Saw what happened to the last guy who pissed you off.”

  “Shut up and kiss me.” She bent over until their lips met.

  The adrenaline surge faded. Though she had no desire to remain in the room with Jarrod’s body, she didn’t dare move Tony or risk compromising the scene. Instead, she slumped to the floor, resting at his side while he made the 9-1-1 call.

  The sound of sirens stirred her too soon. Off to stonewall the cops, and hopefully not end up in handcuffs.