Vicki Hinze - [War Games 04]

by Kill Zone (epub)

  Morgan had the distinct feeling that what there had been in the way of evidence, the G.R.I.D. assassins had destroyed. Thomas Kunz hired only the best, and the best didn’t screw up often or leave calling cards. They operated in stealth-mode and rarely made mistakes. That, and each assassin’s or operative’s knowledge and access being limited to a specific segment of the operation—only Kunz knew the entire operation and his overall plan—made his employees extremely elusive.

  “I know,” she finally said. “I’m just concerned that you’re overloaded.”

  Her concern surprised and touched him; she saw it in his face and felt it in her heart.

  “Don’t worry.” He stroked her face with a gentle hand. “I am overloaded, but I’m dealing with it and I won’t endanger you anymore than you are already.”

  “I wasn’t concerned about that,” she said. “I was concerned about you.”

  “Oh.” That really did surprise him. “I’m, um, all right.”

  Endearing, that. “If you weren’t, would you tell me?” she asked.

  He almost smiled. “You know, I think I would.”

  Jackson Stern didn’t confide in many people, and the fact that he trusted her was special.

  “Okay,” she said. Feeling better, she opened the Jeep’s door and slid out. The air was hot, heavy with a balmy breeze blowing inland over the few blocks from the coast.

  “You look exhausted.” Jackson walked with her toward the front entry. “I should be asking if you’re okay.”

  “I’ve had a full couple of days,” she said, opening her senses and looking at the welcoming brick, ranch-style home. Large baskets of lush ferns hung from studs flanking the front door. Farther down the tiled porch was a little wrought-iron chair and matching table. Just off its edge, nestled among thick green bushes, a stacked-stone fountain bubbled. Its sounds were soothing, so at odds with the violence Laura Stern’s body proved she’d been through. It was easy to imagine her sitting at the table, sipping sweet tea and reading a book, or just being still and peaceful, watching her neighbors weed their flower beds and the kids ride their bikes and play ball on their front lawns. She knew her neighbors, kept an eye out for them, and prided herself on always having extra sugar, eggs, and ketchup on hand to lend, sparing others last-minute runs to the grocery store. And she made it her business to be first in line to drop by and welcome a newcomer to the neighborhood.

  A special woman. Thoughtful, considerate, compassionate …

  Determined to prove her worth.

  “Morgan?” Standing beside her, Jackson touched her arm. “Where are you?”

  Startled, she jerked. “I’m sorry. I got lost in thought.” Her face warmed. “It’s very peaceful here.”

  “Laura,” he said, pulling a key ring from his pocket. “She had a thing about serenity and comfort.” Picking a key, he inserted it into the door. “It’s as important as air.”

  “Ah. Wise woman.”

  “In many ways she was, but I think her history had a lot to do with it. She had a hellish home life growing up.”

  Morgan nodded. “So she made sure her home was a sanctuary.”

  “Right.” He turned the key. The lock snapped, and he opened the door.

  “Good thing you had a key,” Morgan said. “I totally forgot to drive out to headquarters and pick one up.” Ordinarily she’d berate herself for that, but it was after 6:00 P.M. and she was running on sheer will and adrenaline. Her energy low-level light had been flashing nonstop for a couple of hours.

  “Disturb as little as possible.” Jackson opened the door and walked into the entryway. “I’m sure forensics has been over every inch of space, but—”

  “I’m familiar, and forensics released the house a few hours ago. They’re done here.”

  In the entryway, Morgan looked at the family portraits hanging on the wall. Bruce. Jackson. A woman who resembled them too strongly to be anyone but their mother. Morgan moved on, deeper into the house. Bruce and Laura’s wedding photo. Wearing a red sweater, a floppy-eared puppy that hadn’t yet grown into his feet. A diamond-shaped cluster of group photos of the four of them: Jackson, their mom, Bruce, and Laura. God, they looked so happy … What was that?

  Two frames from the end in the second row hung a photo of Jackson. He had his arm wrapped around the waist of a woman who wasn’t his mother or Laura. He had never been married, so Morgan hadn’t expected to see a “couple” photo of him on the wall, but there one was. The woman was gorgeous, too.

  Naturally. A pang of envy stabbed Morgan. She chided herself for being ridiculous. It didn’t help. The woman had long, thick, red hair, flashing green eyes, and a wicked smile that must have enchanted Jackson.

  “Aren’t you going to ask?” he said from just behind Morgan’s shoulder.

  For a long second, she debated. She could pretend not to understand what he meant, but that would be insulting to them both, so instead she lifted a fingertip and motioned. “Your mother, Laura and Bruce, of course, you, the family pet—”

  “Moxy,” Jackson supplied the pup’s name. “Laura loved that dog.”

  “Did she pass away?”

  “No.” He stood for a moment, a bittersweet smile touching his lips. “Laura gave her to a neighbor at their last base.” He looked from the photo to Laura. “Fred was a widower. He, Laura, and Bruce were close. It was a surrogate family situation; he had no family of his own.”

  Sanctuary. Laura.

  “When he found out they’d gotten orders to move here, Fred was pretty torn up.”

  “So Laura left Moxy with him.”

  Jackson’s mouth curved into a soft, sad smile. “She called him every Saturday to check on her.”

  Morgan smiled, liking Laura more all the time. “But she was really checking on him.”

  “Actually, she was checking on both of them. Fred and Moxy.” Jackson sniffed. “Laura was like that.”

  He was going to make Morgan ask about the woman in the picture. Curiosity had gotten the best of her, so she gave into it. “And the redhead?”

  “She’s a friend of Laura’s,” he said, clearly enjoying Morgan’s asking far too much. “Judy something. I don’t remember. I only met her that once.”

  A totally illogical bubble of happiness burst in Morgan. The woman—Judy whatever—hadn’t been important to him. “So she’s not one of your lost loves?”

  “No.” He let out a little grunt. “I have no lost loves, Morgan.”

  She looked back at him over her shoulder. “Why not?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Don’t, okay? You know your assets. I’m just a little surprised there hasn’t been a love or two you’ve left behind.”

  His mouth flattened, and he sobered. “Think for a second. Love and my line of work aren’t exactly compatible.”

  “Ah.” She’d run into this far too often with her patients. “You have to keep too many secrets.”

  “Among other things.”

  She cast him a look from under her lashes. “Tell me you’re not a commitment-phobe.”

  “Not at all.” He puffed up, genuinely offended. “I’m very committed.”

  “To your work.”

  “And to my family.” He scanned the photos on the wall. “Especially to my family.”

  “But you have had relationships.” Morgan couldn’t imagine a man his age with his looks and personality not having several of them.

  “Sure I have.” He paused and then shrugged. “Just none that endured long enough to make it onto the wall.”

  In their line of work, there was a lot to be endured. Secrets, danger, unexplained absences, long-term separations, and much more. His situation was, unfortunately, all too common.

  They moved on into the kitchen. Magnets on the fridge. Fresh fruit in a bowl on the counter. Car keys on a hook embedded in a note board next to the phone. Its pen was still in place. A card from Laura’s dentist—she had an appointment next Thursday at two o’clock—thumb-tacked to it. “Fred’s birth
day” circled in red on the calendar. Normal … Normal … Normal …

  Intuitive insights thus far were limited to low-level arguing. Mundane discussion. Not so much as a niggle of anything violent. Not between Laura and Bruce, or between Laura and anyone else.

  Disappointing but not surprising, considering how many people had been through here since the murder.

  “I’m surprised Laura didn’t have a houseful of kids.”

  “One of those things,” Jackson said, answering without revealing or violating Laura and Bruce’s privacy. If there was a reason, Jackson either didn’t know it or refuted it. Either way, even his thoughts were leashed and schooled on that subject.

  There it was again. That level of loyalty she had begun to believe had become extinct.

  Glad it still existed in at least one man, Morgan walked through the dining room, admired the antique claw-footed table and high-back chairs, the hutch displaying cups and saucers and intricate miniature crystal figurines. Laura had dozens of them—boats, dragons, a treasure chest, animals, and an anchor—quite a collection.

  An ordinary life.

  An extraordinary woman, living an ordinary life.

  Moving on, Morgan walked down the hallway and flipped the switch to turn on the overhead light in Laura’s bedroom.

  Something crashed. Inside the house. In the living room.

  “Jack—?” A hand slapped over her mouth.

  Her heart slammed against her breastbone. She automatically positioned to jerk away, but a whisper near her ear stopped her cold.

  “Shh …” He moved around so she could see his face.

  Jackson. Relief weakened her knees. Then it hit her: he hadn’t created the crash she’d heard in the living room.

  He lifted a pointed fingertip, pressed it to his lips, and then motioned for her to get into the closet. Leaning in close, he whispered in her ear, “Intruder. Get in, and don’t come out until I come to get you.”

  Morgan didn’t argue, just ignored his instructions. Instead, she reached into her purse and pulled out her.38.

  CHAPTER 7

  “Sorry,” Jackson whispered, clicking the light off. “Forgot who you were for a second.”

  Footfalls moved through the house. Morgan took up a position to the right of the door and prepared to fire.

  Jackson moved over to the unmade bed, eased a hand under the edge of the mattress. Judging by the items on the nightstand, it was Bruce’s side. He pulled out a.45, shoved it into the back of his slacks at the waist, crawled over to the other side, and pulled out a.38. Laura’s. Then he motioned to Morgan to get behind the bed and use it as a shield.

  “It’s empty.” A man’s voice carried down the hallway and into the room. “Find the damn thing, and let’s get out of here.”

  A second man responded. “If it ever was here, the cops got it. This is a waste of time.”

  “Shut up and look,” the first man said, voice booming, echoing off the walls. “He wants it, okay? You wanna be the one to tell him you don’t have it?”

  Two of them, shuffling through the house, opening and closing doors, drawers, and cabinets. It was only a matter of time before they reached the bedroom, though they seemed to be focusing intently on Laura’s little office. Morgan would lay odds the booming voice belonged to Payton, and the second man was either Merk or Stick. Which one, she didn’t have a clue. They were both fixated on finding … something.

  “Nothing. It’s not here,” Merk or Stick said. “Let’s go.”

  Silence.

  A shot blasted, barely missing Jackson’s head. The bullet hit the sheetrock in the wall behind him. Dust flew.

  Morgan dropped behind the bed for cover, watched the door. A man’s silhouette filled the doorway. Bad angle. She fired three times in rapid succession.

  “I’m hit. I’m hit.” Merk or Stick grabbed his shoulder, rolled back, then ran down the hall.

  Jackson lifted two fingers, motioning for her to stay put.

  He was worried about the other man. He hadn’t needed to tell her; she wasn’t moving. She’d yet to hear the second set of footfalls, signaling retreat. One of the bastards was still in the house.

  Jackson shoved back the drapes, revealing a French door. He opened it, scanned the yard, and then motioned with his gun barrel for Morgan to go outside.

  She slipped out the door, looked both ways, but saw nothing that didn’t belong: trees, bushes, a kid’s swing set next door. Gardening supplies and a grill on the patio …

  Jackson joined her in the backyard and then pulled the French doors closed behind him. “Go left,” he told her, and then moved right.

  Dusk clung to everything, distorting, creating shadows. Morgan left her senses wide open, scanned constantly in all directions, and made her way to the corner of the house, then paused and grabbed a quick look down the driveway. No car parked there or on the street, and no one in sight. No sounds or smells that struck her as strange or out of place. Her heart thudded hard against her ribs. She made the corner and swept as far as she could see in steeped twilight.

  A street lamp at the end of the driveway spilled amber-tinted light on the pavement. Morgan listened, but heard only frogs croaking and the buzz of mosquitoes.

  In a cold sweat, she blew out a silent breath and then crossed to a row of bushes on the far side of the driveway. Shoving through them, she hunched down and followed the shrubs down toward the street.

  A black sedan was parked at the curb halfway down the block. Its engine was running, its lights off. The third man?

  G.R.I.D.

  The back door of the sedan opened, a man rolled into the car, and the driver hit the gas hard. Tires squealed, churned smoke, and the car sped past Morgan, careening down the street and taking a hard left at the corner onto a cross street; then it disappeared from sight.

  Without a confirmed visual on the target, she couldn’t do a thing but watch them go.

  Jackson came running around the far corner of the house and called out to her. “Morgan?” Fear riddled his voice. “Morgan?”

  “I’m here.” She stepped into the light.

  He sprinted over to her, shoved his gun into the waist of his slacks above the zipper. “Did you get a look at them?”

  “Too dark,” she said, her brow damp with sweat. “I couldn’t even see how many of them there were for a fact.”

  “Three.” Jackson swiped at a bug on his cheek. “One stayed in the car. Two searched the house.”

  Blood drops stained the driveway. “I winged one of them,” she said. “Left shoulder.” She’d also blown two holes in Bruce Stern’s hallway wall.

  “Better report it.” He looked back to the house. “If he shows up at the hospital, we’ll be notified.”

  He wouldn’t show up in the hospital. The other two would kill him first and dump his body. But she went back to the Jeep anyway, retrieved her cell phone, and then phoned Darcy, not sure how the commander would want to handle this. She might or might not prefer to involve the locals in the home invasion.

  Morgan was still shaking when she got off the phone with Darcy. “She’s going to call back with instructions.”

  Jackson looked relaxed, leaning against the Jeep’s front fender. “Do you know what they were after?”

  Clearly, he had a history of being shot at that far exceeded Morgan’s. “No idea. But it’s odd as hell that they bypassed Bruce’s home office and ripped up Laura’s.”

  “That struck me as strange, too.” Jackson rubbed at his neck, a habit of his, she’d noticed, when he was troubled or puzzled. “It doesn’t make a lot of sense. What could she have had that they want?”

  Morgan wondered that and more. “You know, we’ve been looking at G.R.I.D. and Thomas Kunz’s involvement in this from a single perspective. We logically assumed Kunz’s attack was sparked by Bruce’s job. But what if it wasn’t?”

  “G.R.I.D. brokers intelligence,” Jackson reminded her. “Bruce has access to very high levels of technology and assets th
at Thomas Kunz would love to get his hands on and sell on the black market.” Jackson lifted both hands. “Laura is a homemaker and wife. What could she have had that Kunz wants?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m thinking maybe we’d better start looking at this from that perspective, too.”

  “Bruce is the logical choice.”

  “He is,” Morgan agreed. “But since when has Kunz limited himself to the logical?”

  “Good point.” Jackson gazed off, thinking. “So what could Kunz want?”

  Morgan lifted her brows. “Laura.”

  Jackson frowned, totally baffled. “She loved gardening and cooking and sewing and calligraphy. What in that would interest Thomas Kunz?”

  “I don’t know,” Morgan admitted. “Maybe nothing. Or maybe something significant enough for him to kill her.”

  Jackson plucked a brown leaf off a dense green bush, crushed it between his forefinger and thumb. “I understand why you’re shifting your thinking in this direction, but I honestly can’t see Kunz targeting Laura. It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “But they searched her hobby room, or office, or whatever she called it. It was her space they swarmed, not Bruce’s,” Morgan said, insistent that the G.R.I.D. operatives’ actions had to be significant.

  Jackson thought about it a long minute. “They had probably already searched Bruce’s space, Morgan. And they probably figured, since they didn’t find whatever it is they’re after, that Bruce stashed it somewhere else. Like in Laura’s office. That’s the only way any of this makes sense. Laura was amazing, but Kunz is into money and damaging the U.S. Laura’s sphere of influence wouldn’t empower him to do that in ways many others’ would. I can’t see it. Sorry.”

  “Our answer probably lies in that room, or they wouldn’t have come back and ripped into it,” Morgan insisted. “Let’s go back inside and see if maybe we can find what they couldn’t.”

  “All right.” Jackson made no secret of his doubt that they’d find anything of value to them, but he led the way anyway.