Keeling’s country estate, a minuscule, 10,000-square-foot brick home with two stories and a columned façade, was set up inside fifty acres of wooded and cleared land. Inside the fence they’d just cleared was an open area lined with lowlying shrubs which would provide little cover. They’d have to use their enhanced speed to reach the house undetected.
All the downstairs windows had security alarms on them, but as was typical for lots of security systems, there were no monitors on the upper floor. A fact Keeling would come to regret.
For most people, it would be just fine for the second story to go unprotected. A normal man would need a climbing kit to ascend to that height, but Hicks wasn’t normal. He’d be able to enter the senator’s bedroom through his window.
Hicks and Juarez would clear the perimeter and stand guard below. He didn’t need any assistance to complete this mission.
Keeling was an easy target and Hicks would take him out.
“The exterior guard makes his next round in ten seconds. After that you’ve got a full three-minute window before he swings around again.” King checked his watch.
“His personal bodyguard should be out back in his cottage. If he’s not, signal from the window so I can assist,” Diggs said.
Reinhardt had his own cottage in the back of Keeling’s property, but according to the reports Juarez had found, he roamed the estate freely all hours. But the man’s routine was like clockwork, coffee and run at 4:30 a.m. every morning—rain, snow, or sun. Lunch on the go with the senator and then, when they were both home, separate at nine, lights out at ten.
“There’s the guard. Ready?” said King.
The second exterior guard came around the corner, this one more alert than the last. He had his flashlight on and was constantly scanning his surroundings, but he never became aware of the three men behind the bushes. A few moments later, the guard turned the next corner on his predictable path and disappeared.
Hicks took off at a full-on sprint, faster than any normal man could ever run. As he neared the window, his heart picked up speed, pumping more blood and oxygen into his muscles for the task ahead. His right foot dunked on the ground and he leapt, landing on the two-inch brick ledge outside Sen. Keeling’s bedroom window. He’d brought a laser to cut through the glass, if needed, but he tested the locks first. When the window slid open easily, Hicks slipped inside, shaking his head at the senator’s complacency. He’d obviously thought his indiscretion had been cleaned up and that he could fully relax.
Oh, he’d thought wrong.
The senator’s bedroom was dark and his bed empty. Hicks felt his pulse tick in his ears. Keeling should be asleep at this hour. On the balls of his feet, Hicks crept to the door leading into the senator’s suite. He palmed his pistol and held it up, easing the door open with his foot.
A sitting area, lit only by the glow of a single lamp, lay before him. A massive unlit fireplace sat in the midst of the farthest wall, flanked by two dainty-looking chairs and a patterned lowlying sofa. Sitting right in the center of that sofa was Senator Keeling himself, flipping through a newspaper and completely unaware he was no longer alone.
A surge of satisfaction swept through Hicks and he made a quick scan of the room before creeping forward. He reached the senator and pressed the muzzle of his gun to the man’s skull. “Your conscience keeping you awake?”
Keeling paused mid-flip in the newspaper.
“I guess you thought your little problem had been solved.” Keeping his gun aimed directly at Keeling’s head, Hicks circled around the couch so he could face the man and look him in the eye.
He closely resembled his picture. Salt-and-pepper hair, clean-shaven face, slim build. He had the look of a polished politician.
And he’d hired a group of bloodthirsty killers to take out Whitney, who’d committed no greater crime than keeping her end of their strange bargain. Hicks’s heart rate slowed dangerously as his rage rose up inside him.
“Who are you?” Keeling lowered his newspaper to his lap, his blue eyes wide. From here, Hicks could hear the man’s pulse racing.
Good. He should be afraid.
“I think the better question would be why I’m here,” Hicks said, fighting to keep his finger off the trigger. He had promised Whitney a face-to-face meeting with this asshole, and he was going to keep his promise.
“Why?”
Keeling’s single-worded question sent an eruption of fury up Hicks’s throat, as hot as volcanic lava. “Because the men you sent to cover up the dirt in your past failed.”
“What? What are you talking about?” Keeling acted as if he had no idea what Hicks meant, which only made him more furious. Was Whitney that unimportant to him?
“Let me jog your memory, Senator. You hired a team of men to murder Whitney Averton.” All the blood drained from Keeling’s face, and Hicks couldn’t help it, he stalked forward and put his gun directly in the center of the man’s head. “I see you remember now.”
“What—wait, I can explain. I didn’t—”
He jammed his gun so hard against Keeling’s head, the man flinched. “You did. Believe me, I’ve still got their bodies. You’re not lying your way out of this one.”
Fuck his promise to Whitney. He was going to finish the senator here and now. He’d ask for her forgiveness later. He had no intention of allowing this bastard to ever lay eyes on his woman again.
“But they were just supposed to relocate her out of D.C., set her up in another state with a different house and a different name. Not kill her!”
“Nice act, Keeling, but I don’t buy it.”
“I swear, I would never hurt Whitney. She’s been my saving grace.”
A growl erupted from Hicks’s throat. The thought of Whitney doing anything with this man made his blood run cold.
“Please,” Keeling said, “I can prove it. Check my desk. I’ve already started the paperwork for her new house. I would never hurt her.”
Part of the senator’s message broke through Hicks’s feverish mind, and he eased his finger from the trigger, though he kept the gun in place. “So, you’re telling me you had nothing to do with her being fired and almost killed?”
“Well, maybe. But I had a new job lined up for her in Cali. An even bigger nonprofit. I knew how passionate she is for charities. I even headed a new bill that was just passed to pour millions of dollars of funding into nonprofits like the one where she worked. Look it up, all that information is readily available online.”
Keeling’s words rang with honesty, but then, most men would say almost anything when their lives were threatened.
Hicks pressed the microphone in his neck to stay on and spoke, “HQ, can you verify?”
Reaper’s low voice came through Hicks’s ear. “Already on it. The bill Keeling is talking about was introduced months ago. I’ve also been able to dig around into some of his trusts and it shows he’s acquired a residence in California, outside of San Francisco, within the past week. Everything he’s saying is true.”
But that didn’t add up. If Keeling was telling the truth, who was trying to kill Whitney? “Roger.”
“I’m assuming your person verified the facts?” Keeling asked, his voice wavering.
Hicks removed the gun from the man’s head but did not holster it. His gut told him there was a threat somewhere nearby. He could smell it.
“Did you hire the cleaning team yourself?” Hicks asked.
Keeling shook his head. “No, my bodyguard, Reinhardt, handled all of that.”
Reinhardt. Whitney had called him a “real bastard,” and her tone had underlined her words. If Keeling was innocent, and he hadn’t played a role in hiring the cleanup team, could Reinhardt have gone rogue and taken the situation into his own hands? “Headquarters, run the name Reinhardt ASAP.” Hicks turned back to Keeling. “Where is he?”
“He should be asleep. He has his own place out back.” Keeling rose to his feet, cautiously making his way toward the desk. “Let me call him, we’l
l straighten all this out. I think there’s been some type of mistake.”
“No. Lets me and you go pay him a little visit.” Hicks grabbed Keeling by the collar and shoved him toward the door. “If you try anything stupid, I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in you.”
He meant every deadly word, too. Keeling might be coming off as innocent for now, but that didn’t mean Hicks had to trust the bastard.
“I’m going, you don’t have to use the gun. There isn’t anyone else in the house tonight.” Keeling slowed and turned but Hicks propelled him on.
“We can talk more when we get to Reinhardt’s.”
Keeling wisely kept his mouth shut and lead the way down stairs and out back. A large guest house sat a few hundred yards from the back door of the main residence, the sidewalk leading out lined with shrubs and flowers. Hicks kept Keeling directly in front as a shield in case the bodyguard and Keeling were planning an ambush.
They made it to the front door without incident. Keeling knocked and waited. Hicks kept his gun ready.
When no answer came, Keeling rang the doorbell. “Reinhardt, it’s me! Open up!”
Hicks closed his eyes briefly and listened for movement inside. Seconds ticked past without so much as a rustle of clothing from inside the house. “Try the knob.”
Keeling twisted the handle. “Its locked.”
“Move.”
Keeling wisely sidestepped. Hicks raised his booted foot and kicked. The door splintered open, swinging at an odd angle as its top hinge busted.
“That was a steel door,” Keeling whispered.
Hicks ignored him and crept inside, his gun at the ready. The hairs down his legs rose to attention as an undeniable sense of dread grew. The foyer, a spare yet luxurious room, was empty. The kitchen, empty. The same for all the other rooms. He made his way slow and steady through the house, knowing something was very wrong but unable to detect why.
And then they reached an almost hidden pocket door in the very back. “What’s this?”
Keeling shrugged. “It leads to the basement and then underground to the main house and the back gate. I had it installed in case of an emergency.”
“Like tonight?”
“I guess so.” Keeling tugged at his collar and shifted. “I doubt he’s in there though. No one’s been in that tunnel since it’s construction.”
“And you know because you monitor it?” Hicks asked.
“I – well, I think no one’s been down there. We haven’t had any kind of reason to use it.”
Of course not, but Reinhardt could have. “Get against the wall. Don’t move.”
He needed Keeling out of the way. Hicks had a very, very strong feeling Reinhardt had been using this tunnel. Hicks reached for the knob, not surprised to find it locked. Only one reason to keep it locked now and that meant Reinhardt was hiding something. “Your body guard doesn’t seem to want you using the tunnel. If this is for your safety, so you can escape in an emergency from your house, he wouldn’t have this locked.”
Hicks tightened his hold on the knob, the metal bending in his palm. He twisted it off and tossed the now useless brass to the floor. The door swung open without resistance.
“How did you do that?” Keeling said, his tone full of awe.
“Keep quiet.” Hicks had no intention of filling the Senator in on the reason for his strength. His every ounce of focus was directed down the dark staircase. He took the steps careful and slow, ready for an attack.
An attack that never came. The air grew colder, damper as he descended. He reached the bottom in complete dark, able to make out the steps without light.
“You okay down there?” Keeling called out.
Wariness made his scalp tingle. The darkness pressed on his shoulders, fueling his instincts. Something was very, very wrong. Hicks scanned the dark room for a light switch. He found it and turned on the lights.
Pictures of Whitney from every angle, in hundreds of places plastered every square inch of the walls. Naked. Clothed. Walking to work. In her bedroom, asleep.
Hicks recoiled in horror. The blood leached from his numb fingers, pounding into his heart.
Reinhardt was the stalker.
“What the hell?” Keeling whispered from behind him.
Hicks worked to keep his voice steady, when his insides churned with rage. “Did you know about this?”
If he did, he was a dead man.
“No. I had no idea. These – they’re terrible. He must have followed her the entire time.” Keeling’s voice shook, but Hicks didn’t feel anything but pure fury.
“He’s a dead man.”
Gunfire cracked in the distance and Hicks took off at a dead sprint up the staircase, pressing the mic around his throat. “Juarez, come in.”
The line crackled. “Hicks, I’m taking fire, man. I’m pinned down behind the vehicle. Whitney’s trapped inside.”
“It’s Reinhardt. He’s the stalker.”
20
The glass shattered and Whitney screamed, throwing her hands over her head as she tried to wedge herself as flat as she could against the floorboard of the back seat. The shot had come out of nowhere. What had happened to Juarez? Was he hurt? Where was Hicks?
Her thoughts flew around in a mad jumble, stirred up with a heavy dose of fear that made her heart jackhammer against her rib cage.
What was happening? The seconds ticked by without another gunshot and Whitney’s nerves stretched thin. Too scared to lift her head, she shouted, “Juarez!”
A bullet whizzed overhead and bit into the back glass. She screamed again.
“Stay down!” Juarez shouted from somewhere behind the SUV.
Three more bullets pinged into the car, pushing her past the edge of reason. She fumbled for the door latch overhead, desperate to escape, and shoved the back-passenger door wide. The gunshots were coming from the direction of the windshield, so she could only pray the door would give her cover. Pop. Pop. The door vibrated from the force of the bullets sinking into the metal. Whitney had started to climb out but now scrambled backward, covering her head with her hands.
“Son-of-a-bitch, Whitney!” She heard Juarez return fire from behind, and even though the door was open she felt as if all the air had been sucked out of the cab. She couldn’t breathe. The seats seemed to be crashing down on her. No matter what Juarez said, she had to get out—she was a sitting duck in here.
She gathered all of her strength, grabbed the seat and propelled out of the vehicle, hitting the dirt elbows first. Pain shot up her shoulders, but she didn’t allow her brain any time to process that before clawing to her feet and running for cover behind the car.
A barrage of bullets stormed around her. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out, her vocal cords paralyzed with fear. Bullets flew, but she kept on running. Just as she cleared the back of the car, Juarez’s arm shot out and he flung her down, throwing his body over hers.
“Jesus Christ, you are nuts.”
She couldn’t breathe. His weight was crushing her lungs, and the panic was ripping at her from the inside.
Juarez cursed again and rose, pulling her with him and shoving her against the back of the SUV. “Keep your head down. He’s somewhere in front of the car. I’ve been able to determine a direction but not an exact location.”
“Call Hicks, make sure he’s okay.” Whitney braced her hands on her knees. If someone was attacking them, did that mean Hicks was hurt? Or worse—dead?
“He’s on his way, and if you would just lay low until backup gets here, we’ll both be fine,” Juarez said calmly.
“I can’t just sit here while someone’s shooting at us!”
“Woman, you’re going to stay put. If anything happens to you, Hicks will kill me.” Juarez reached up and pressed a small black button linked to a thin wire strapped around his neck. “Hicks, give me your ETA.”
Juarez tilted his head to the side as if listening to a voice that Whitney couldn’t hear. Then he said, “Roger, got a
nervous package here. Need backup pronto. Target due north, fifty meters under heavy camo.”
Juarez’s voice was steady enough to bring her back from full-on panic mode. “Why aren’t you scared?” she hissed.
Juarez peeked around the side of the car and then moved back so fast his body looked like a blur. “This is nothing, a warm-up snack. I’m just sad we have to wait on backup, I’ve been eager to do some target shooting.”
All of these men were insane. In the car, everyone but Hicks had been practically bouncing in their seat with eagerness, like a child on his way to Christmas. Juarez did that blurred movement again, and although she couldn’t quite track him, she knew he was looking around the back of the car. A bullet pinged off the corner where his head had been a split second before. “Stop doing that!”
Juarez grinned. “Just having a little fun, sugar.”
“You’re taunting him.”
Juarez’s smile did not falter. “No, sugar, I’m distracting him.”
Another shot rang out, this one much louder and from a different direction. There was a hoarse shout and then the sound of scuffling.
“And we’re clear.” Juarez strolled out from behind the car as if he didn’t have to worry about possibly having his head taken off. Whitney stayed rooted to the spot, unable to make her feet move. If he wanted to commit suicide, by all means, but she had no intention of jumping out and playing decoy.
Suddenly, Juarez rocked back. He turned to Whitney, reaching for her. Dread made her arms heavy like lead. She reached for him, but Juarez was already falling to the ground, blood covering his chest.
“Juarez!” Whitney dropped to her knees, sobs wrenching from her throat.
A bullet plunked in the dirt a few feet from his head. She screamed. She had to help him. If she lay on her belly, she might be able to reach him and pull him to cover. Juarez’s black eyes focused on her with such intensity she froze. “No,” he mouthed.
Mayhem's Desire: Operation Mayhem Page 19