He settled until the portion of shaft at his back met the concrete behind him. That was important. Simply ramming it wouldn’t work. Hell, no. He had to hit the concrete at the perfect angle. With enough impact. Once ought to be the right amount of torture. It ought to hurt like hell. And—if he was lucky—it ought to snap this beast off, once and for all.
So do it.
I’m thinking, Boss. Give me a second.
Just do it.
Shit, I’m losing my mind. I’m talking to a guy who isn’t even here.
Then stop talking.
He gripped his right elbow and drew his right arm across his chest—and damn. The beast imbedded in his body never let up, never gave one second of relief. Not one centimeter of compromise, either.
Hopelessness clawed at his last ounce of courage. Sucking in one quick short breath, he squeezed his eyes shut and leaned forward.
I can do this. I will win. I hope.
He slammed backward and—snap! The wood broke. Right where he meant it to, and—
Sonofabitch!
He needed that damned wall now. Shadows loomed over and around, taunting him to give up. To lie down and die. Back off. I’m still breathing.
“Thank you, Father,” he murmured weakly. In no way did he mean General Armstrong. Hell, no. Those days were dead and gone, but the instant connection to a greater Being sustained him. A good thing, because this next step would take all he had left to give which wasn’t much.
He ran his index finger along the last of the arrow shaft in front of him, all the way to the fletching, igniting a burning vibration in his chest. Pain was an unwelcome friend, but a friend nonetheless. It meant he still lived. Breathed. Somehow, causing his own agony told him he was in control. That newfound knowledge was all he needed.
You’re no son of mine, the General taunted yet again.
God, I wish.
Right on cue, Alex showed up with another, Think. Damn it. Think!
I’m freakin’ losing my mind.
It didn’t escape him that he was caught between two strong bullies, one who inspired men to follow while the other badgered, belittled, and denigrated those he was not strong enough to lead. And therein lay the reason Taylor left the Corps.
He ran his tongue over his dry lips, panting for the little bit of air he could get. The remaining stump of the arrow had become the rudder that would now determine his course. It all came down to this defining moment.
Do or die.
He gritted his teeth, let out a mighty “Oo-rah.” Damn, it sounded pathetic.
He dusted his palms to the ground beside him, needing grit for this next torture routine. Wrapping his fingers around the wood, he held on tight. It killed him just to touch it. His knees knocked into each other, his boots, but not once did he let the shaft go.
I can do this.
Then do it. Do it now. Do it fast.
Okay. Yeah.
He obeyed his boss and—Arghhh! Taylor wrenched the evil thing. Clean. Clear. Out!
He lifted the bloody shaft over his head like Alex could see it.
The arrow’s departure brought as much pain as its arrival. His left arm fell weak and useless to his side, his fingers uncurled, releasing the damned thing once and for all.
Almost felt good.
Somewhere in the far off world of shadows and ghosts, his father’s bitter voice faded to black, gone again, like this win against all odds was no big deal. Daddy Dearest at his best. Show up. Sound off. Be seen. Leave without saying one decent word.
The shadow of Alex growled a departing, Knew you could do it.
Taylor nodded to the ghost of his boss before he let the darkness swallow him whole.
Winning always felt like shit.
Gracie wheeled Mrs. Steele onto the brick patio of the assisted living home. An Alzheimer’s patient, she experienced too few moments of lucidity. Today she seemed talkative, but Gracie knew better. Talk didn’t equate to coherent conversation.
“My son likes you,” Mrs. Steele said for the hundredth, if not the thousandth time since she’d come to stay at Providence Assisted Living. “He wants to marry you.”
“He does?” Gracie played along.
Mrs. Steele seemed intent on matchmaking, but the truth was Gracie had never seen her son, nor met whoever paid the bills. Alzheimer’s patients were hard for some families to deal with. It seemed an easier solution to warehouse them in a comfy nursing home, out of sight and out of mind until their confusing days on earth were spent. Again, Gracie understood. This was her job, the reason she’d come to work here in the first place, to care for hopeless cases. Like Mary.
“Oh, yes,” the older woman declared. “He talks about you all the time, doesn’t he, Rex?” She turned to the empty chair at her left side. “Go on. Tell her.”
“Can I get you anything?” Gracie asked, wiping a thin strand of drool from her patient’s chin. “Would you like a cup of tea? May I read to you?”
“No. I’m busy. Can’t you see I’m talking to Frank?”
Ah, yes, Rex and Frank. At least their appearance ended the matchmaking discussion for the day.
Gracie worked with seven other Certified Nursing Assistants at the Home. Between the eight of them, they helped the patients with showers, distributed medications, fixed meals and kept an occasional all night vigil when death came calling. It seemed a comforting kind of a job. Serving Mary had taught her well. Gracie loved all of her patients.
“Where’s that White Hawk girl?” Mrs. Steele asked suddenly, her eyes bright and clear. “Her room’s empty. She out dancing? Have you seen her?”
“Mary passed away a couple of days ago, ma’am,” Gracie responded quietly, but the image was a pleasant thought. Maybe that’s exactly what she’s doing, dancing on the clouds with angels and not a care in the world.
A shadow passed through the older woman’s faded gray eyes. Her tongue flicked over her top lip while her neck sunk into her shoulders. Her left brow spiked in the most peculiar way. “My son likes you, Gracie Fox. He’s going to marry you some day. Did you know that? He tells me all the time.”
She almost seemed in complete charge of her faculties and Gracie would have engaged her further if the outdoor phone hadn’t jangled obnoxiously. Thank the Lord for small favors.
“Gracie!” A man’s voice burst into her ear. “You have to come home. Now. I’ve... I’ve done something terrible.” His voice drifted off into garbled declarations of “Don’t tell Peter,” mingled with “God Almighty, what have I done? I’ve shot him.”
“You did what?” Gracie pressed the receiver to her ear, hoping she’d heard wrong. “Shot who? What are you talking about?”
A heavy sigh answered before Luke White Hawk, Peter’s son, had the nerve to repeat his bad news with clarity and steadiness. “I had no choice. I shot Taylor with my bow this morning.”
“How could you? What were you thinking?”
“He’s smart, Gracie. He’s a Marine. He’d put two and two together and the next thing you know, he’d be hunting his own grandfather. I had to do something. I had to protect the blood hunt. Taylor might have killed Peter if I hadn’t taken him out of the game. I did it for his own good. God, what have I done?”
“You’re not making sense. Tell me what happened.”
Adrenaline reverberated through Luke’s voice as he tried to calm. “I was at the range this morning. Taylor was there with his whole team. You would have been proud. He’s the best of them all, but on the way home I heard on the radio that his team agreed to protect one of them.”
Gracie could’ve screamed. Peter was at this moment hunting them. There had been three until the day after Mary’s funeral. She’d followed his progress on the news. Two were down. One to go. With every update her heart filled with more darkness and guilt, but Taylor? He didn’t know who they were or who his grandfather was.
Ah! What had Luke done?
“Tell me he’s still alive,” she demanded, her fingers cold and clam
my on the phone. Didn’t this White Hawk family know anything but violence?
“Yes. It was a clean shot. The arrow went straight and true. Don’t worry. I took him to your place. He’s very strong, but he’s not going anywhere. I hid him in your shed in case Peter came back. He can’t know what I’ve done. Can you get away? Now?”
She trembled as she answered. For Taylor, she’d quit her job. “I’m coming.”
“Hurry, Gracie. Hurry!”
Chapter Two
“He was at the range early this morning for night vision certification. I saw him. He shot perfect scores in accuracy and distance like he always does. Take a look for yourself.” Junior Agent Ember Dennison, assistant technical advisor to The TEAM, laid the latest quarterly weapons proficiency report on Alex Stewart’s desk.
Once a year, all agents had to pass night proficiency. Once a year, arctic conditions in the far north of Canada. This morning’s certification began in the wee hours, after that weapons cert. He should’ve been in the office hours ago.
“Then where is he?” Alex had no patience for tardy agents. As CEO and owner of the best covert surveillance company on the East Coast, he needed a distasteful contract off his desk. Junior Agent Taylor Armstrong was up next on the docket and already assigned.
“He’s not answering his phone, either. Sent him a text, too.”
“That’s not like him.” Now Alex was concerned.
“I asked Mother to run his GPS signal, but she hasn’t located him either.”
Alex grimaced. He’d had missing agents before. Hopefully Mother, his lead technical advisor, could work one of her miracles and locate this one.
“Let me know when he shows. Send in Harley and Mark.” There might be a good reason Taylor had dropped off the grid. Alex didn’t borrow trouble. Until he knew different, he had a business to run. The contract to protect Crosland Webster, a local reporter, made him restless enough he couldn’t sit still. Stalking to the plate glass window behind his desk, he rested one foot on the low windowsill and glowered at the streets of Alexandria, Virginia, below.
Who would have thought a covert surveillance company comprised of nothing but ex-military snipers would get off the ground in competitive Washington D.C.? Until then he’d not realized the federal government’s appetite for security work. They were making him rich and he was inclined to let them.
The hardest part of this business was the wear and tear on its men and women. It was a younger man’s job. Both in their sixties, his senior agents, Murphy Finnegan and Roy Hudson had up and decided they deserved a break from hazardous duty. Alex smirked at the notion of those geezers taking a break. Hell, they were more like youngsters than some of the young guys in the office.
He didn’t blame Roy or Murphy, but he’d miss them. Their age and experience had buffered the zealous youth that comprised The TEAM now. Yes, the youngsters were sharper in a lot of ways, but old age and treachery had their place. If anyone knew that, it was Alex. With Murphy and Roy gone, he was the old dog in the office, not in years, but in number of battles fought.
From his window, he could see King Street all the way to the Potomac if he cared to look. He didn’t, his mind on the pressing news of the day.
Somewhere in all that busyness on the fair streets of Alexandria, a predator stalked, someone who preyed on news reporters. Based on his first victim, Victoria Levitt, ace reporter of the local yellow journalism rag, the Independent Virginia Chronicle, he’d been tagged the Chronicle Killer. Ms. Levitt’s allegations and on the spot accusations were seldom right, but always inflammatory. A hot shot and a big mouth, she’d slandered Alex and The TEAM plenty in the past.
It was with little sympathy that he’d read the news report of Ms. Levitt’s murder, but Alex had found the details interesting. Her girlfriend found her in her backyard, impaled with a wooden arrow through her heart as she’d sunbathed in the nude. If that wasn’t strange enough, her killer had sliced her tongue along its midline. The incision appeared surgical. According to the Medical Examiner, accomplished post mortem. Yes. Interesting.
The ME also discovered a piece of glass stuck deep in her throat, but only after he’d removed a green linen table napkin stuffed in her bloody mouth. No sign of sexual assault and no torture. Ms. Levitt died the moment the arrow pierced her heart.
One day later, the killer struck again. Bob Hemmings. Channel 16’s finest. Impaled to the wooden bird feeder post in his backyard by another arrow through the heart, his tongue cleaved and identical calling cards in his mouth and throat. A single green linen napkin. A similar shard of green glass.
Now Alex found himself between a rock and a hard place. He only knew about the ME’s findings because of the stinking contract on his desk. The evening of Hemmings’ death, Alexandria’s Mayor Gaskin and the entire City Council made a public plea for their local good guys, The TEAM, to protect another of Channel 16’s investigative reporters, Mr. Crosland Webster.
Therein lay the rub. Alex had a long memory. He carried a grudge with a passion. Not enough time had passed since the three days that his wife, Kelsey’s deranged mother-in-law kidnapped her. Where was the press then? Specifically, Crosland Webster.
Disgust rankled at the back of Alex’s throat. The same day he’d gone to the police for help finding his missing wife, Webster began a public assassination campaign against Alex, Kelsey, and those good guys he needed now. He expected Alex to jump through hoops to protect his sorry ass?
And wasn’t it interesting the second victim, Bob Hemmings, just happened to be the son of the arrogant Detective Robert Hemmings, the same guy who’d denied Alex police assistance when he needed it most? The same prick who’d insisted Kelsey had run off with Harley, another unfortunate who could’ve used a helluva lot more help from the police back then, too.
Mother jumped on that little info bite and came back with another odd coincidence. Crosland Webster’s father was none other than Detective Clive Webster, close buddy to Detective Robert Hemmings. Did Gaskin have the slightest clue what he’d asked Alex to do?
Bullshit. I don’t have to sign anything just because Gaskin asked. I sure as hell don’t have to help that sonofabitch, Webster.
Because of the televised appeal, he felt manipulated, blind-sided, and obligated. To make matters worse, he had a good name in this town and a reputation as a well-known public figure, a mover and shaker in the community, a celebrity of sorts, albeit a reluctant one. All of Alexandria watched. Maybe the entire state of Virginia. Always the District of Columbia.
Years back he’d have told them all to go to hell and been done with it, but he had things to consider, so he considered. First and foremost—Kelsey. He’d never do anything to hurt her or make her look bad. The darling of Alexandria, the one involved in numerous charitable organization, everyone loved her. They tolerated him.
Alex sighed. He already missed the camaraderie and wisdom of his friends, Murphy and Roy. With one last glance at the city below, he returned to his desk. He’d do anything for Kelsey, even this. In less than a second, the deed was done. He signed his good name to the line, his word as an honorable man at risk once more, damn it anyway.
“Hey, Boss.” Harley Mortimer poked his head through the door. “You wanted to talk to us?”
Alex waved him and Mark Houston into his office, motioning them to sit. “You both know Murphy and Roy are retiring. David Tao is still onboard. Are you interested in joining him as Senior Agent or not?”
A teasing smile tweaked the corners of Harley’s mouth. As usual his arm sprawled over the back of his chair like a scruffy scarecrow with long limbs and sandy-colored hair. An ex-Army K-9 handler, he’d become the epitome of relaxation since he’d married. Whether under fire or taking a kill shot, Harley was cool as a cucumber.
“Well, hell. Since you put it like that, how can I refuse?”
“That depends.” Mark leaned forward on his seat, his elbows on the edge of the desk. He was the same kind of man, only ex-Marine, dark-haired, st
ocky and built like Zack Lennox. Broad. Muscled. Like a walking wall. “Talk to me about overseas operations. Murphy seldom left the country, but Roy handled plenty. How much do you see us traveling as senior agents?”
“No more, no less than you are now. If an op goes sideways, I may send you guys in to straighten things out or facilitate extraction. I’ll be honest. I need four senior agents but Zack doesn’t want anything to do with the administrative workload. He’s happy in the field.”
“He does thrive on the edge,” Harley agreed. “I’m in, Boss. Judy will be thrilled to hear I’m moving to an admin job.”
“What’s the pay grade?” Mark hedged, still probing for specific details. Despite their similarities, he was the cautious man whereas Harley tended to jump in with all fours and ask the pertinent questions later. “The benefits? The difference in personal leave between senior and junior? The added responsibilities?”
Alex interlocked his fingers and leaned into his desk. “Ten percent increase in salary. Same health and retirement benefits. I don’t think you’ll find better anywhere else. Few to no overseas operations, but like I said, things happen. And I was not aware I had a leave policy. If you need time off, ask. It’s yours. That good enough?”
The light in Mark’s dark brown eyes was all the answer Alex needed. He could almost hear the wheels turning in his junior agent’s head. Mark was the planner on The TEAM, the guy who did his research before he went out on a limb. He had the makings of a real leader. Cautious. Loyal to the bitter end. Best of all, he liked most people, a taste Alex had yet to acquire.
“I’d like to speak with Libby first,” he said, “but yes. I’m interested.”
“I thought you would be.” Alex pushed the contract with Crosland Webster to the front of his desk. “First order of business is this piece of shit. We’re protecting Channel 16’s—”
“Not Crosland Webster.” Mark glanced at the document, his nose wrinkled. “I saw Gaskin last night. He’s got a helluva nerve asking you to protect that bastard after he slandered you and Kelsey.”
Alex rolled the knot of aggravation off his shoulder. “That’s not the word I’d use. Webster crapped all over Harley and Judy, too.”
Taylor Page 2