“Don’t shoot him yet, muchacho. I want his friends too,” said the short Mexican man closest to Dickerson, his accent thick. He handed the pistol to the other man and turned to Joe. “If you had any brains, you’d keep your mouth shut.”
“And if you had any balls,” Joe said, sitting up, “you’d face me head on yourself.” He had recognized Carlos Rivera the moment he walked in the door. He was part of the cartel family who had sent the Scorpions after them four years before.
“Careful, English. I can still get to that pretty wife of yours,” Carlos said, his look meaningful.
Joe said nothing. Inside he was rejoicing, of a sort. If they didn’t have Randy, he was free to do whatever it took to get away without having to worry about trying to find her too. A thought nagged at him, though, as the three men left the room—if Dickerson was involved, just how much had Randy told them?
He dragged himself over to the nearest wall and leaned against it. The sun was coming up, and he was better able to see his surroundings. In a different scenario the room would be considered beautiful, even if all the furnishings had been removed. After resting for a while, Joe hauled himself up off the floor and went over to the window again. He couldn’t see the men outside anymore, and he decided to keep watch to work out how often they appeared.
A couple of hours later, Dickerson walked back into the room. He found Joe sitting in the chair, looking out the window, his long legs stretched out in front of him. Joe glanced over and grinned sardonically when he saw Dickerson standing in the doorway.
Dickerson shut the door behind him. His eyes were glinting evilly. “So, Sinclair,” he said, almost conversationally. “How does it feel?”
Joe didn’t respond, just looked back at Dickerson with mild interest.
“I mean to have another guy fuck your wife and turn her against you.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Joe said calmly.
“Sure you do, Sinclair. You think I knew the security alarm code all by myself? Randy was happy to supply it.”
Joe gave a low laugh and shook his head.
“You don’t believe me?” Dickerson said, his voice taking on an angry edge.
“I think you’re an idiot.”
“Well, I think you’re a stupid fucking pansy who can’t accept that his wife needs a real man around!”
Joe grinned. “I can accept it. That’s why she’s back with me.”
Dickerson stared at Joe for a long minute. It was obvious he wanted to kill him now rather than wait, but he was afraid of Carlos Rivera too.
“You think you’re so smart, Sinclair, but you wait. I’m gonna be the one to kill you, and believe me, it won’t be pleasant. But first I’m gonna finish what I started with that bitch partner of yours.” Joe tried to hide it, but Dickerson caught the slight look of surprise in his eyes. “So you didn’t know, huh? Oh, yeah, it was me, Sinclair. I’m the one that fucked that little tease up. And ya know,” he said, looking straight into Joe’s eyes as he played his trump card, “your wife was standing right there when I did it.”
Joe felt the words hit him as if they’d been a bullet from Dickerson’s gun. He didn’t bother to hide the shock. He felt sick suddenly, like everything had just turned upside down. Somehow he knew Dickerson was telling the truth. He wasn’t sure how, but the looks that Midnight had given Randy, and the way Randy had acted the night Joe and she had gone to see her… the strange look that had crossed Randy’s face when Joe had said he had been “wrong.” It all fell into place, and Joe couldn’t shake the cold feeling that settled in his stomach.
Dickerson was laughing, a cold, hateful laugh that rang in Joe’s ears long after Dickerson had walked out of the room.
Shoving himself up out of the chair, Joe paced the room like a caged animal. Finally, his anger and frustration came to a head as he slammed his fist into the wall. He proceeded to take out all of his fury on it. When he was done, his hands were bloody and the wall had a fair-sized hole in it. Joe knew he was reacting to what Dickerson had said in just the way Dickerson wanted, but at that point he didn’t care. He couldn’t figure out why Randy hadn’t told him, or why, for that matter, Midnight hadn’t. He suspected Midnight had been trying to protect him, but he didn’t have a clue why Randy hadn’t said anything. Unless she was afraid of what he’d do. She’d been present when his partner and best friend had been brutally attacked. Joe couldn’t imagine that Randy had actually been involved, only that she had stood by and watched. The mental picture that produced made him reel off another jab at the wall. Then he put his head against it, leaning heavily.
A tiny part of him wondered how much Randy really had to do with all of this. His heart told him that she hadn’t known what Dickerson was doing, but his cynical side kept jeering at him for being so easy. He’d welcomed Randy back with open arms without any real discussion about Dickerson and why she had changed her mind. His heart latched on to the idea that Randy had returned to him after Midnight’s attack—maybe she realized what kind of man Dickerson was. But if that was the case, why didn’t she tell him? Why had she hidden it? Joe pondered the question over the next eight hours.
When Carlos Rivera walked into the room, Joe was leaning against the far wall with his back to Rivera. His arms were crossed against the wall, his head resting on them. He didn’t even look up when the door opened.
“Hey,” Carlos said, after waiting a full minute for Joe to turn around.
Joe looked up, his eyes taking in the man who had caused so much trouble for him and FORS. “What do you want?”
“Well, actually, English,” Carlos said, his voice easygoing even as the look in his eyes belied the reality. “I want you dead, and your partner, and all your friends.”
“We can’t always get what we want, can we?” Joe said tonelessly.
Carlos frowned slightly, as if considering Joe’s question. “No, but if I have to settle for you, that’s muy bien too.”
“So do it and get it over with.”
“Oh, but that would take all the fun out of it.” Carlos glanced at the wall Joe had beaten in. He scowled, then his eyes took on a knowing look. “Woman trouble?”
“Fuck you, Carlos.”
Carlos clicked his tongue, shaking his head. “Terrible when a marriage goes bad, isn’t it? The woman, she thinks she needs something more than your little English dick, so she goes looking for a real man.”
“Yeah, too bad she found Dickerson instead.”
Carlos shrugged, indicating he felt the same way about the other cop. “Yes, but she gets involved with him anyway, and he shows her how she can get back at her rich, estúpido husband.” He shook his head in mock distress. “Next thing you know, her husband is dead and she inherits all those millions. It’s a real fucking tragedy, it is.”
“Yeah,” Joe said, nodding. “A real American tragedy. So why don’t we just get it over with and make Randy a millionaire?”
“Too easy, my friend, too easy. I want your friends to worry about you first. People get really stupid and careless when they’re worried, and tired. They start making mistakes. They get into cars that just blow up, or they go to their house and find intruders who tragically end up killing these people. Terrible thing, this worry.” Carlos’ eyes had taken on an evil glint, and Joe found himself getting angry even though he knew that was what Carlos wanted.
Letting out an almost banshee-like cry, Joe threw himself at the other man. He struggled to wrest away the gun, gripping the cold metal. He didn’t hear the men who came running into the room—he just felt the sharp concussion to the base of his neck as one of them drove home the butt of his rifle. He was hit two more times, both on the head, before he fell unconscious to the floor. He didn’t see Carlos stand up, brushing off his pants, as he looked down at the blond Englishman with disgust before walking out of the room with his men trailing him.
Joe remained unconscious for hours. When he woke it was dark outside. Again, he dragged himself from the floor, this time tasting blood
in his mouth. His head was bleeding profusely from the gash that had been reopened. Joe pressed his hand to the cut, which caused a great amount of pain, but he was determined to stop the bleeding. Glancing down at the floor, he noticed a small pool of blood and realized that the gunshot wound in his side was bleeding again as well.
Yanking the tails of his shirt out of his jeans, Joe pressed the extra material to his side. He felt a bit nauseated from the pain, as well as lightheaded from the blood loss. He remembered why he had charged Carlos. He remembered the man’s derision as he talked about car bombs and cops being killed in their own homes. He had to forcibly calm his nerves as they raged against the pictures that appeared in his head. He had thought about Midnight’s classic red-and-white Corvette in a ball of fire. He thought about Tammy, who was by now due with her and Spider’s first child. He thought about Jessica and Tiny, who were so gone over each other they might not think to be careful. The images kept piling up in his mind, and it made him shake with suppressed rage, with the knowledge that he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He strode over to the window and looked down. He couldn’t see any of the men circling the house, but they had probably figured no one would be looking for him here anyway.
He heard the door open and turned as someone stepped inside. There was light from the hallway, although the room was dark. Joe knew it was Dickerson—he could almost smell him.
“You’re awake again, I see,” Dickerson said.
Joe said nothing. His eyes were adjusting to the dimness, and he saw Dickerson’s eyes go to the hole in the wall. “I see you’ve decided to believe me about dear sweet Randy,” Dickerson said, leering.
Joe nodded. “Yeah, I believe you. But tell me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“How long have you been dirty?”
“Well,” Dickerson said, his tone taking on an ironic lilt. “That’s the funny thing. I had my eye on Randy for a long time… and things just finally worked out, ya know?”
“Long time?”
“Oh, yeah.” Dickerson sounded quite proud of himself. “’Bout four years now, I’d say.”
Joe was silent.
“Yeah, it’s been four years now. First time I saw her was when she was with you. ’Course, she wasn’t supposed to be with you that last time…” Dickerson trailed off, and Joe felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
“Sergeant Dickerson,” he said, his tone deadly.
Dickerson nodded, almost excitedly. “Yep, watch commander’s back up.”
“You’re the one that sent me to San Ysidro.”
“Uh-huh. Thought we’d finish you off that time.”
Joe closed his eyes, shaking his head. He was astounded that he hadn’t remembered Dickerson’s name till just then. Midnight had asked him about it after the incident four years before, but he hadn’t been able to remember. But now it had come back to him with total clarity. “So,” he said, “it’s taken so long, and you still can’t get it right.” He shook his head to emphasize his point.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dickerson asked, rising to the bait nicely.
Joe shrugged. “Well, you said you’ve been watching Randy for four years now. You finally got her, and you couldn’t keep her satisfied.”
“I kept her plenty satisfied,” Dickerson said, obviously trying to hold on to his control. “I sent her back to you to make you think everything was okay. She’s just been faking it with you. She’s had a taste of real man now, and she’ll never go back to sloppy seconds again.”
“Really?” Joe raised an eyebrow. “Faking it all this time now, eh?”
“That’s right.” Dickerson nodded, his ego puffing him up. “She’s been mine since the day she walked out on you. I had to practically force her to go back to your bed for the time being.”
Joe nodded, looking as if he was considering the thought as he paced over toward the window. Then his eyes pinned Dickerson. “Then why was she in my bed a week after she left?”
“Bullshit, Sinclair!” Dickerson yelled. His hand tightened on his gun.
Joe shrugged. “Don’t believe it. But didn’t you notice how late she came in the day she went to pick up some of her clothes? Didn’t you notice that she smelled like she’d been fucked?” Joe’s voice was full of mockery now, and Dickerson’s face became suffused with fury.
“You fucking bastard!” he screamed as he fired his pistol over and over.
Three of the bullets slammed into the window just to Joe’s right, and another hit Joe as he dove out the shattered window. When he hit the ground, he tucked into a roll as best he could. Then he was on his feet and running headlong down the beach. The pain was extreme, but the adrenaline flowing through him drove him up and over one of the nearby dunes and into some tall brush to the side. He dove to the ground as he heard shouts from the house. Thinking quickly, Joe threw sand over the bleeding wound in his side and the new one in his shoulder. He moved stealthily through the weeds, trying to make as little noise as possible.
He continued for what seemed like hours. Finally he couldn’t go on, and he dropped to the ground, gasping for breath. His head was pounding; he imagined he’d caused some interesting new damage when he’d jumped through the only partially shattered glass of the double-paned window. He thanked the gods above that Dickerson had indeed been the lousy shot he’d expected he was. But now as he lay on the sand, breathing deep, nearly comatose, he wondered how he’d get anywhere, or whether he’d die out here in the weeds with no one ever even finding his body. He didn’t know if he was badly injured, but the sand he’d thrown in the wounds to keep from leaving a blood trail ground against his skin painfully. His last conscious thought was of Randy as he passed out, face down in the sand.
****
Midnight sat in her chair, which was facing the far wall of her office. Her feet were up on her credenza, her eyes closed. When the phone rang, she woke with a start and grabbed it up from its cradle.
“Yeah?”
“Midnight,” Griff said. “We’ve got some interesting information down here. I think you should come look at it.”
“I’ll be there in ten.” Midnight hung up and stood, reaching for her gun.
“What’s up?” Rick asked. He’d been sitting in one of the other chairs. She looked over at him as he got up, struck once again by the wrenching feeling she felt in her gut at the sight of him. “Griff’s got the pictures from the Guard. I was gonna go down and see them.”
Rick saw the exhaustion and worry etched deep in her eyes. “Let me drive you, okay? You look like hell.”
Midnight looked at him for a long moment. “Always so charming.”
“That’s me.”
Rick led the way out of the office. They were both surprised when an agent walked up to them as they exited the double doors.
“Lieutenant Chevalier?”
“Yes?” Midnight said impatiently.
“Phil Griffin sent me.” The agent showed her his credentials, which Midnight looked over carefully. “He said you wouldn’t be in any condition to drive at this point.”
Midnight laughed. “That Griff, he’s always thinking of me.” She nodded. “Okay, let’s go.”
Ten minutes later they walked into the BNE building. The receptionist buzzed them through immediately. Midnight headed straight for Griff’s office, with Rick right on her heels. Griff stood in his doorway and gestured across the hall. “We’re in here.” He stepped over to the door and shoved it open, standing back and indicating that Midnight should go first. She walked into the conference room, and the first thing she saw was one very bedraggled and damaged-looking six-foot-two-inch, dirty-blond-haired Englishman, grinning at her.
“Joe!” she screamed, launching herself at him. Joe stood, catching her up in a bear hug. He looked up at Rick in surprise as he walked in.
Midnight stepped back, her hand still touching his sleeve, as if to let go would be to lose him again. “Are you okay?” She knew it was a dumb questio
n; she could see that he was wounded, her eyes narrowing as she noted the bandages at his side and shoulder. “Why aren’t you in a hospital?”
Joe waved away her concern. “The Guard medics checked me out. I’m fine. We’ve got too much to do.”
“Like hell—”
“Midnight!” Joe said, cutting through her rising anger. “People’s lives are still in danger. Phil sent his people out to check on FORS, but we have to stop these guys. For real this time.” He was angry, but it wasn’t directed at her.
After a long minute, Midnight nodded, and they sat down to plan. Her hand frequently moved to touch his arm, or his leg, as if she were making sure she wasn’t imagining him. She couldn’t believe that he was okay.
She discovered that the National Guard had found him using their thermal imaging system—otherwise known as infrared—while trying to track the people they had noticed spreading out from a house down on the beach in Ensenada. They had been ready to call it in when they noticed a form lying prone in the tall weeds back from the ocean. They’d zeroed in, and utilizing the video capabilities of their aircraft had determined that this was the police officer everyone was looking for. They’d called in a medevac helicopter from the border and gotten Joe out as quickly as possible. He’d been checked out by the top medics, and although he’d lost a good deal of blood, his wounds were for the most part minor. Dickerson was indeed a lousy shot.
Two hours later they were prepared for the raid on the beach house. Since Midnight had already garnered an extensive amount of interagency assistance to get Joe out, they planned to utilize the same agencies to conduct the raid. They wanted the Riveras out of commission for good this time.
Joe stood at the window to the BNE conference room. He was alone, waiting. He heard the door open, and Randy’s sharp intake of breath. He didn’t turn around; he could almost feel Randy’s hesitation. After a few moments he glanced over his shoulder. She was standing just inside the room, the door closed behind her. She was watching him, her face drawn and concerned. He turned to her, the look on his face very serious.
Betrayals Stand (MidKnight Blue Book 5) Page 13