Spiced Latte Killer: Book 10 in The INNcredibly Sweet Series

by Summer Prescott

  “Yes sir, we have three of them. The target and two operatives. Yes sir, I am aware of that, but the target was accompanied by one operative and another came later. No sir, we do not have the information yet. Yes, I’m well aware of who they work for. No I don’t want the wrath of the U.S. government and Beckett Holdings to fall upon our heads. Should I just kill the target then? What would you have me do? I see. I heartily disagree, sir. Yes sir, I understand.”

  With a muttered curse, the second man hung up the phone and turned to the first. Still speaking in Farsi, the two men conversed, entirely unaware that Steve and Spencer were listening intently. To his credit, Steve managed to not react when the operative asked for permission to kill him.

  “That was the Director.”

  “I figured that. What did he want?”

  “He said that we jeopardized the entire mission by taking the operatives. We were only supposed to take the target. The U.S. government could see the target as being expendable, but the others are too valuable to Beckett Holdings. Repercussions for killing them would be profound.”

  “So, if we can’t kill them, what are we supposed to do with them?”

  “The Director said to release them,” the foreign operative made a disgusted face.

  “After putting our lives in danger to secure them? Ridiculous.”

  “You and I agree. The Director does not. If he says let them go, we let them go.”

  “What if we don’t?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He said we have to leave them alone, right? So let’s leave them alone,” he gestured to the three bound men.

  His partner finally caught on.

  “You mean leave them like this and walk away?”

  “Exactly. Leave them to try and escape, but don’t help them to do so. If they die, they die because of their lack of strength and skills, not because we killed them. Our conscience is clear.”

  “But what happens when the Americans come in and find them dead?”

  “It doesn’t matter. We’ll be long gone and they’ll have no idea who to blame.”

  The other man’s face broke into a grin and he nodded, sadistically pleased.

  “It’s settled then, we’ll leave them alone.”

  The man nearest Spencer gave him a hard kick and followed the other man out of the room. There were a few noises as the men prepared to leave, then the clanging of the heavy metal security door, and finally silence.

  “You’d better find a way to get freed up fast, Janssen doesn’t have much time left,” Steve rasped from across the room.

  Spencer knew what he had to do and it would take a tremendous amount of strength to do it. He cleared his mind, focusing on his muscles, which he relaxed. Taking deep breaths, he prepared himself for what would undoubtedly be a difficult and painful experience. Janssen’s life hung in the balance and the Marine would do whatever he had to in order to save him. A few more deep breaths and he was ready.

  He drew in one last big breath, and lightning fast, he tensed every muscle in his upper body, thrusting his shoulders, chest, and midsection toward a sitting-up position. The cot that he was strapped to creaked and groaned, but only budged a bit, so he rested for a moment, then tried again, his abs, back, shoulder, and neck muscles bulging with the effort. The creaking of the wooden frame was a bit louder this time, but his muscles gave way before the cot did.

  Spencer deliberately relaxed his muscles, panting with exertion. Sweat had soaked through his shirt and ran from his forehead in rivulets. His powerful muscles twitched and burned but he had to try again. He feared he only had the strength for one more attempt, so the third time had to be the charm, or they’d all die. The Marine closed his eyes, getting in touch with every individual fiber of his being, and steadied his breath, preparing.

  He lurched forward one last time and heard the satisfying crack of one side of the cot snapping in half. The action caused the entire cot to flip onto its side, but it freed Spencer’s left hand without crushing it in the process. Wiggling the hand out of the rope and tape, he worked his arm out and untied the knots of rope on the left side of the cot, no easy task while lying on his left side. Once the rope had been untied, he tore through the duct tape as if it were tissue paper, adrenaline giving him preternatural strength. Once freed, he grabbed a knife out of the stash that the foreign operatives had left on the table to taunt them, and cut Steve’s hands free so that he could free himself while Spencer went to work on Janssen’s bonds.

  “Don’t worry Marine, we’ll get you out of this,” he muttered, slicing through rope and tape carefully but quickly.

  The heat rolled off Janssen in waves, and dark lines of infection had started to appear on his arms and legs. Spencer knew that timing was crucial, if he didn’t attack the infection immediately, Janssen could be dead within hours. Once his buddy had been freed, he ordered Steve, who was still working on his bonds, to stay put, and sprinted for the medical supply room. The confinement facility was equipped with a decent supply of antibiotics, and Spencer grabbed an IV bag, syringes and lines so that he could inject Janssen immediately, then get him set up with a steady infusion of medicine. All “Command” operatives were trained as combat medics, needing to know enough to be able to keep themselves and fellow operatives alive under most circumstances. The unfortunate thing was that these were not “most circumstances,” and the next hours would determine whether the scarred Marine on the cot lived or died.

  Once Spencer had the initial dose given, and the IV in place, he had to go to work on finding and cleaning Janssen’s wounds. Steve had finally removed all of his tape and rope and stood behind Spencer, watching as he efficiently took care of the wounded Marine.

  “I’ll go get hot water and towels,” he said quietly, disappearing.

  Spencer had his doubts as to whether he’d ever see Steve again, figuring he’d escape while Spencer was preoccupied with saving Janssen’s life, but he came jogging back a few minutes later, a first aid kit and towels under his arms, carrying a huge tub of water, a container of salt hanging from his mouth. Spencer nodded his thanks, then used a huge hunting knife to cut away Janssen’s clothing so that he could see what he was dealing with.

  The Marine had been hit twice in his left leg and once in his left arm. Every bullet hole oozed with foul-smelling pus, and Steve peered over Spencer’s shoulder, concerned.

  “If they used “dirty” bullets, you could be putting your own safety at risk.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Spencer muttered.

  “At least put some gloves on. You know the protocol,” Steve said gravely, handing him a pair of nitrile gloves, which Spencer snapped on quickly.

  “Protocol would suggest that I kill you where you stand, but I don’t have the luxury of time at the moment,” the Marine rumbled, turning his full attention to swabbing out the oozing wounds with gauze and salt water, while Janssen, too weak even to writhe, merely grimaced in pain.

  “Dump some of that clean water over here to rinse this wound, while I work on the leg,” he commanded, and Steve rushed to do his bidding.

  When he’d rinsed the wound, he patted it dry with one of the towels.

  “Put topical antibiotics on there and cover it with a bandage,” Spencer barked out orders while he scraped and wiped infection from Janssen’s leg. “He’s lucky that the bullets passed all the way through. At least they’re not in there festering.”

  Steve pulled on a pair of gloves and went to work on the arm wound. The two unlikely medics had just finished covering the leg wounds with gauze when Janssen let out a weak, but agonized moan.

  “Go grab me two doses of morphine,” Spencer’s jaw tightened and he took his gloves off, placing a hand on Janssen’s forehead. The antibiotics hadn’t knocked back the fever yet, the Marine was still burning up.

  Steve came sprinting back to the room with the morphine and Spencer hooked the time-release bag up to the IV drip, hoping to bring at least some relief to his buddy. If Ja
nssen could sleep through the worst of it, his body would have time to rest, heal, and let the antibiotics do their job. The two men carefully pulled the sodden and reeking blankets out from under his body, covering him with fresh linen. He was now as clean, dry and warm as they could get him without traumatizing him further by moving him. Spencer would stand watch over his friend for as long as it took to get a helicopter to the facility and airlift Janssen out. They would then head to the airport where a jet would be waiting, with medical staff aboard, to transport them to the private medical facility on the Beckett estate in upstate New York. With one short text, help was on the way, and the Marine stationed himself by Janssen’s side, pulling a chair over to keep watch.

  Steve Arnold stood on the opposite side of Janssen’s cot, regarding Spencer gravely.

  “Those bullets were meant for me,” he said quietly.

  “Figured,” Spencer refused to look at him.

  “He saved my life. I wouldn’t have survived this. He literally pushed me out of the line of fire and took the hits. He brought me out here to threaten me, maybe kill me, and he ended up saving my life,” Steve shook his head.

  “He wouldn’t have killed you. It’s not who he is. Only way he would’ve killed you is if you had tried to kill him. Who were those men?”

  “They were a part of the coup that you and Janssen helped shut down years ago. They’ve got a guy on the inside at Beckett Holdings, and they wanted to take me out so they could learn the identities of “Command” operatives and Beckett agents. Once I talked, they’d dispose of me.”

  “Did you?”

  “Talk? Heck no. I’d die first.”

  “Then why didn’t they kill you?”

  “My guess is that they didn’t have the authority. They obviously didn’t know who you and Janssen were, but whoever they talked to on the phone did. Someone higher up made the decision to keep me alive. Probably because Janssen was here and it could’ve caused an international incident if something happened to him… or you.”

  “So you’re on the run now?”

  “No. I’m done.”

  “Done?”

  “Done. You two saved my life. I’m not going to track you for Command anymore. I’m going to make arrangements for them to finally release you, once and for all. They can ask for your help in the future, but there won’t be any more strong-arm tactics. You and Janssen can have your real names back, become members of society again. I’m done,” Steve hung his head, the weight of his misdeeds on behalf of his country weighing heavily on his shoulders.

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” Spencer muttered, staring down at Janssen, watching for any sign of change.

  “You won’t have to take my word for it. I’ll accompany you to the Beckett estate and wait there until the Big Man arrives with your walking papers.”

  “You’re serious?” the Marine finally glanced at the man who had been hounding his every footstep for as long as he could remember.

  “Dead serious.”

  The full implication of Steve’s words slammed into Spencer like a ton of bricks. If what he said was true, he and Janssen would never have to hide from the government again. They’d be… free. Men who could walk around with a clear conscience in the land of the free, home of the brave. It sounded way too good to be true.

  CHAPTER 10

  “We sprayed the victim’s bedroom down with Luminol and it lit up like a Christmas tree,” the forensics tech reported. “The patterns indicate that she was brutally attacked in her room, bled most of the way out, and was moved afterwards. The mattress was flipped, and the underside was bloody, but the sheets and blankets were clean. Pillowcases too. We’ve got guys doing a sweep in the area around where she was found, to attempt to locate the linens, the killer’s clothing, and the murder weapon.”

  Chas nodded. “Thanks for the report. The coroner said that we’re looking for a large kitchen knife, and the Lees reported that they were missing one. Black handle, three screws.”

  “Gotcha. Oh, and we found some hairs that didn’t belong to anyone in the family. They were on the clean pillowcase.”

  “Any guesses as to where they came from?” the detective sat forward.

  “Nah, it’s weird. Because of the violence, I had just assumed that our perp was a guy, but either our dude has really long hair, or the perp is a female,” the tech shrugged.

  Chas Beckett sat back in his chair, tenting his fingers under his chin. It seemed that Petaluma wasn’t quite in the clear yet, despite some very incriminating information about Logan Greitzer. Sighing, he knew that he’d have to interview Grayson’s mother again today, but first he wanted to have lunch with his wife, so he said goodbye to the tech, grabbed his keys and headed for home.

  ***

  “Honey, you don’t actually think that Petaluma Myers killed that poor sweet girl, do you?” Missy asked, as she and Chas enjoyed the fresh air and seafood at their favorite beachside restaurant.

  They hadn’t had much time together lately with their busy schedules, so they had made a date to meet today for a nice lunch.

  “I honestly don’t know what to think,” her handsome husband admitted, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

  “You’ll figure it out,” Missy kissed his stubbly cheek. The poor man had been so busy that he’d run out without shaving this morning. “What about that awful son of a councilman?”

  “I’m still looking at him too, but you’re not supposed to know that,” he smiled indulgently.

  “My lips are sealed, darlin,” she promised. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  Chas kissed his wife’s forehead, loving her sweetness and kind heart.

  “Absolutely. You can focus entirely on getting ready for Grayson’s wedding and let me handle the police work,” he teased.

  “But, I…” she began, but he touched a fingertip to her lips, shushing her.

  “I can work on finding out if Petaluma is innocent if I don’t have to worry about you going out and doing dangerous things.”

  “Fine,” Missy sighed. “You taste like ketchup by the way,” she grinned.

  “You’re welcome,” he chuckled, gathering their plates to take up to the service window.

  ***

  “I done told you, I ain’t got nothin’ to do with that girl dyin,” Petaluma stood her ground, hands on hips when Chas came to Loud Steve’s house to interview her again.

  Today she was clad in shiny blue stretchy capris and a star-spangled tube top slipping lower by the second. She took her hands off her hips for a moment to hitch up her top in a huff.

  “If you have nothing to do with it, then you shouldn’t have a problem with me taking a look around, right?” he asked reasonably.

  “This ain’t even my house, I’m just staying here. This is Stevie’s place,” she shrugged, making the tube top dance lower, much to the detective’s chagrin.

  “Well, I happen to know that ‘Stevie’ has several unpaid traffic fines that we could issue a warrant on if it came to that,” Chas was unblinking.

  “Oh, now that ain’t nice,” she sighed. “Fine, if you’re gonna be a poop about it, come on in and have your look, but don’t expect me to babysit you. I’m going outside to have a cigarette.”

  “I think that’d be best,” he replied dryly.

  Chas started out by doing a quick sweep through all the rooms of the house, wondering how in the world people managed to survive in such squalor, and stopped short beside a long and low dresser in Steve’s bedroom. Something sparkly caught his eye, and he bent down, shining his flashlight between the back of the dresser and the wall. Taking his pen, he used the end of it to coax out a necklace that looked very expensive. It was a simple platinum and diamond pendant, in the shape of the letter N. Pulling a photo of Nari Lee out of his blazer pocket, he looked closely and saw the lovely necklace around her neck.

  The detective pulled out his phone and called in forensics to do a thorough investigation of Steve’s house. After ca
lling in the team, he went outside to find Petaluma, as promised, smoking a cigarette on the back patio.

  “See, told you that you weren’t gonna find nothin,” she rolled her eyes, blowing out a puff of smoke.

  “Right,” Chas said agreeably. “My team will be here in a few minutes just to make sure though.”

  “Well shoot, how many folks you gonna have traipsin’ through here today, geez…” she complained.

  She continued to grumble about paying taxes and getting harassed and various other nonsensical things, but she’d lost the detective’s attention. His gaze was focused on what looked like a freshly dug up patch of earth under a shrub by the corner of the patio. Making a mental note to check the spot out when the forensics team arrived, he pretended to listen to Petaluma’s grousing, thinking through the things he’d found thus far.

  “Petaluma, baby, is this dude botherin’ you?” Steve came out the back door and saw Chas sitting with his girl.

  “Nah, he’s just lookin’ for evidence and stuff,” she waved breezily. “Come give your mama some sugar,” she batted her eyes in a manner that looked ludicrous on a late forty-something.

  “I don’t know if I like you lookin’ through my stuff. I got rights, ya know,” Steve postured.

  Chas raised an eyebrow.

  “So, Stevie, the detective said you had some unpaid traffic fines or somethin… ?”

  The unkempt man paused, frowning. “Well, yeah, but there ain’t no warrant out on me,” he said uncertainly.

  “There could be,” Chas stared him down.

  “Well… fine. Look around and do what you need to do, but make it quick,” he groused.

  “We’ll take as much time as we need. That’ll be all right with you, won’t it?” It wasn’t a question.

  “Fine, whatever,” Steve replied, sinking into a plastic molded chair that flexed under his bulk.

  Chas tapped out a text to the lead tech, who was on his way to the house.

  “When you arrive, send a tech to the back patio. I think there may be something buried back here.”