“He killed my grandfather.”
Ben looked like this was just another day at the office. “I don’t doubt that. Although, under your current circumstances, I would caution you against leaving fingerprints at the scene of a murder.”
“I’m going to find out who paid him to do it.”
Ben waved Sam off the Russian. Sam didn’t move, not right away. Was Ben really going to do this? Sam could get answers on his own; he didn’t need babysitting.
“Off.”
Sam stood. He winced at the fresh crop of bruises the Russian had given him. Getting up wasn’t easy, but he locked his knee and forced it to hold his weight. Ben strode over, and Sam collapsed into the front row.
The Russian sneered.
Ben crouched by the Russian’s face. He spoke low enough Sam couldn’t make out the exact words, but it was in the man’s native language.
The Russian’s face blanched. Sweat and blood trickled down his face, now pasty white. His mouth hung slack. He looked like he wanted to run screaming from Ben, but spoke in a whispered rasp. “They…they call themselves Defaeco.”
“Who are they?”
“I don’t know.”
Sam glanced at the door. “We should take him with us. Someone will walk in sooner or later.”
Ben glanced over. “I locked the door. Which you should have done.”
The Russian scoffed. “Doesn’t matter. It’s too late now. I don’t kill the SEAL then they’ll kill me.”
Ben backed up.
The Russian glanced at Sam and then back at Ben. He jumped up and stumbled toward the back door.
That man had killed his grandfather.
He stood, but Ben stepped in front of him. “No.”
Sam got in his face. “I’m not going to let him get away.” But Ben grabbed his arm. Sam put both his hands on Ben’s chest and shoved as hard as he could. “Let go of me.”
Ben let go and held up one hand. “That man was a pawn and nothing more.”
“And you let him go!” Did he think Sam was going to back down? “He killed my grandfather.”
“He’s not the one we’re after. The organization he was hired by is who we need to find. That’s who’s responsible for all of this.”
Sam strode down the hall and hit the exit bar at the end. He looked around, but the man had escaped. Gone.
He strode back inside, his fingers linked behind his head so he could squeeze the frustration out. “How are we supposed to do that when you just let our best lead run out the door?”
Ben held up a phone.
Sam let his hands drop back to his sides. “You stole that from him?”
Ben nodded. “I’ll get my people to find out everything this phone will tell us.”
“Great.” Sam strode to his grandfather’s office, trying his best to disguise the limp—which hurt a lot. If he’d been clearer-headed he’d have thought to lift the man’s phone. Or pry it from his dead fingers.
He cracked the door of Pop’s office and blew out a breath through pursed lips. It was exactly the same.
Sam stepped in and closed his eyes, hearing Pop’s rattling laughter. He’d seemed ancient when Sam was a kid, and the last time he’d seen Pop, the man had looked a whole lot more frail and older than he’d liked.
He crossed the room and bent to the low cupboard. Pop’s box was still in there. A metal lock-box of things he should have bought a fire safe for. In the desk drawer Sam found the old man’s well-loved Bible. He’d need that in the coming weeks, if he was going to have any peace at all in this.
He flipped open the Bible and his heart caught at the sight of Pop’s sprawling handwriting in the wide, ruled margins.
“Got everything you need?”
Sam glanced around and then looked at Ben. “Not hardly.”
“Let’s go.”
He walked to the door, and they headed out. “You get someone on your payroll to hack that phone?”
Ben nodded.
“How’d you know I was here?”
Ben shot him a look. “I’d have guessed, but I didn’t need to since there’s a tracking device on each of my vehicles.” He motioned to the truck. “This time you’ll see me following you. Let’s head to the office. The faster we get to the bottom of this, the better.”
Sam glanced at the car beside the truck Ben had given him. “Sounds good to me.”
“You want to go by the grave on the way?”
Sam opened his mouth but hesitated. Did he want to face Pop after the man who had killed him got away, and none of this had been resolved?
“I’ll come back later.”
For now he was going to keep his eye on Ben Mason.
**
Beth leaned her forehead against the window. The cold was numbing but it eased the heat roiling through her and kept the nausea at bay. The sky was bright with stars—the streets below, quiet as they were just before dawn. Beth warred between wanting to be anywhere but here, and knowing she was honoring her mom and dad and their memory by finishing what they had died trying to accomplish.
She sighed, and a circle of fog clouded the window. Beth wiped it away and turned.
Abigail stood in the doorway, wearing a silk nightgown she really should have put a robe over.
“Did you need something?”
Abigail smiled, but it didn’t feel warm. “I was about to ask you the same thing. Can’t sleep?”
Beth shook her head. “I probably shouldn’t have taken that nap earlier.”
But after the emotional low and high of seeing Remy, she’d been exhausted. Years ago she could have danced for hours. Long days, followed by long nights. Each step had been imprinted on her feet, leaving the skin rough and her toenails cracked and brittle. But knowing she’d set out to do it and that she had, made all the pain worth it. Not many people could say they’d achieved their goals.
Abigail flicked her long hair, usually tied back during the day but now hanging loose behind one shoulder. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”
Beth moved to the door. “That’s okay. I can go downstairs and get it. Maybe if I stretch my legs a bit I’ll relax better when I lie down again.”
She smiled as Abigail moved back and let her exit her bedroom into the hallway. Why did all of this feel wrong? Beth’s mind was screaming, fake, fake, fake. Abigail wasn’t at fault here. She hadn’t done anything specifically wrong, and yet Beth wanted to run from her. Was it some kind of self-preservation thing? Abigail hadn’t given her a specific reason to fear her, or anything more than an impression that something was off.
Beth stopped at the top of the stairs, half expecting Abigail to be right behind her. Did she really think her mother-in-law would—what? Push her down the stairs?
Abigail was down the hall at her own bedroom door now, with a puzzled expression on her face. Great. Sam’s mom thought she was crazy.
Stir-crazy was more like it.
Half of her wanted out of this town yesterday; the other half only ever wanted to be at the last place her mother had been with her. That was the only way she could keep her mom’s memory close.
She hadn’t even let Abigail stay in the room her mom had slept in. Beth had kept all her mom’s stuff exactly as she’d left it, and though it was only clothes and a couple of books, it didn’t matter to her. They were her mom’s things.
When she trailed back up with her glass of water, Abigail’s door was closed. Sam’s mom meant well. It was just that Beth didn’t need a replacement mother. Why did Abigail insist on trying to be BFFs with her, when all Beth needed—maybe—was friendship. She stopped outside her door and shut her eyes, remembering the feel of Sam’s arms wrapped around her. How the world melted away when they were together. She didn’t have to be The President’s Daughter, or The Prima Ballerina. She only had to be Beth.
Sam’s Pop would have told her to pray about what was worrying her. He’d never pulled any punches, but always told her she should get her life right with God and let Him le
ad her. But all she’d ever wanted was Sam. What if God asked her to do something she didn’t want to do?
Moonlight spilled into the room through the curtains she’d pulled back. Something about how the light fell didn’t look right.
A rustle preceded the quiet slide of her drawer closing.
Beth flipped the light on. A man’s build, though he was small. He wore a cartoon mask of George Bush’s face—the eyes inside the mask on her. “Where is it?”
She should run screaming. Yell for Abigail to call John. They needed to get out of the house. Instead, Beth held her ground. She didn’t see a weapon.
As he stepped toward her, trying to dominate the conversation with his presence, Beth retreated toward her bed.
She got within arm’s reach of what she wanted and held fast. “What do you want?”
He stopped, three feet from her. “I want what you’re hiding.” He pulled a kitchen knife from the back of his belt…but gingerly, like he was trying not to cut himself. Not a pro, then.
“Who says I’m hiding anything?” Maybe acting innocent would resolve this. “If you tell me what you’re looking for, maybe I can help you find it.”
“You brought something with you. You’re hiding it, and they want it back. It’s theirs!”
“Who? Who wants it?”
“They do!”
Beth reached down, under the pillow, and gripped the pistol. It was barely bigger than her hand, but just as lethal as any gun. Praying it didn’t peek from between her fingers, she moved to hold it behind her back.
“Are you going to stab a pregnant woman?”
The man behind the George Bush mask jerked his head like a flinch. He rallied quickly, though. “I will if I have to!”
He didn’t even know anything about Defaeco, or what Beth had come to Sanctuary for. She lifted her chin. “I’m not telling you anything.”
“Beth, are you—”
The man whipped around.
Beth yelled, “Abigail, no!”
Abigail screamed, and the man rushed at her. He swung an arm around her neck and held the knife to her throat. Her frantic eyes screamed at Beth to do something. Didn’t she have military training? Maybe she was in shock. Not everyone reacted to stress the way Beth did. Years of performances had left her with a filter that let in barely anything. It was like she was immune to what other people felt or expected of her. Beth was going to do what she needed to do.
The man jerked Abigail around. “Give me what I want.”
Beth lifted the gun. “Or what?”
Abigail whimpered.
The man scoffed. “You’re going to shoot your mother-in-law?”
Beth lifted one eyebrow. “You think my husband didn’t teach me how to hit a target?”
He stilled, facing off with her. Abigail whimpered again. Was she just going to stand there? Beth was kind of disappointed. She shifted her gaze to the George Bush mask. “Get out of my house.”
He shoved Abigail and ran for the door. Beth chased him to the hall and saw the second he stumbled to the bottom step and rushed out the door, leaving it open behind him.
She turned to Abigail, reaching for her arm. “Are you okay?”
Abigail stood, leaning heavily on Beth so that she almost went down on one knee. She straightened, brushed both hands down her hair and then her nightgown. “Why on earth didn’t you just shoot him?”
“Maybe because I’m not in the habit of murdering people.”
“He was going to kill me.”
“And then he was running away. It’s not self-defense if you shoot someone in the back.” Beth crossed to the room and picked up her phone. She dialed the three-digit emergency number. It would go direct to Sheriff Mason’s satellite phone this time of night.
John’s voice was rough. “Yeah, Beth?”
“Someone broke into my house.”
The rustling was immediate. “Is anyone hurt?”
“Only shaken up. He ran out.”
“He?”
She said, “Wearing a George Bush mask.”
“Lock up. I’ll be there in two minutes.”
She hung up and turned to Abigail. “The sheriff is on his way.” She hesitated. “You might want to…put on a robe.”
Beth was already wearing Sam’s college sweatshirt over her yoga pants and tank top, so she headed downstairs to do what John had asked.
Less than two minutes later he knocked on the door.
“Hey.”
He stepped in the house, warm but focused. “Hey. You okay?” She nodded, and John got in her space. “Are you really okay?”
His jacket wasn’t buttoned, and his white T-shirt looked more like something to sleep in. He wasn’t even wearing a belt with his jeans.
Since Beth had stowed her gun back under her pillow, she showed him her palms. “I don’t think I’ll ever sleep in my room again, but I’m not hurt.”
“Do you want Remy to check you out?”
Beth shook her head. “We don’t need to wake her.” Remy would find out through the town grapevine. Then again, maybe not, considering she seemed to have a hermit personality. In groups she fumbled with conversation, and yet in private she was completely at ease. The woman was a nerd of the highest order, but Beth still considered her a friend—among other things.
“I’m going to make Abigail some tea.”
John nodded. “Mind if I look around upstairs?”
As long as he didn’t touch anything. She smiled. “Sure.”
A few minutes later John came back downstairs with Abigail behind him, waving her manicured hands. “…and then Beth pointed her gun at him and told him to get out.”
John stopped. She pressed her lips together and met his gaze.
“Beth.”
“John.”
His expression didn’t change. “Do you want to tell me why you have a gun in my town?”
Chapter 5
Sam fought against the waves. The weight of his gear dragged him down until his head sank beneath the surface of the icy bay. He blinked against the darkness below.
Swish floated in front of him.
Sam reached out but only grasped water. Swish mouthed something. Sam shook his head. His friend started to drift away.
Sam reached out again. He strained to grasp onto his friend, but Swish disappeared into the depths. Sam fought against the current, kicked, and swam after him…
…and thumped onto the floor.
His face was smashed against the carpet of Ben’s rec room. His discarded blanket hung over the edge of the couch he’d fallen asleep on.
Pain screamed through his leg, but he managed to get up and sit on the couch. He stretched out his leg and sucked in deep breaths as he waited for the ache to subside. Then he downed two of the pain pills Ben’s doctor had given him, along with the one for the infection he was nursing. Yesterday’s fight hadn’t helped, but what hurt worse was the man getting away. But at least he wasn’t facing surgery to clean up his leg, on top of it all.
Across the room was a wide screen TV and a row of movie theater seats. Beyond them was a pool table. A dart board had been hung on the far wall, but a picture of Sadam Hussein hung over the target—or at least what was left of his face between the holes in his nose and eyes.
Sam pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and went to see if anyone else was here.
The hall looked like any other office building on the fifteenth floor, bland tile and off-white walls covered with motivational posters that had been doctored with sticky notes and pictures of angry cats in black masks fighting each other. The first door was locked. The second was a men’s bathroom. Where the ladies room was, Sam didn’t know. The “office” was six desks, void except for phones and an opened pack of printer paper. One guy was at work early, staring intently at the screen on his laptop.
Sam turned back to the hall.
Ben stood ten feet away, arms folded, feet hip-width apart. “You don’t look so good.”
He didn
’t feel too good either, but he wasn’t going to tell Ben that. “I’m set to go.”
Ben shook his head, grinning. He motioned with his fingers for Sam to follow and strode into the conference room.
The whole place was functional, but if Sam had to guess, he might consider the idea they’d rented a vacant floor in a high-rise and created an office that was nothing more than a place to set their pens. Was it an elaborate ruse, just to make Sam think they had roots? Ben wasn’t a nine-to-five guy by any means, let alone donning a suit and tie and wooing clients. This whole office looked like no one came here much. It was conceivably ten minutes from completely cleaned out and relocated in some other nameless high-rise in an American city.
Sam’s head was way too full of assassination plans and conspiracy theories to think otherwise. The evidence was pretty compelling.
A tall, dark haired man with thick eyebrows strode to Sam, towering over him. He was at least six-two, wearing a dark blue sweater under an expensive looking but very beat-up leather jacket. He grinned and stuck his hand out. “You must be the SEAL.”
He nodded and grabbed the man’s hand. “Sam Myerson.”
“Daire O’Callahan. Ben likes to think he’s my boss, but I’m actually only here for the thrills.”
Sam grinned. An Englishman with an Irishman’s name. The kind of man who told a colorful story anytime there was a break in conversation. “So what’s up?”
Ben tapped the screen of his iPad—hooked to a wire that disappeared under the table.
The sound of a phone rang through speakers on the large screen TV that hung on the wall. The picture flickered and a man came on screen.
“Morning.” He had the same general build as Ben and the same cheek bones. Behind him was the back of a brown leather couch.
Ben looked at Sam. “My brother, Grant Mason. The director of the US Marshals.
On the screen, Grant lifted his chin. “Lieutenant Myerson. Good to meet you.”
Sam nodded.
Ben asked, “How’s Gen?”
A gorgeous blonde leaned down into view, her hair spilling on Grant’s shoulder. “Hi, Ben.”
Sanctuary Breached WITSEC Town Series Book 3 Page 5