Gabe (In the Company of Snipers Book 8)

by Winters, Irish

  Mark huffed. “In a James Bond movie. Let’s roll.”

  “Are you coming with me?”

  “No. I’m going with you, Taylor, and Izza. Grab your gear, guys.”

  Steven drove with Mark, while Izza rode shotgun with Taylor.

  “This isn’t a stakeout,” Mark informed everyone over their tactical Bluetooth earpieces. “We go in hot with no introduction. No knock on the door. Nothing.”

  “Copy that,” Taylor answered.

  Both cars rolled to the side of the warehouse and parked directly behind what very well might have been Becker’s sedan. All four agents scrambled from their vehicles. The corrugated sheet metal building was a long, one-story structure with plate-glass windows in front, none at the side.

  It offered two visible points of egress—a wooden door at the top of two concrete steps at the side, and a garage door at the front. Mark motioned Taylor and Izza to enter the side entrance while he and Steven took the front. He tapped his earpiece on. “On three. One. Two—”

  CRASH! Another black sedan roared through the front garage door, its tires burning rubber. What the hell? Which belonged to Becker? Didn’t matter. The TEAM gave chase.

  “Don’t lose this guy!” Mark ordered.

  Taylor and Izza charged back to their vehicle, in hot pursuit, while Mark and Steven followed in theirs.

  “He’s headed for the interstate,” Taylor said as he accelerated alongside the black sedan. It swerved onto the right shoulder and roared around traffic.

  “Box him in,” Mark ordered Steven. “Let’s get this sonofabitch.”

  Steven hit the shoulder and stuck to the sedan’s rear bumper. In another minute, the vehicle would be on the busy interstate and more lives endangered. The chase had to end now.

  “Come on, guys. Taylor! Steven!” Mark urged his junior agents to trap the fleeing sedan between them. “Izza!”

  No sooner wished for than done. Izza all but climbed out her window and pointed her weapon into the driver’s window, her ponytail whipping in the wind. “Pull over! Now!”

  The sedan jerked forward yet again, but Steven and Taylor had both anticipated the countermeasure. Izza, too. She leaned farther out the window, the barrel of her weapon clattering against the driver’s window glass. “Do it. Over! Now!”

  He slowed.

  Taylor and Steven matched the sedan’s speed until it nearly stopped. When Taylor angled to block it in, it lurched forward, pushing his vehicle out of its way. A cloud of smoke poured from the sedan’s tires.

  The collision nearly knocked Izza out of the vehicle and to the ground. She dangled from the window, cussing a storm of invective into everyone’s earpieces until Taylor stepped on the brakes and jerked her back inside.

  “Don’t let him make the on-ramp!” Mark yelled, but the sedan had a jump-start and a healthy lead. It swerved dangerously around traffic and up the on-ramp that fed the interstate, swerving while it dodged vehicles. Horns honked and cars pulled to the left or right to avoid the reckless driver.

  Mark blew out an exasperated sigh. “Let him go. Damn it. Let him go. We can’t risk other lives. Head back to the warehouse.” At least they had the other vehicle.

  Taylor and Izza were already there by the time Steven and Mark returned.

  Damn it to hell. That sedan was gone, too.

  Mark’s cell phone rang out from its hip holster. David. What now?

  “Yes?” Mark answered it, hating the sense of doom that pervaded every phone call and the migraines that had literally moved inside his skull and set up their throbbing shop.

  “I just got off the phone with the police chief. He wanted you to know about Stevenson and Bukowski, the guys who bombed Sullivan’s car.”

  “What about ’em?”

  “They’ve both got severe radiation poisoning.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The cab dropped Shelby and Gabe at an impressive five-story brick building in Old Town Alexandria, Virginia, near the King Street metro station. Gabe hurried her through two glass doors that opened automatically at his approach. The small lobby offered nothing but an elevator door and a beautifully crafted tile mosaic of the American flag on the entire wall opposite the entry. Never Forget blazed in crimson red script beneath the rendering.

  It stole Shelby’s breath. She had to stop to absorb the masterpiece. With clever use of light and color, the artist captured the regal spirit of the flag towering over her, its colors aloft and rippling as if it were caught on a stiff wind before the gathering storm clouds behind it.

  “Just who exactly was Alex Stewart?” she asked, suddenly feeling small and insignificant.

  Gabe held the elevator door for her. “USMC scout sniper. Good guy. Why?”

  “He loved his country, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. He did. You would’ve liked him. He was quite the gentleman with the ladies. Respectful, like men used to be.”

  “So tell me again. You were USMC, too? Right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Sergeant Gabriel Cartwright, at your service.”

  The heat of her arrogance crept over her cheeks. She’d not paid attention when she should have. She wished she had. “What did you do in the military?”

  “In the Marines,” he corrected as the elevator door slid closed. He’d automatically assumed a stiffer posture, his back erect, his shoulders squared like he was back in the service of his country. “I served like thousands of other good men and women.”

  The elevator pinged at the second level. Gabe placed his palm at the small of her back, escorting her onto a red carpet that led to the center workstation.

  The blonde woman at the center desk glanced over the edge of the counter circling her space. Her soft green eyes lit up. She was nothing short of stunning.

  Statuesque and full-figured, she was perfectly proportioned with a gold-white topknot drizzling spirals of curls down her neck. Her skinny black jeans with rhinestones running up the side seams shouted ‘Designer!’ The tiny jacket in no way concealed her cleavage, not squeezed into a tank top with horizontal gray and black stripes like it was. The only break in the gray/black color scheme was the teardrop ruby dangling between her breasts. Oh yeah, and the red lipstick on her full lips, an identical match to the gemstone.

  “Gabe. Hi,” she exclaimed, a smile warming her face. “Where’s Zack and Kelsey?”

  “Someplace safe. Ember, this is Shelby Sullivan. Shelby, Ember Dennison, our resident genius. Where’s everyone else?”

  “Mark should be back any minute. He had a lead on Becker so half of the office went with him. Connor and Rory took your clothes over to my friend at Crystal City.” Ember reached across the counter, offering her hand. “Hi, Shelby. We’re so glad you’re staying with Kelsey.”

  There was no pretentiousness behind Ember’s greeting, only admiration.

  “I hope I was helpful.” Shelby glanced over her shoulder at the others in the office. A handsome guy leaned over the desk of a pretty girl. He’d glanced up at Gabe’s introductions, his gaze scrolling up and down, ending at her breasts. She reached for Gabe’s hand, intertwining her fingers between his.

  Gabe dipped his head to her level. “You okay?”

  “Yes. Sure.” Much better now.

  “So where’s Mother?” he asked. “She didn’t go with Mark, did she?”

  “She quit.” Ember tossed her head, sending a quiver through the cascade of tangles down her back. “Do you believe that? After all this time with Alex, and she quits when Mark needs her most?”

  “You’re kidding me. Why? What’s wrong with her?”

  Shelby listened to make sure she’d heard right. Gabe’s mother works here, too? That’s kind of weird.

  Ember wrinkled her nose. “I don’t know, but she’s off my Christmas list. Mark thinks she’s working with Becker and Fallon.”

  “No way. She wouldn’t do that.”

  “Okay, wait a minute.” Shelby lifted her hand for attention. “I’m sorry, but who’s Mother?”


  Gabe grinned. “Sorry. It’s a nickname. Mother was our lead techie. I used to think she was a genius, but now that she’s quit I’m not so sure.” He turned back to Ember. “Hey. We ran into Becker over in Arlington not more than an hour ago in the middle of me trying to protect Zack and Kelsey from being run off the bridge. Somehow, that ended up being my fault, but I thought he was supposed to be in jail. What happened?”

  “I don’t know, but if you just saw him in Arlington, who’s Mark chasing?”

  “Can’t be him unless he’s in two places at one time.”

  She nodded at the two empty chairs beside hers. “Since you’re both involved, let’s bring you up to speed. Oh yeah, those guys who blew up your car also poisoned Kelsey’s dogs. Zack’s taking care of them and Kelsey at the moment.”

  “No shit?” Gabe asked as he escorted Shelby past the customer service counter and into Ember’s workspace. He offered her a chair and held it until she settled. He grabbed another chair and swung it around backwards and sat, his arms crossed over the chair back, his green eyes shining.

  “Stupid, mean people,” Ember hissed. “I hate anyone who hurts animals.”

  Shelby didn’t know what to say. Kelsey loved those two dogs, called them her boys. Whisper and Smoke needed to pull through this poisoning if only for Kelsey. They had to!

  “I know what you mean,” Gabe agreed, “but Zack knows dogs. He’ll move heaven and hell to take care of them. Kelsey, too.”

  “I now, but I can’t get in touch with him to get a progress report. It’s killing me.”

  “Ember.” Gabe tapped the counter top to get her attention. “Trust Zack. What else have I missed?”

  Ember’s head bobbed. “You’re right. Sorry. Let me show you what’s been happening.”

  While Gabe and Ember chatted, Shelby took stock of Ember’s very technical-looking workstation. Shelby took stock of Ember’s very technical-looking workstation. The sleek black granite counter tops lent an elegant touch. CPUs and other equipment lined a portion of the cabinet to her left, with more on the floor beneath to her right. A bank of monitors lined a half-wall rising out of the floor. It didn’t reach the ceiling, but supported more computer equipment than one would expect in a normal business office. Looked more like command central than a secretary’s desk.

  Eww. All the overhead screens relayed camera views from Kelsey’s home, even capturing the burned spot on the street where she’d parked her car. Her heart pinched. Had Ember seen her earlier transgression? Her car blowing up? Probably not, or she wouldn’t be so nice.

  Ember rolled her chair to another monitor. With a tap of her fingers, a keyboard lifted up from the desk, then another alongside the first. Her fingertips flew from one keyboard to the other. The screen flickered on. She cocked her head and stilled. “Yes, Mark. He and Miss Sullivan are here now. They’re okay.”

  “Tell him I ran into Becker,” Gabe urged Ember. “Arlington Memorial Bridge. Zack and Kelsey are at my place in Silver Springs.”

  She nodded and relayed the intel. “Understood. Check when you leave the hospital. Copy that.”

  “She’s wearing a Bluetooth earpiece,” Gabe explained to Shelby. “We all do.”

  “You all do? Even at Kelsey’s?” Shelby asked, a catch in her throat. That little Bluetooth nugget of information didn’t sit so well. So Zack and Gabe and Mark and Ember were all connected. All the time? Even when you kissed me?

  “Yes, but only on active ops, like when Zack or I walked the perimeter or were out of touch with each other,” Gabe said. “Keeps our hands free for weapons. No need for twenty-four-seven communication otherwise. It would drive Ember nuts listening to everything we said.”

  Whew. Big sigh of relief. I mean BIG sigh of relief.

  “Oh. Okay,” Shelby mumbled, miffed at herself for missing this little detail, too. She should’ve taken a good hard look at her roomies at the beginning of this affair.

  Gabe leaned his elbows to his knees. “So whatcha got?” he asked Ember.

  She must’ve gotten another call. She stilled again and lifted her hand with one finger extended for silence. Her brows raised. “Thanks. I’ll tell him. Yes, he’s here. You’re a peach. I owe you. Big time. Let me know about the rest.”

  Swiveling to face Gabe, her eyes glowed. “Mark called. He and David are at the hospital. The two guys who bombed your car this morning, Shelby, are sick with radiation poisoning. The second call was Malcolm, my guy over at the forensics lab. And guess what? Cow’s blood. That’s what you had on your hands that day, that and something else Malcolm can’t identify yet. He thinks it might be some kind of a designer drug.”

  “What the hell is Alex up to? Or Becker?” Gabe hissed, and Shelby honestly felt like a ping-pong ball, contributing nothing but trying her darnedest to keep up with Gabe and Ember’s elusive back-and-forths. “He shot Alex with pellets of cow’s blood? The other substance had to be some kind of a knockout drug then. You were there, Ember. Alex went down like he was—”

  Ember winced. “Dead. I know. I was there, but wow. Who knew the FBI would do something like this to a civilian contractor, huh? You think they needed him out of their way?”

  “Hard to know, but it’s no wonder the boss hated working with them. Do you think maybe he knew Becker was going to shoot him?”

  Ember shook her head adamantly. “No way. Not Alex. It would mean that he hid all of this from Kelsey. No.” Ember clicked the mouse at her fingertips through screen after screen of information, some of which Shelby understood. Some, not so much.

  “Although we do think he is involved with Chaos Now,” Ember murmured.

  “Who? Alex?” Gabe asked. He seemed to have no trouble following the screens Ember scrolled through.

  “Yes. Somehow, he’d gotten himself involved with Chaos Now, just like Becker. I’m just not sure they’re on the same side.”

  “Hell. We’ve got more players in this mess than we know what to do with,” Gabe muttered. He leaned forward, his chin on his clenched fists, silently following Ember’s breakdown of all he’d missed while Shelby watched and listened. Ember wove into the conversation bullets that didn’t really kill, something called a gang of ten, inconsistencies in the Medical Examiner’s conclusions on Alex Stewart’s COD, and more intrigue and drama than Shelby had ever seen or heard before. Nightshift at the emergency room seemed tame in comparison.

  Little by little, anxiety crept up her throat. Chaos Now? FBI trickery? Revolution? Who were these people who called themselves The TEAM, anyway?

  Thank God, Alex learned how to work well with the police. It was a relationship built on trust, and Mark found himself the lucky recipient of his boss’s good rapport with the current local police chief. Unfortunately, the interrogation with Bukowski and Stevenson had to take place in the hospital, since both men were critically ill.

  Police Chief Darrin McDonald escorted Mark and David to the gentlemen’s joint hospital room. “I’m sure sorry to hear about Mr. Stewart’s passing away like he did. What a shame.”

  “Thank you,” Mark replied.

  “He was a good friend. We’ll miss him. I worked with him on the White Hawk case. Damned shame he’s gone.”

  Mark searched McDonald’s eyes for any hint of insincerity. He hesitated revealing what he knew about the Chaos Now group, or his suspicions concerning FBI sniper Sam Becker’s involvement in Alex’s murder. It had become damned hard deciding whom to trust.

  Chief McDonald filled the awkward silence, his hand on the door. “I’ll be interested to see if these guys talk to you, Agent Houston. The hospital is overcrowded or we’d have them in separate locations, but given their condition, it probably doesn’t matter. They’re pretty sick. We’re not getting much out of them. About the only thing we’ve heard is Stevenson telling Bukowski to shut up.”

  “We’ll give it a try. Will you join us, sir?”

  “Yes. Is that a problem?”

  “Not at all. I’d rather you witnessed everything.”
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  A pitiful sight met Mark’s gaze when the police officers standing guard opened the hospital room door.

  Stevenson was the typical jarhead, muscle bound and thick-necked. His hair was shaved high and tight. Big chin. Square jaw.

  Bukowski, on the other hand, was Stevenson’s complete opposite. Extremely overweight, he sported a shaggy salt-and-pepper beard, with a spit-polish shine on the top of his bald head. Their only commonalities seemed to be their extremely swollen hands, gaunt faces, and deathly pallor.

  “You guys feel like talking?” Mark asked quietly as he stepped to Stevenson’s bedside.

  Neither man replied, but their doctor did. The elderly, white-haired physician arrived seconds after Mark and David. “I am Dr. Amin Jitar. What are you doing here? These gentlemen are in no condition for visitors. I’m sorry, but I insist you leave immediately.”

  “We’re not going anywhere,” Chief McDonald replied crisply. “We need answers, and whether they know it or not, these guys need our help.”

  Dr. Jitar’s eyes flashed with anger. He pointed to Stevenson. “Acute radiation isn’t to be treated lightly. The only reason they aren’t able to speak now is because of the poisoning. I’m sure of it.”

  Chief McDonald turned to Stevenson. “Not so. This guy’s been talking plenty. So has Bukowski. They’re just selective about who’s in the room when they do.”

  “Are they only presenting with gastrointestinal distress, Dr. Jitar?” David interrupted the confrontation. “Are you seeing any neurological degradation, or is it too soon to tell?”

  Dr. Jitar’s brows lifted as he turned his focus on David. “You are familiar with radiation poisoning?”

  “I understand it enough to know that specific symptoms are associated with different doses. For instance, the burns on their hands indicate they’ve been in contact with a radioactive isotope without wearing proper protection. Is that correct?”

  Dr. Jitar nodded. “Yes, they both display skin trauma indicative of recent severe exposure. Intestinal distress as well. I’m not seeing the neurological degradation you asked about yet. However, if they only came into contact with a reactor-level isotope, say caesium-137 or strontium 90, nerve damage wouldn’t present for days or even weeks.”