by Brian Shea
Nick sobbed quietly, pressing his face into his hands, still tinged red with Simmons’s blood. He only allowed himself a brief moment of self-pity before pushing it back into the deep recesses of his heart, the place where all his sadness lived in disharmony. To that place where the guilt of his brother’s suicide now kept company with the failed promises to each of his dead parents. The remorse and grief for the death of his unborn child now added to its unbearable tonnage.
“I need time,” Anaya said, still facing away.
“Time?” Nick sighed his resignation. “I understand. I’ll be there for you regardless.”
“You’ve said that before.”
The words cut deep and he inhaled sharply at the pain of them. Nick exhaled, “Do you want me to leave?”
“Yes. I need to figure some things out,” Anaya said.
He said nothing. The finality in her voice left him drained. He slid the chair back; the scraping of the wood on linoleum was louder than intended.
“I love you,” Nick said.
Nothing. The silence that followed was louder than any scream she could’ve made.
Nick turned and walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. He stepped out into the busy thoroughfare of the hospital’s hallway and drifted aimlessly away from the woman he loved, hopeful that someday he’d be allowed to return. Part of him very much doubted the likelihood.
Nick knew his past decisions had killed any chance of his family’s future.
32
The tired springs of the bed creaked loudly as he adjusted, sitting up and positioning himself on its end. The yellow and beige floral pattern of the wallpaper blended seamlessly into the burnt umber threads of the gently worn fabric of the carpet. Nick had checked into the hotel, granting Anaya’s request for space. That was two days ago but to him it was an eternity in his living purgatory.
He wanted to be close enough if she needed him. So he chose to stay at the Sheraton in Georgetown, only a short drive away from their small home near the city’s quaint town center. His selection in accommodations also served a secondary purpose. It was the same hotel where he’d shared an unbridled night of passion with Izzy.
On Saturday Nick had picked up the handle of Tito’s Handmade Vodka, drowning himself in the clear spirit. The result of his homage to Izzy gave way to a challenging start to his Sunday.
It was already well past noon and Nick had only made it as far as the edge of the bed. His head pounded and what little light that managed to slip through the gap in the curtain cut into his brain like a laser beam used by a sadistic James Bond villain.
Nick checked his phone. He’d missed several calls but none of them were from Anaya. If it wasn’t Anaya, then he didn’t care. He let the phone slip from his hands to the floor and stood. Nick slogged his way to the sink and ran cold water from the faucet.
Bent over the white porcelain basin, Nick splashed his face repeatedly, trying to wash away the throbbing that arced across his forehead. He stuck his mouth down by the spout, slurping at the waterfall in a desperate attempt to rehydrate.
He didn’t hear it at first, but the sound became clearer as he rose up. Water dripped profusely from his tired face. The three quick successive raps at the door seemed louder in his current physical state.
Nick turned, surveying the mess of clothes and food wrappers. Three more bangs, this time louder than before.
“Coming!” Nick yelled. The sound of his voice resonated with dizzying effect and his stomach lurched in protest.
The knock came again, this time quicker and louder than before.
“I said I’m coming for God’s sake!” Nick said, trying to speak forcefully while at the same time maintaining a low volume.
Nick flicked free the chain lock and it fell alongside the metal frame of the door, swinging noisily as he yanked hard, pulling the door open. Nick kept his left hand on the handle for balance and used his other to shield his eyes from the bright light pouring in from the hallway.
“Well, you look like dog shit in the hot sun!” Declan boomed.
Nick furrowed his brow at the sight of his friend, confused by his arrival and worried that he’d lost his mind or was having some weird vodka-induced dream.
“Nice to see you too. Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Declan asked.
Nick stepped back from the doorway allowing his friend access.
Declan chuckled softly, stepping over an opened pizza box containing a boneyard of crust. “I see that you’re doing well.”
“I thought—Ohio… weren’t you on an op?” Nick asked, perplexed.
“I was. Not the massive compound ATF thought it was. Big surprise there. Turned out to be just a handful of rednecks with a couple guns. You should’ve seen how they about pissed themselves when we popped out of the bushes on ’em,” Declan said, smiling.
“I’m still not tracking. You flew here? Why?” Nick mumbled.
“I told you when we last talked that we needed to give Izzy a proper send-off,” Declan said, picking up the near-empty bottle. “Looks like you got yourself a head start.”
The thought of drinking anything, let alone vodka, made the room spin. Nick fought hard to keep from throwing up on his friend.
“Shower up and let’s get the hair of the dog in you,” Declan said, pushing Nick’s shoulder and guiding him toward the bathroom.
Nick grunted but didn’t resist, using the momentum of Declan’s shove to assist his feeble progression.
The shower felt good, revitalizing him enough to feel a modicum of functionality. Nick stepped out of the bathroom; beads of water followed the lines cut by his rugged physique ending at the white curled lip of the hotel towel wrapped tightly around his waist. Declan stood holding two plastic cups. About one finger’s worth of the clear liquid swished at the bottom as Declan leveled one cup in his direction.
“Shit, this is going to hurt,” Nick mumbled.
“To Izzy,” Declan said.
At that, Nick accepted the cup without further hesitation. The two raised their cups.
“To Izzy,” Nick said.
The two friends tapped the plastic cups together. Nick’s voice broke at the mention of her name, but the burn of the micro-distilled spirit masked his pain.
“Neither one of us would be alive to raise this glass had she not been there for us,” Declan said, pouring the drink down his throat.
Both men’s eyes watered slightly, embracing the silent solidarity that could only be understood by them.
Declan cleared his throat and placed the cup down on a nearby dresser. “There’s another reason I’m here.”
Nick saw something in his friend’s eye. A nervous discomfort he’d not seen before.
“What’s up?” Nick asked.
“Simmons.”
The mention of her name sent a shockwave of rage through Nick’s body, causing his hands to begin involuntarily shaking. “What about her?”
“She had a backup plan for you.”
“Backup plan? What the hell are you talking about?” Nick asked.
“I guess she wanted a fail-safe in the event that you managed to stop her,” Declan said. His voice was uncharacteristically softer.
“I’m still not following you.”
“The murders, Nick. Montrose and his crew. Others too. She had a detailed file. Really detailed,” Declan said, breaking eye contact.
Nick exhaled slowly. His mind reeling at the exposure of his past, compounded further by his unrelenting hangover.
“A mutual friend of ours got wind of it and tipped me off. I wanted to be here when they came for you. I called in some favors and had them wait until I got here. I wanted to show you that I’ve still got your back,” Declan said.
“When they come for me? Who?” Nick asked frantically.
“Us. The Bureau. They’ve got an arrest warrant for you. I’ve been given a small window of time to speak with you. I told them that we would walk out together,” Declan said.
; “You’re here to arrest me?” Nick asked, dropping heavily to a seated position on the end of the bed.
“I’m here to help an old friend—my best friend—get through a terrible situation,” Declan said.
“Jesus,” Nick hissed.
“We’ll figure it out. Promise. I don’t know how, but we’ll find our way out of this. Guys like us always find a way,” Declan said.
“You keep saying we. I’m pretty sure you dodged the bullet on your federal case,” Nick said sarcastically.
“I had no say in this. I was worried that it might go badly if someone else came for you,” Declan said.
“Badly?”
“You’ve lost everything over the last few days and when I heard about this arrest coming down, I seriously didn’t know if you could handle it,” Declan said compassionately.
Nick’s head drooped low as if the muscles in his neck could no longer support its burdensome weight.
“Let’s get it over with,” Nick said, resigned.
Declan walked over to the round coffee table and retrieved Nick’s duty weapon. Nick watched as his friend removed the magazine and emptied the chamber before dropping it into the cargo pocket on his left side.
Nick dressed quickly without giving any thought to his attire, knowing that soon the only wardrobe would be that provided by his awaiting correctional facility. He turned to face his friend. Nick’s expression was flat; every ounce of emotional energy had been completely depleted. The two men embraced, exchanging hearty backslaps.
“I’ll figure something out. This isn’t the end,” Declan said gritting his teeth.
Nick said nothing.
Nick followed Declan’s lead. The door opened and they were greeted by several agents. Two of them had their pistols out of the holster and bootlegged against their thighs. A third stood behind them, swaying nervously and palming a pair of hinge cuffs. It took a second for Nick to recognize the man. Gary Salazar, his rookie chauffeur from his ride back from the airport, stood awkwardly in the backdrop preparing to make the arrest, probably the first arrest of his career.
Nick turned slowly and placed his hands at the small of his back. Each click of the cuff’s ratchets were like nails banging into his coffin. He was being buried alive, entombed by the dark secrets brought to light. His need to right injustice now left him a victim of his own righteousness.
Nick walked into the pale light of day under the escort of men who used to serve by his side, crossing over that invisible dividing line. The condemnation of his actions weighed heavily. Nick knew the justice system better than most. It would not be kind to him. He’d always prepared for the worst and hoped for the best, but this time he was caught off guard.
His future had been stolen by his past, and what lay ahead was uncharted territory.
The story continues in Targeted Violence (Nick Lawrence #4)
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The story continues in Targeted Violence, Nick Lawrence #4. Be sure to check out the following excerpt.
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TARGETED VIOLENCE,
Nick Lawrence #4
Another school shooting. Another senseless act of violence. But this one is different. It isn’t random. It was orchestrated by a mysterious outsider.
And it’s just the beginning.
“This is Shea at his absolute best.”
The warning was released soon after the first school shooting. It came from an untraceable source, and threatened a similar violent incident at one school in each state across the country. Soon the entire nation is plunged into a state of panic.
As law enforcement desperately searches for the group responsible, former FBI agent Nick Lawrence is called up by an old friend. They need Nick’s unique set of skills to find and stop a twisted criminal mastermind...before he claims his next victims.
Click here to order Targeted Violence, Nick Lawrence #4 now
Turn the page to read a sample —>
TARGETED VIOLENCE: Chapter 1
Sheldon Price stood outside the main doors of Connerton-Jacobs High School as he’d done at the beginning of each day for the last three years. He knew this would be the last time he would ever set foot inside its halls. The gangly, rail-thin junior stopped a few feet from the main door. The mottled reflection in the tinted glass doors stared back at him. His matted hair, glasses, and pimple-riddled face had only given more ammo to the arsenal of verbal abuse he’d endured every day since beginning his arduous journey into adolescence. The kindest of his abusive peers had called him Smelly Shelly, but there were many other names, each salt on the open wound of his psyche. He tried not to yield to its pain and found the old adage about sticks and stones was a load of crap. Words hurt. More times than he cared to admit he had curled into a ball on the floor of his bedroom and cried until his tear ducts emptied.
His father had left when Sheldon turned twelve. Not that his presence in his life would’ve added any balance. Being an All-American football player, his father never understood Sheldon’s plight. His father was disappointed, more like disgusted, by his son’s physical weakness. At times, early in his life, his father had openly mocked Sheldon’s poor performance in all things sports related. I guess the “awesome” gene skipped a generation, his father had told a neighbor. Sheldon had overheard the comment and its impact still resonated to this day.
Sheldon’s mother was a different story altogether. Sheldon had become the man of the house after his father’s departure, and he cared for her on those days when she couldn’t get off the couch. She’d slipped into a deep depression and never recovered. Her condition worsened when she began using sleeping pills to stay in a semi-comatose state. Sheldon did the grocery shopping, cooked the meals, cleaned the house, and even took a job as a stock boy at Jenkin’s Hardware to float the bills when his father decided not to send his monthly stipend, which was becoming more frequent.
He looked at his reflection. Man of the house, he thought. He wondered who would look after her and worried that what he was about to do on this beautiful early spring day in Jessup, Tennessee, might be the final nail in her rapidly closing coffin. He shuddered, trying to shake the thought from his head. She would be devastated, but he’d left her a letter that would hopefully provide her some comfort in the coming aftermath.
His momentary lapse into introspection was interrupted by an unexpected impact. Sheldon’s body lurched forward, almost causing him to topple. Staggering, he caught himself before face planting into the concrete.
Then he heard the all-too-familiar accompaniment from an all-too-familiar voice, “What’s that smell?”
The shove had caused the last reserve of hesitation to dissipate from Sheldon’s mind. His commitment resolved. He turned to face his attacker.
His eyes flashed with anger at the sight of Blake Tanner.
Blake hadn’t always been this way. Sadly, Sheldon and Blake spent many an afternoon playing and exploring in the expanse of their neighborhood creek-fed woods. That was years ago and the memory of those days had faded into oblivion. The thick-shouldered athletic boy standing before him held no resemblance to his childhood friend.
“Oh look at this! Smelly Shelly loo
ks angry. Hey, Dom, do you think he wants to fight?” Blake said.
“I really hope so,” Dominic Purcell said. “Tell you what. We’ll even let you take the first swing.”
Sheldon stood still, but underneath the loose-fitting T-shirt his body trembled with fear. Like sharks after blood in the water, Blake and Dom circled him, closing the distance. Their breath smelled of toaster strudel and orange juice. The sweet smell contradicted the savage look in their eyes. Sheldon moved slightly, clutching his backpack’s strap draped over his left arm.
“He’s trembling. Look at him. He’s probably going to piss himself,” Blake said through gritted teeth.
“Great idea. How about you piss your pants right now and I won’t cave your face in,” Dom said balling his fist.
Sheldon felt his face warm in anger.
“You heard him. Do it!” Blake said, leaning in. A wide smile stretched across his flawless face.
Blake suddenly stepped back and his whole appearance changed as the school’s secretary, Ms. Turtley approached. “Good morning, Miss Turtley.”
“Good morning, boys,” she said, glancing at the trio. Her eyes rested a second longer on Sheldon.
Sheldon was on the verge of tears. A blind person could see that the exchange taking place was not an amicable one, but she barely broke stride and continued into the school. He’d seen it too many times to count. The faculty seemed to look the other way when it came to Sheldon’s abuse. Just like his father, most had probably never experienced his pain and had no reference for it. Or worse, they had been the Blakes and Doms in their own high school years and saw it as some twisted rite of passage.