Beau (In the Company of Snipers Book 18)

by Irish Winters

  Son-of-a-bitch. When Beau should’ve been safe inside a loving home and family, he’d had no one. How did a man—any man—turn a blind-eye to that?

  Alex ran a hand over his head, pissed at men like Bass Jennings. What kind of sick bastard denied his son and did it so viciously, on the same day that kid had lost his mom and baby sister? Hell, Beau had probably watched one or both of them die. No wonder he bucked every order and fought every TEAM protocol. He’d grown up fast, mean, and hard. Also explained why he was a stubborn ass and an insufferable prick. He’d had to be all that and more to survive in Las Vegas on his own. As a seven-year-old.

  Alex tapped the power down button at the top right corner of Mother’s clever device. It was time to face the truth. He had two women to catch. The entire TEAM was going to war. And whether he liked it or not, Beau Jennings was going with them.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Breaking and entering was as easy as brushing aside the police tape and pressing his shoulder to her locked door. Silently, Beau entered McKenna’s apartment and closed the front door behind him. He locked it this time, just in case he encountered a shrew with a snakeskin tat on her skinny neck who thought she could escape. Not happening. He’d failed McKenna once. He wouldn’t do it again.

  Just like he remembered. Kitchen on his right. Living room on his left. Beau aimed for the bedrooms down the hall straight ahead. Palming the first door he came to open, he encountered a moderately sized head, complete with shower stall and tub. One small window over the tub. Nothing a peeping tom could utilize, though. Good enough.

  He stood there a minute longer than he needed to when his nostrils flared at the lovely scent hanging in the air. Vanilla and something else he couldn’t identify. Not a flowery fragrance, but just as feminine. McKenna. He remembered the scent of her skin and her hair. The way she turned coy before she came all over him. It didn’t take much to picture her naked and willing in that tub with mountains of foaming bubbles around her. A smile on her pretty face. Her toes pink and wrinkled from playing in the water too long. Maybe from playing with him. After he’d sucked them and a few of her other body parts, too.

  Shaking off the dream that could never be, Beau closed that door and locked his heart. Dreams were for others, not him. He was a hunter. Nothing more. Nothing less. And hunters did not dream of things they couldn’t have and didn’t deserve. They kept their eyes on target, and they made the world safe. End of story. The sooner he set his mind to that bitter reality, the better.

  The next room in that hallway revealed an office and a simple, uncluttered wooden desk with an office chair tucked into it. Computer. Printer. A dusty silk plant stuffed in the far corner. McKenna had no use for frivolous bullshit in her life, another thing they had in common. Duly noted.

  The framed photo on her desk caught Beau’s attention. Had to be Sanders Fitzgerald with that wide-open smile. He’d written Love you, Princess in gold ink across the lower right corner.

  “So where are you, Sanders?” Beau asked the photo.

  Rifling the desk drawers, he came across his first clue, another framed picture, much smaller but face down in the far back corner of McKenna’s pencil drawer. That was odd. He flipped it over and blinked at the family photo. The happy, green-eyed little girl on Sanders’ lap he knew. That could only be McKenna, the way she had both arms linked around her father’s neck like she’d never let him go.

  But the grouping was odd. Most family portraits linked the husband and wife, the children between or around them. In this one, Sanders sat with his shoulders turned into McKenna, while the woman who had to be McKenna’s mother, sat nearly at his back. Instead of her hand resting comfortably on his shoulder—or anywhere on him—hers were curled on her lap. While Sanders and McKenna smiled, this woman looked like a cold fish. Damn near bug-eyed. Straight at the camera. If that wasn’t odd enough—holy shit! Beau recognized the face.

  Palming his burner phone, he thumb-dialed Alex. “I know who’s got Sanders Fitzgerald,” he said before Alex could answer.

  “Who?”

  “Don’t have a name yet, but—”

  “Then where is he?”

  “Don’t know that either, but—”

  “What the hell do you know?” Alex snarled.

  “I know Bitch Two looks exactly like McKenna’s mother!” You flaming ass hat!

  That shut Alex up. For a second. “Where are you, Junior Agent?”

  “At McKenna’s.” Duh. “Where else should I be?”

  A long-suffering sigh hissed over the phone. “Stay put. I’ll be right there.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On my way.”

  You pompous ass, Beau thought. You don’t have to tell me where you are because you know better than me and more than me every damned time, right? He’d no more than stuffed his phone into his jeans pocket when a car door slammed outside. What do you know? Alex must’ve already been in the vicinity.

  Retreating to the front room, Beau peered out the window as his employer climbed out of his vehicle. But he wasn’t alone. A pale-yellow sedan rolled between Alex and the steps to the apartment building, blocking his way. Alex’s hand instantly went to the pistol under his left arm, but the woman exiting the sedan didn’t seem to notice his alert stance or his firearm.

  Beau could only see her from the back. Dressed in a pencil skirt that hugged her hips, and comfortable heels, she rounded the front of her vehicle and approached Alex, her head bobbing. She was one of those types who used their hands when they talked, and her fingers were flying.

  He guessed her age between forty to fifty, her weight at maybe one hundred twenty. She walked with long, sure, confident strides, almost aggressive, like a real estate agent or a used car saleswoman. Or a psychotic bitch.

  Beau opened McKenna’s front door, so Alex would know he was there. Just as he did, the woman flicked her fingernails dismissively at Alex and turned her shoulders. Fuck! The hairstyle was different, but the face was the same. It was her. Well, not exactly her, but so damned close—

  “Get down!” Beau bellowed as he drew his pistol and assumed firing position, his poor throbbing left hand instantly cradling the weapon in his right.

  Alex drew on the woman as well. But whoever she was, she slapped her palms to her hips like she couldn’t believe that they didn’t trust little old her. Interesting reaction for a female civilian with two weapons pointed at her head.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them,” Alex bellowed. “Now!”

  She didn’t obey. Didn’t even act like she’d heard him. Instead, her shoulders lifted like this was all a big misunderstanding instead of a damned scary situation. “Oh, come on, guys. I’m just here with a message for Doc Fitz,” she said breezily.

  “I said hands up. Do it now,” Alex ordered.

  Still no compliance.

  Beau angled down the steps to cover his employer’s back. At least Alex maintained his cool. It was also smart he hadn’t opened his big mouth and questioned Beau’s judgment for a change.

  “You guys have this all wrong.” The woman shook her head as she brushed the side of her index finger to her nose—like a signal to someone else. “I’m not the one you need to worry about, it’s—”

  “Oh, look! It’s us! You should worry about us, guys!” a cocky female voice with a bite of Spanish sarcasm sounded from the other side of McKenna’s porch.

  Beau shot Izza Maher a nod of relief when she and her husband Connor approached, both with their weapons drawn on yet another version of McKenna’s mother. Taller and more muscular than the one with Alex, she looked like a man.

  It’s her. Bitch Two. The one who tortured McKenna. I was right, damn it!

  Same wrinkly skirt. Same long, black braid and snakeskin tat. Better yet, her eyes were black and blue, and her nose sported a strip of flesh-toned tape where he’d head-butted her ugly face the night she’d nearly killed McKenna. She strutted ahead of the Mahers with her e
lbows forward, her hands cuffed behind her head like she was proud of herself.

  Jesus H Christ, how many What’s-Her-Name clones are there?

  “Halt. That’s close enough,” Izza told her. “One more step and I’ll end you, I promise.”

  “Told you not to get close to her,” Connor teased.

  Like she’d done with Beau in the office, Izza tossed her head and snorted even as she brushed the back of her hand over several bright red scratches on her cheek. “Yeah, well I’m not afraid of a little bitch-on-bitch contact. You on the other hand—”

  “Know when to let my woman do what she does best.” Connor leaned close enough to hip-check Izza. “You’re the kickboxer in the family, babe, not me.”

  “Damned straight,” she muttered, a definite twinkle in her eye. “Bitch is cuffed, isn’t she?”

  “That she is.” Connor jerked his head at the house. “Too bad she got a piece of you, though.”

  Bitch Two’s upper lip lifted as she came to a full stop. Beau switched targets, needing to end this evil woman for what she’d done to McKenna. “Told you I’d kill you.”

  “You can’t touch me,” she hissed, extending that long neck like a snake about to strike.

  “Wrong again. I’m the one with the pistol.”

  Her brows lifted, and her eyes widened until the whites showed. “Go ahead and shoot. It’ll go right through me. You’ll see. I’m untouchable,” she crowed.

  “Then why are you cuffed and not me?”

  Connor’s face split into a grin. “See what I mean? She’s bona fide cra-zee, that’s for sure. And you want to talk strange” —his eyes shifted toward the upper level— “we found plenty of other strange in the apartment over Doc Fitz’s. Chicken heads and feathers. A dead goat that’s still fresh, laid out on its back in the middle of some weird painting on the floor. Black cats. Jars of blood. Candles and incense burners. Sheesh. It’s a regular Carnival up there.”

  “Zombie lady here thinks she’s a mystical, magical voodoo priestessssssss,” Izza hissed, twisting that last word, her pistol still directed at the woman Beau wanted to end.

  “You notify Chief Prince?” Alex asked, still covering the other woman.

  “You bet. He’s on his way,” Connor confirmed. “Who’s your friend?”

  By then, Miss Pencil Skirt cocked a nasty glare at Bitch Two, her hands still on her hips and her head swaying like a prizefighter’s in a grudge match. “I told you to stop sacrificing people’s pets! It ain’t funny!”

  Bitch Two stuck her chin out at the accusation. “And I told you to find me a baby!”

  Whoa, what? A baby? This day had just turned from weird to just plain sick.

  “Name,” Alex barked at Pencil Skirt.

  Her lips parted revealing white clenched teeth. She cocked her head as if she too had a pain in her neck. “Minnie Lynch, Mr. Stewart. So how are Kelsey and Lexie? How’s that guy Doc Fitz treated last week? The one with the missing finger.” She cranked her neck sideways to Beau, glaring at him. “Would that be you?”

  ‘She knows who we are,’ Beau thought.

  “And you are…?” Connor asked Bitch Two.

  “Dai-sy,” she replied, only she broke her name into two long breathy syllables and made it sound like Dai-zee. Marilyn Monroe, she was not.

  Beau cocked his head. Okay, so his skull was a little on the hard side, but why did those names sound familiar? “Aurora? Minnie? Daisy?”

  Connor waggled his brows. “Yeah, Beau. You don’t have any little girls, so you may not know all the Disney characters like Izza and I do. Not that these two have anything to do with the real heroines, but—”

  “Yeah.” Izza let loose another snort. “The Lynch sisters are more like evil queens. That’d make a good movie, Disney presents the Evil Bitches.”

  Connor beamed. “Yeah, Beau. You could play yourself and—”

  “And you two can be Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum,” he bit out before the smartass could finish.

  Izza choked, her eyes wide. “Oh, my hell, did you just crack a funny, Junior Agent? Seriously? You know how to joke?”

  “Guys,” Alex interrupted. “The real Catalina Montego is still out there.”

  “You knew it was one of McKenna’s aunts who tried to kill her?” Beau asked his boss as he finally lowered his weapon. Between Alex and the Maher’s, these two women weren’t going anywhere.

  “Just suspected. After Sanders was taken, David ran a profile on McKenna’s mother, which is why I sent Connor and Izza here. Also why I told you to stay put. Figured Daisy Lynch would return to admire her handiwork. She’s a narcissist, and she’d put too much effort into that contraption under McKenna’s bed to walk away from it. Just didn’t realize she lived upstairs or that Minnie was in on it with her.”

  “Yeah, Jennings. You’re not the only agent on The TEAM, you know,” Connor drawled as the distant whine of a police cruiser sounded. “While you’re supposed to be recovering, David discovered that McKenna’s mother, Aurora, was mentally ill, like her mother, and her mother before her and—”

  “She was not!” Daisy shrieked. “Don’t you dare say that! She was cured! I know she was. She was just like me!”

  Connor waggled his brows again. “See what I mean?”

  “This is all your fault!” Daisy sneered at Minnie. “I told you to keep away from me.”

  Slightly shorter, Minnie sneered right back, nodding at Beau. “What was I supposed to do after you let him get away? I couldn’t just sit around and do nothing.”

  Izza grunted. “Got news for you two. Sanders Fitzgerald didn’t get away. We rescued him while you were arguing about blowing this place up with him in it.”

  “I didn’t mean him!” Minnie shrieked, pointing at Beau. “I meant him! He saw you! He knew what you looked like, you imbecile!”

  Well, not technically… Beau grunted at how things turned out. McKenna was the one who had described Daisy down to her silly tattoo. Not that he was going to tell these two women that their niece could conceivably put them in prison. Turned out Beau Jennings hadn’t really seen what he’d thought he’d seen at Ringer’s or at McKenna’s after all.

  “Why’d you hurt McKenna? She’s your niece.” He rolled one shoulder as he approached Daisy.

  “Oh, her,” she answered in that masculine breathy way. “It was never about her. That’s why the camera. I just planned to film the night and show Sanders what it’s like to watch the person you love suffer and—”

  “Shut up!” Minnie hissed as Alex cuffed her hands behind her back.

  Daisy stuck her nose in the air. “Why? So you can steal the limelight like you always do? Not this time, Minnie Mouse!” She rolled those impressively dark eyes, made even more sinister by the black liner that flared from her eyelids into her temples.

  “Don’t call me Minnie Mouse! Mama told you never to do that, you imbecile.”

  “Stop calling me an imbecile! I’m smarter than you.”

  “You’re as sharp as a tack that’s been mashed by a hammer!”

  “All I needed was a baby to sacrifice, but you never delivered, did you? And you and Bambi had plenty of opportunities where—”

  “This was never about sacrificing babies or cats or dogs or chickens!” Minnie screamed. “This was supposed to be about paying Sanders back for what he did to our sister! But you—!”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Sniffing, McKenna steeled her nerve. Beau, damn him, was gone again and why that should surprise her, she didn’t know. As good as she knew he was, the man had lied every time he’d said he’d stay. Maybe he couldn’t help himself, but enough was enough. It was time to move on without him. Who needed a jerk in her life? Not McKenna Fitzgerald.

  Besides, she had other things to worry about. The exercise with Officer Crenshaw played like a video that she couldn’t shut off at the back of her mind. Over and over again. Around and around. She knew the woman Beau had dubbed Bitch
Two from somewhere. She was sure of it, she just couldn’t place where. Restless and unable to sit still, she paced the hallway to her room, then circled back through the family room and into the kitchen, her mind working the puzzle.

  Despite the fact that China’s home was an older colonial, she’d decorated it with a distinct western theme. Decorated wasn’t the right word, though. Utilized was better. Yes, China hadn’t filled her home with showy knick-knacks as much as she’d utilized every space for the important things in hers and Maverick’s life. The rack of fishing poles and the creel baskets hanging from the horseshoe hooks on the wall beside the fireplace looked worn and used. So did the assortment of dusty boots in the boot tray at the other side of the door.

  Framed pictures and portraits of family competed for space on the mantle, and an entire glass enclosed bookshelf housed a plethora of magnificent trophies, most of them from China’s horses. Only one photo commanded center stage of that bookcase, that of a beautiful white horse with a charming, silvery-white colt at its side. While the colt’s mane was fuzzy and its tail stumpy, the mare’s gossamer mane draped like a veil off one side of her neck. It fell nearly to the ground, it was so long and elegant. Her sleek tail was as stunning, and if McKenna didn’t know better, that mother horse looked happy. Why shouldn’t she? China and Maverick owned some beautiful animals.

  An exquisitely tooled leather saddle rested on a wooden stand in the corner by the fireplace. Another bookshelf lined the opposite wall. An impressive gun rack. An enormous gun safe. Everywhere McKenna looked, she saw the efforts of a working ranch, and a loving couple who were totally committed to each other. Even sweet Kyrie, whom McKenna knew China and Maverick had adopted after China’s sister had killed herself, belonged in this genuine home.

  And I do not.

  McKenna stopped at the wide kitchen window, not seeing the expansive green lawn and carefully trimmed rows of shrubbery that bordered the yard. It was time to leave the protective shelter of this fantastic universe that Maverick and China had created for Kyrie and themselves. Not for her.