Gabe (In the Company of Snipers Book 8)

by Winters, Irish

  Gabe looked down at her hand in his. He hadn’t remembered grabbing onto it, but there it was. She was right, damn it.

  The Marine in him snapped to command. “Gear up, ladies. We’re going to war.”

  If Mom could only see me now.

  Gabe had made good on his promise. Not only did he entrust Shelby with two weapons she had no idea how to shoot, she also now toted a backpack loaded with a bunch of stuff she didn’t know how to use, either.

  Gabe was a man on fire. He’d had no other choice. They’d literally hit the ground running with him in the lead. How Ember could keep up in three-inch glam heels was another thing altogether. But the woman had changed from competent techie to kick-ass warrior. Warrior-ess? Whatever.

  The backpack slung over Ember’s shoulder, combined with the holster on her hip, made her a blonde version of Lara Crofts, the heroine of the Tomb Raider mystique. The sharp staccato of her heels made her intentions clear. She meant business.

  Gabe commandeered a SUV in the lower-level parking garage. They crossed the Potomac in no time. Shelby rode shotgun with Ember belted behind her in the center seat.

  “Keep an eye out for any FBI van.” Gabe peered to the left and right as he drove. “Fallon’s probably parked it by now.”

  “Just to be clear, where’s our first target?” Ember asked.

  “World War II Memorial. To the President.”

  “But Rory and Mark aren’t—”

  He gritted his teeth. Tonight was about saving more than just their teammates. She had to have known that when she’d geared up. “Ember. President Adams is our number one priority until we know where the Vice President is. I’m sorry.”

  “No, I get it,” she replied softly, but all Shelby heard was the hurt in Ember’s voice and another metal on metal sound. A gun being racked. A round chambered.

  And there she was, Shelby Sullivan, a darned good healthcare provider when Gabe needed a weapons expert to cover his back, someone like Ember.

  She fingered the leather strap, tracing the outline of the weight concealed beneath a light TEAM jacket and over a heavier tactical vest as her mind went back to that moment in The TEAM vault. The armory. The tender look in his eyes when he’d slipped the holster over her left shoulder had startled her, but more startling—the regret she thought she’d detected.

  He’d called it a vertical holster, so much different than the one he wore where the barrel rested horizontally in the pocket, its grip aligned for quick access.

  The barrel of her weapon was aimed downward, the end of it snug in the holster’s pocket. To draw it, she’d have to wrangle the heavy thing up and out of the holster, then bring it into horizontal position in order to aim.

  It wasn’t like he meant for her to actually use it. He’d set her straight on that point.

  “Don’t pull this weapon unless you intend to kill someone, Shell,” he’d said, his breath heavy in her face. “Promise me. This isn’t the time to bluff or play chicken. People will die tonight. I don’t want you to be one of them.”

  She’d nodded quickly and obediently to prove she meant what she’d said, but mostly she couldn’t speak because of the pounding inside his chest. Gabe might’ve looked fierce and protective, but electricity had crackled around him. His heart had to have been lodged in his throat, the pulse of it throbbing at the hollow of his neck. An unspoken sadness had lingered in his gaze, and she’d known instantly. He was thinking of his friend, Darrell. That little boy with the grenade launcher. And he was scared he’d lose her before this night was through.

  Her fingers had ached to cup his chin, her lips to kiss the mouth that had driven her to the brink of abandonment earlier, simply because he’d looked so forlorn. Undecided. Like Mark Houston had looked earlier. Like it had taken Gabe’s powerful boss a moment of anguish before he’d decided to send his friends into war.

  The reality stunned her. This wasn’t the news or a reality show. She got it. Mark had truly been scared that he might have to send his team to their deaths. They weren’t just soldiers, nameless faces on news reports she’d never cared about enough to watch.

  They were Ember’s handsome husband, Rory.

  The stoic Taylor.

  Brooding Maverick.

  That cute blond guy, Connor. Izza, his gorgeous wife.

  They were all—Gabe.

  She’d seen it in the depth of his green eyes in that armory, so dark and black they frightened her. He loves me. He wants to kiss me, too, but he won’t. Because he might die. Because I might die.

  That did it. Even with Ember nearby and strapping on her own array of weaponry, Shelby had cast caution to the wind. If that was to be Gabe’s and hers last moment together, she meant to grab hold and hang on tight for once in her pathetically controlled life. The second she’d reached for him, he’d clutched her to his chest, squeezing the air out of her, but also squeezing life into her with a fervent kiss. And she’d surrendered, because that was what she’d wanted more than breath itself. Him.

  The lights of the glorious city ahead drew her mind from that reverent moment in the armory. That kiss. She lifted her fingers from the holster at her side to her bottom lip, savoring the only taste of eternity she’d experienced. The only one she wanted.

  A melancholy energy filled the vehicle. Ember had to be worried sick for Rory. Gabe’s jaw was hard set at a sharp angle, his chin jutted forward. He’d turned himself to stone.

  So that was what soldiers did. They shoved their humanity aside to do what needed doing.

  Shelby swallowed hard, her throat dry. She pushed her glasses up her nose one last time.

  I can do stone.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  God, this is the most idiotic thing I’ve ever done—drag a complete novice, a pacifist at that, into what may turn out to be Hell. But what choice is there?

  Gabe purposefully approached the Mall from the southeast. He jumped the curb and parked due east of the Washington Monument. Crowds were heavy, but security seemed lighter than usual, not that he could trust the usual array of Metro PD uniforms anymore. Lack of a good visual hadn’t stopped the FBI from swarming David’s or Mark’s teams.

  Palming his cell phone he checked the time. Forty-two minutes and counting, IF the FBI intel David had intercepted was correct.

  Not enough time to find the bomb.

  Not enough time to save the Vice President.

  Not enough time to do anything.

  Too bad. He meant to try.

  “Move it,” he ordered, his boots already on the ground, and damn it. Ember should’ve worn work boots, not stilettos. Shelby scurried to his side, nearly looking the part of a covert agent, but Ember? Well, so be it. How the hell do women walk in those things?

  He set a beeline to the World War II Memorial, angling through the crowd, his impossible mission to save everyone falling behind with every step. Shelby and Ember stayed close.

  Within minutes, the lighted southern Arch of Triumph, the one commemorating the war in the Pacific Theater, came into view. And God, the sight of the memorial at night robbed Gabe’s breath.

  The semicircle of fifty-six granite pillars, each representing an American state, district or territory, stood in muted honor to the thousands of men and women who’d given their lives for the sake of freedom. Due west stood the lighted Lincoln Memorial, the silvery reflection pond stretched in between like a regal carpet from one monument to the other.

  Reporters were everywhere. A wealth of elderly veterans, too. This was a reverent place for heroes, not the site for a smoldering hole in the ground, a burial place for all these poor people.

  The gall of the impending disaster spilled more acid into Gabe’s stomach. He scrubbed a hard hand over his chin and kept his panic to himself, but damn it. Where the hell is Fallon? His van? Becker? Shit, where’s the damned VP?

  The impossible mission turned more hopeless when President Adams stepped onto a raised platform within the elliptical circle of the sacred monument. The su
mmer crowd pressed around the edges of the inner pond, vying for a better view. Some had their shoes in hand, wading into the shallow water to see their President.

  Sweat trickled down the sides of Gabe’s head at the sheer enormity of the challenge before him. God. I’m just one man. I can’t fail. Not this time. Not tonight.

  Cameras flashed out of the corner of his eye. Applause sounded as the military band played Hail to the Chief. A roar went up when President Adams stepped to the podium, and damn it! Despite what damned well better be transparent bulletproof panels between him and the crowd, he’d just put himself in mortal danger.

  It was happening. And if Adams was there, Winston had to be close by. Where?

  Gabe strained his neck in all directions to see over the crowd, searching for the VP and his accompanying entourage of Secret Service. Wasn’t that what Mark suspected? The Vice President was the one in danger? Then where the hell was he?

  “Look.” Shelby tugged Gabe’s right sleeve. The poor thing wasn’t tall enough. She couldn’t see over the crowd.

  “What?” He didn’t mean to bark at her.

  She pointed across his chest to his right. “Is that him? Is that guy by the wall over there him?”

  He followed the break in the crowd to where Shelby pointed. And sure enough. Becker. The sonofabitch was cocky as sin to think he could get this close to the President.

  Well, no more. It ends here.

  “Keep up,” Gabe growled to his rag-tag pair of ladies, following Becker up the walk east of the monument. They might not be as rough and tough as the guys, but he was damned glad they were at his six. Glad for Shelby’s sharp eyes and Ember’s weapons experience. Maybe liberty and D.C. stood a chance after all.

  They ran to keep up with their quarry, jostling through the crowd. Becker kept his right index finger pressed to his ear while he walked. The bugger was either relaying intel to Fallon, or who the hell cared anymore? Gabe honestly did not know which side the man was on anymore, and this late in the game, he didn’t care. Let him talk. He wouldn’t get far.

  Gabe picked up the pace. Taking Becker down his number one priority. Then maybe he could get some answers.

  Shelby all but ran beside him to keep up. Ember, too. He kicked it up a notch when Becker glanced over his shoulder at the President, now offering opening remarks over a booming PA system to the milling crowd. Becker hadn’t spotted Gabe and his team, all the motivation Gabe needed. The asshat knew something or he wouldn’t have been running away from the scene of the crime like he was.

  Gabe left the ladies behind, and gave it all he had. He sprinted forward to intercept the sonofabitch. If nothing else, Becker would die along with everyone else on this god-awful night. He’d started it. He’d damned well see it through to the smoking bitter end.

  Becker pivoted on one foot, and Gabe skidded to a stop. He’d been caught. He brought his pistol to bear on Becker with a curt, “Take one more step and I’ll shoot you where you stand.”

  “Damn it, Cartwright. I don’t have time for this.” Becker rolled his eyes. “You might as well join me. Get up here.” He turned his back to Gabe and headed southwest despite the threat.

  Gabe meant to shoot the arrogant jerk, FBI or not, but he didn’t shoot people in the back. He concealed his weapon inside his open jacket and followed.

  “Why should I go with you?”

  “Because you’d die to save the President. Come on. Your lady friends, too. Move it.”

  He crossed the lawn south toward Independence Avenue, still speaking into his earpiece. “Roger. Ten minutes to Eagle Two. I should be done by then.”

  “Eagle Two? You mean the Vice President?” Gabe growled.

  Becker held his hand up for silence while he continued talking to that other person. Had to be Fallon, didn’t it? Gabe wasn’t so sure anymore. Chaos Now had targeted the VP. Right?

  “That’s why we needed you and only you,” Becker continued. “Call when it’s done. Hope I’ll be around to answer my phone.”

  Who the hell’s he speaking with, Goddamnit!

  Becker pocketed his phone and broke into a jog. “Your call, Cartwright. Keep up or shoot me, but I’ve got someplace to be.”

  Gabe nodded at Shelby and Ember to keep up with Becker. The farther from the Memorial, the lighter the foot traffic, but the more apprehensive Gabe became. He holstered his weapon, none of his questions answered. “Where are you going?”

  “If we do this right, it won’t matter. No one will ever know. Maybe it’s a good thing you guys showed up after all.”

  “Oh, no. Look.” Ember pointed to an FBI van parked at the curb on Independence Avenue. “There’s a van. It might be him.”

  So that was the deal. Becker needed to move the van closer to the President. That was why the countdown. He’d been stalling, and Gabe had fallen for it.

  Well, no sonofabitchin’ more.

  He lunged, knocking Becker to the ground in a half-nelson hold, his arm caught under Becker’s armpit, his other hand pushing the assassin’s head into the ground. Gabe brought both fists together and interlocked his fingers. “Now I’ve got you.”

  Becker growled, his face mashed in the dirt while he struggled to level a punch that never could’ve connected.

  “You’re done,” Gabe spat. “The bomb blows, you go with it. Now talk. Where’s Fallon? What have you guys done to the Vice President? You kill him already? Is that why you’re going after the President?”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Becker ground out, his face still in the wet grass. “You’ve got to trust me. We’ve got five minutes left to diffuse the bomb. Maybe less.”

  “We what? Diffuse?” Gabe loosened his hold a little, not ready to trust. Both Ember and Shelby had their pistols drawn. That alone ramped up Gabe’s adrenaline even farther. Shelby really had no business with a loaded weapon.

  “You heard me. We for Christ’s sake, Cartwright. We. Let me up so I can do my job. You’re wasting time.”

  Gabe eased back and let Becker go.

  The FBI sniper scrambled to his feet. “Shit. I’m not here to kill the President. Not unless I screw up and can’t diffuse it.”

  “The dirty bomb? You’re on our side?” Shelby asked, holstering her weapon as if she already trusted this guy.

  Gabe glanced over his shoulder at his sole companion. Ember must have gone off to find her husband, and Gabe couldn’t blame her. He’d want to be with the one he loved at the end of the world, too.

  Becker sprinted toward the van. Gabe grabbed Shelby’s hand and followed. At the rear gate of the vehicle, Becker put a finger to his mouth for silence, then jerked both doors open simultaneously.

  And ‘Holy shit!’ didn’t come close to describing what Chaos Now had brought to D.C.

  In place of the rear bench seats, bricks of orange SEMTEX and off-white C4 had been carefully arranged. The plastic explosives nearly filled the van to capacity, along with an array of blasting caps, fuse igniters, and detonators. A large silver canister stood in the center of the plastic explosives like a buried missile silo.

  Gabe clutched Shelby’s fingers tighter. “That’s the isotope,” he muttered, his throat thirty-grit kinds of dry.

  “Welcome to the twisted world of Chaos Now.” Becker fingered the multi-colored bundle of wires leading from the bricks of explosives to the detonator. He pulled a pair of wire cutters from his pocket, handing them to Gabe. “Sure hope you’re calm under pressure, Cartwright. Fallon set this up with two hot wires. One for the SEMTEX. One for the C-4. You’ll need to make your cut at the precise same moment that I make mine. Understood?”

  Gabe accepted the pliers, every last drop of saliva gone from his mouth and throat. Shit.

  Becker pointed to the wire in question with the tip of another pair of pliers he’d pulled out of his shirt pocket. “You ready?”

  Gabe would’ve replied, but the earth bucked beneath their feet. People over at the World War II Memorial screamed. Something fucking big had just
blown up. A blinding white light illuminated the northern sky. Gut-wrenching panic stopped his heart. God. What have I done?

  He grabbed Becker’s shirt collar, damned well not going to be an accessory to anymore lying shit! He had a weapon in his hand. He could stab Becker right there and put an end to this dastardly plan to end the United States. “Was that another one of your dirty bombs? Answer me! I won’t betray my country, you asshole!”

  Becker blew out a breath between pursed lips, his eyes dark and so damned serious. He glanced at the hand fisted in his shirt before he leveled his gaze on Gabe. The grayest eyes met Gabe’s head on. The man didn’t even blink. Not once. “To be honest, I’m not sure what that explosion was, but this is the only dirty bomb in D.C.”

  “But there are two other vans and a helicopter out there somewhere,” Gabe spat, his hands shaking.

  “You’re right, but only one bomb. Shit, Cartwright. I’ll explain everything later, but right now, help me save the city. Maybe the world. Trust me, Gabe. We’re running out of time.”

  Icy cold tiptoed up Gabe’s spine, coming to rest in a death grip at the back of his neck. Panic loomed, but God. Everything rested on him? A one-footed hot-rodder who’d shot a kid to save his own life? Me? How can I be sure?

  “I don’t know you,” he ground out, caught at the edge of nowhere with nothing but trust to rely on. Shoot too late. Shoot too early. Cut the right wire at the right time. Die anyway?

  How does a man know for sure? How does he trust with so little factual information to base a nation-altering decision like this on? He wavered, his throat parched. How could he trust the man who might have assassinated Alex and who had personally put Kelsey through a living hell?

  Shelby pressed into Gabe’s side, carefully not bumping him. Her arm slid around his waist, her slender fingers dipping under his belt like a teenage girl might have done with a boy she liked. Maybe loved.

  Becker gritted his teeth. “Damn it, Gabe. Either you’re the man of honor I thought you were, or give me the pliers and I’ll do it myself. Decide. Now!”