Mermaids in the Pacific (Peyton Brooks, FBI Book 2)

by M. L. Hamilton

  Radar exchanged a look with his team.

  “Radar, don’t do it,” Peyton pleaded.

  “I don’t have a choice. Stay here. Remember what I said.”

  “Radar…”

  “Just do what I said.”

  “I’m going with you,” said Peyton, not sure where she got the courage. “You’re not going alone.”

  Radar started to protest, but Peyton turned back to Thatcher. “I’m coming in. Hold your fire!” she shouted.

  Radar hurried to her side. “We need to work on your obedience.”

  Peyton cast a quick glance at him as they continued walking. They came to a stop before the Horizon leader and he gave Peyton that self-serving smirk of his. Radar snapped the warrant out at him.

  “There. Take it.”

  Thatcher took the paper and read it over, then he held it out again. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize the United States government as my sovereign. Your warrant is denied.”

  Radar gapped at him in astonishment. “What?”

  Thatcher’s gaze fixed on Peyton’s eyes. “You’ll have to take us by force.”

  Radar made a strangled sound, but Peyton knew he wasn’t kidding. Thatcher wanted a blood bath, he wanted to go out in a hail of bullets. He wanted another Waco, Jonestown, Ruby Ridge. She could see it in his eyes, she could hear it in his voice. He wanted to die a martyr. Radar had been right all along.

  She moved before anyone knew what she was going to do and whipped out her gun, then she stepped into Thatcher and shoved the gun under his chin.

  CHAPTER 23

  Thursday

  Marco went still. Jake sat in Carly’s chair, the muzzle of the gun pointed directly at his temple. Between Marco and him was the counter. Ryan Morris’s expression was grim, the hand on the gun steady.

  Marco leaned the cane against the counter, holding up both hands. He could feel the weight of his gun hanging below his left arm, but he knew he wasn’t steady enough on his bad leg to grab it before Morris pulled the trigger.

  “Mr. Morris, I thought we agreed to meet and talk.”

  “I’m done talking. Cook is out, home, enjoying his freedom, and my son’s dead, rotting in a coffin.”

  Marco glanced at Jake. Jake’s shoulders were hunched, his head turned at an odd angle to avoid the gun, his eyes narrowed. Marco could see the tremors that coursed through him. He wanted to reassure him, but what the hell good would that do now?

  Suddenly Tag and Holmes appeared from the back. They caught sight of Morris and whipped out their guns, pointing them directly at him.

  Marco signaled frantically with his hands. “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

  Tag and Holmes gave him panicked looks, but their guns never lowered. Morris shifted just a little to see them, but his gaze snapped back to Marco. The gun against Jake’s head remained.

  “This isn’t the way, Mr. Morris.”

  “Isn’t it? The NRA wants guns, well, let’s give them their guns and the violence that goes with it. If I can walk into a police station and shoot it up, maybe they’ll realize what they’ve caused with their gun proliferation. What happens when even the authorities are outgunned? What then?”

  Marco forced himself to draw a deep breath. “It won’t change anything, Mr. Morris. It won’t stop them or make them reconsider. You’ll be chalked up as a deranged father and your fight ends here.”

  “I don’t care. My son’s dead. What does any of it matter now? Everything I dreamed for him, everything I hoped for, gone like that. In an instant. While Cook sits at home, becoming a folk hero.”

  “No, he isn’t. He may be home now, but he’s going to stand trial. He’s going to prison, Mr. Morris.”

  “You can’t possibly know that. The NRA got him out, they’ll get him off too.”

  “I don’t believe that. I don’t believe they’ll get him off. I believe Gavin will have justice, Mr. Morris. I believe a jury will make sure your son didn’t die in vain.”

  “How can you say that? He was seventeen. Seventeen. Just starting his life. How can it not all be in vain? The time we put into keeping him safe. The worry, the care, watching over him, making sure he never got hurt. It meant nothing.”

  “That’s not true and you know it.” Marco swallowed hard. “I can’t begin to imagine what you’re feeling, Mr. Morris. I can’t. I’m not a father. I don’t know the pain you’re experiencing. I wouldn’t presume to understand, but what I do know is this – every day on this job, I see parents like you, grieving, devastated, unable to accept what has happened to them.”

  “Then you know why I have to make this stand.” He looked down at Jake, tightening his grip on the gun.

  Jake closed his eyes, shuddering.

  Marco gave Tag and Holmes a barely perceptible shake of his head. He couldn’t have them taking a shot now. Morris would kill Jake through reflex.

  “Look at me, Mr. Morris, please, sir. Look at me.”

  Morris turned tortured eyes to him.

  “Every day I meet people like you and Gavin’s mother. I tell them their children are gone, and I watch them fall apart. I can’t completely feel what they do because it’s not me, it’s not my life, but I know this.” He pointed at Jake. “If you pull that trigger, you take away the hope of every parent who’s lost a child in this City. You ruin the chance they have to get answers, to get justice. You take away the closure they need, the ability to lay their children to rest knowing that another child won’t share their same fate.”

  Jake opened his eyes and looked up at Marco.

  Marco took a step closer to the counter, holding Morris’ gaze with every ounce of his will. “The man you’re holding with that gun is the first line of defense we have in this precinct, Mr. Morris. That man has solved more cases, found more evidence to convict more killers than any of the rest of us. If you take his life, you take away the hope of other parents like yourself, you take away their closure, their peace of mind, their ability to get some measure of relief from their unrelenting pain. You deny them the justice they deserve. You kill that man, Mr. Morris, and the NRA wins, Will Cook wins, and the rest of us…well, God help us all, sir.”

  Morris clenched his jaw and for the first time, his hand wavered. Then he lifted the gun into the air. Holmes was on him in the next instant, slamming him into the counter and wrenching the gun out of his hand.

  Marco closed his eyes and dropped his arms, feeling a wash of vertigo sweep over him.

  * * *

  “Just what will this accomplish, little one?” said Thatcher, staring down the barrel of the gun at Peyton.

  “A whole lot I’m thinking.”

  “Do tell.”

  Peyton could feel the tension vibrating around them. Radar stood with his hands out flung, signaling for everyone to stay still. The boys behind Thatcher were exchanging looks, uncertain what they should do.

  Peyton pressed the muzzle of the gun tighter against Thatcher’s jaw. “Seems to me all I have to do is cut the head off the snake.”

  “Do you really believe I’m afraid to die?”

  “Not a moment ago, but now, yeah. Now you’ve had time to wonder just how painful it will be when my bullet carves a path through your skull, into your brain, and blows the top of your Goddamn head off!”

  He gave her that smirk of his. “I don’t believe you have it in you.”

  Peyton narrowed her eyes on him. “That’s what the last bastard said before I emptied my gun into him.”

  The smile dried.

  “Tell them to put down the guns, Thatcher!” ordered Radar.

  Thatcher’s scarred lip twitched.

  “Tell them!”

  “Put down your guns,” he said, looking away from Peyton. “Put them down!”

  Peyton didn’t move until the last boy lowered his gun and laid it on the ground.

  “Tear this place apart,” said Radar, replacing his gun in his holster and grabbing Thatcher by the shoulder. Peyton stepped back as he yanked his arms behind his bac
k, slapping cuffs on him, then he shoved him toward the picnic tables. “You okay, Sparky?” he said over his shoulder.

  “Fine.” She holstered her own gun, her hands shaking.

  Bambi stepped in front of her. “Damn girl, that was crazy!”

  Peyton nodded, still unable to believe she’d done it. Tank gave her a stunned smile, cuffing her lightly on the shoulder, then he walked off to help with the search.

  Bambi continued to stare at Peyton with a mixture of bewilderment and respect. “That was freakin’ ass crazy!”

  “I know.”

  Grabbing her face in her hands, Bambi planted a kiss on Peyton’s forehead, then she followed Tank toward the house. Peyton made eye contact with Janice as she followed Radar to where he was forcing Thatcher into a chair.

  “Get a forensic team in here to bag up the weapons. I want them dusted for fingerprints and I want to know the last time they were fired.”

  Then he braced a hand on the back of Thatcher’s chair and stared him in the eyes. “Do you wanna tell us just what we’ll find when we take this place apart? If my people stumble on a shotgun trap or anything else, I’m gonna make sure you get the death penalty, Franklin, so anything you can tell me will go a long way toward saving your sorry ass.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, Agent Moreno. As I told you, Franklin Thatcher is dead to me. We are a peaceful community that simply wants to be left alone. We ask for nothing from the government and we expect the same in return.” He leaned closer to Radar, as if he wasn’t aware of the handcuffs on his wrists. “You’d think the FBI would be more careful about approaching private citizens living peacefully on private land. Your track record with such things is shameful.”

  Radar’s jaw clenched and his hand curled into a fist. “I promise you, Thatcher, that I will be there when they stick the needle in your arm. I will be there and I will watch you draw your last breath and then I will tell all these women exactly how you died.”

  “Radar,” said Peyton, moving to his side and touching his arm. “He’s not worth it.”

  Thatcher smiled.

  Radar straightened and took a few steps back as the radio crackled on his shoulder.

  “Radar,” came Tank’s voice.

  Radar pressed the button. “Yeah?”

  “We found a shallow grave near the woodpile.”

  “What?” Radar turned toward the house.

  Peyton felt her heart catch.

  “We’re uncovering it now.”

  Peyton’s gaze met Janice’s as she moved away from the stairs toward the picnic table.

  “Are you sure it’s a grave?” asked Radar.

  “Yes. The smell of decomposition’s strong and we have insect activity. It appears to be calliphoridae flies, which are present during active decay.”

  Radar shifted toward Thatcher. “You’ve got about thirty seconds to tell me what the hell’s going on.”

  Thatcher met his look, but he didn’t say anything. A clammy, nauseous feeling rose inside of Peyton. She started toward Janice, but before she could move, Radar’s radio crackled again.

  “Radar?”

  “Yes, Tank.”

  “It appears to be a Caucasian male. Late teens, early twenties by the dentition.” He paused. “Red hair.”

  A keening wail rose from Janice and she ran at Thatcher, her hands raised. She slammed into him, knocking him and the chair over, then she fell on him, her fists pummeling him while he tried to scramble away.

  Radar grabbed her around the waist and threw her off. She landed on her backside, but was up in the next moment. Before anyone could move, she darted at the agents cataloging the weapons and lunged for one of the rifles. Without hesitation, she brought it around, cocking the hammer and leveling it on Thatcher.

  “Hold your fire!” shouted Radar as cops and agents drew their weapons. “Hold your fire!”

  “You said he went to San Francisco!” she screamed at Thatcher, moving toward him.

  “Janice!” cried Peyton. “Don’t do this!”

  “You said he went to San Francisco!”

  “He did!” shouted Thatcher, kicking backward with his feet, trying to get away from her.

  “Liar!” she screamed. Then she pulled the trigger.

  Peyton ducked, closing her eyes, but nothing happened.

  Nothing happened. The gun didn’t fire.

  Radar lunged for her and tore the rifle from her hands, then he broke it and looked inside. For a moment, he didn’t move, didn’t seem to breathe, then he whirled on the agents. “Check the others!”

  They scrambled to do his bidding, breaking the rifles and looking into the barrels. “Empty,” came the response.

  Radar shoved Janice out of the way and reached for Thatcher, hauling him halfway to his feet, then he backhanded him, sending him sprawling again. “You set them up! You sonuvabitch, you set them up!”

  Thatcher tried to roll over and escape, but Radar advanced on him. Peyton threw herself in front of him, bracing her hands on his chest. “Radar! It’s over!”

  “He set them up!”

  Peyton shoved against him. “It’s over, Radar! It’s finished!”

  Radar tore his eyes from Thatcher and stared into Peyton’s face. He tried to say something, but nothing came out.

  “It’s over!” said Peyton, fighting the rush of tears. “It’s over.”

  * * *

  Marco leaned against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, watching Abe take Jake’s blood pressure. Abe was dressed in tangerine orange from his dreadlock beads to his pointed-toed shoes. He tugged the blood pressure cuff off and adjusted the blanket around Jake’s shoulders.

  “Blood pressure’s back to normal, Jakey,” he said, rising to his feet. He wound the cuff up, stuck it and the stethoscope into his medical bag, then snapped it shut. “I’ll just go to the break-room and brew you some of my famous chamomile tea…” He smiled into Jake’s face. “...with a touch of bourbon in it.”

  “Thanks, Abe,” Jake said, hugging the blanket tighter about himself.

  After Abe walked away, Jake shot a sidelong look at Marco. “I’m sorry, Adonis. Carly left early and asked me to watch the phones. I was just finishing up my report on Greer’s murder weapon when Morris showed up. I didn’t even know what was happening before he pulled the gun on me.”

  “Did it look like I was blaming you?”

  “I just feel bad that I didn’t warn you and you walked in on that.”

  “What were you supposed to do, Ryder? You did everything right.”

  Jake fiddled with the fringe on the blanket. “I thought he was going to kill me. I really thought he was going to pull that trigger.”

  “Yeah.” Marco scrapped his bottom lip with his teeth. “So did I.”

  Jake glanced up at him. “Did you mean it?”

  “What?”

  “What you said?”

  Marco shook his head. “Ryder, I don’t know half of what I said just then. I was spit balling, trying to keep from seeing your brains on my office wall.”

  “It sounded like you meant it. The stuff about me being your first line of defense.”

  Marco gave a growl. “I keep telling you you’ve got to stop hanging out with gay guys.”

  Abe came back with the tea and held it out to Jake. “Careful, it’s hot. That microwave works wonders back there.”

  Jake sipped at the tea, watching Marco from the corner of his eyes.

  Marco shifted weight. Shit. He hated this stuff. Why was he always being put in these situations where he had to share his feelings and shit? Maybe he needed to stop hanging out with gay guys himself.

  “How’s it taste?” asked Abe, fussing over Jake.

  “Good. Thanks, Abe. I appreciate it. I don’t know why it shook me up so bad, but it’s nice to have someone care.”

  “You had a gun pointed at your head, Jakey. That would make anyone lose it. Dear God, I’d probably piss my pants. How you stayed so calm amazes me. I’d be a puddle
of piss. That’s what I’d be. Just a big old puddle of piss.”

  “Okay!” snapped Marco.

  They both looked over at him.

  “I meant it, okay.”

  They continued to stare at him with alarmed expressions.

  He jabbed a hand at them. “Fine. You want me to say it. You want me to spill everything.”

  Jake and Abe shared a bewildered look.

  “Without you, half these cases wouldn’t get solved. There, I said it. We need you. We need your smarts and your quickness and...we need you. There.”

  And then it happened, just as Marco knew it would. Jake’s lips turned up into a grin and Abe rushed over to him, throwing his arms around his shoulders and kissing him on the side of the face.

  “That was beautiful, Angel. Just beautiful!”

  “Okay!” said Marco, trying to extricate himself. “Okay, Abe.”

  “Wasn’t it beautiful, Jake?”

  “Yeah, really poetic and all, Adonis.”

  “Shut up, Ryder!” he hissed, glancing around the precinct to see if anyone else heard.

  “I knew it. I knew it all along,” said Jake to Abe.

  “Please don’t say it,” begged Marco

  “What did you know, Jakey?”

  “Adonis and me…”

  “Don’t,” he pleaded.

  “We’re friends.”

  Abe pealed off into laughter and clapped his hands.

  Marco fought a smile, but in the end, damn them, they won.

  * * *

  Peyton took a seat beside Radar on the stairs of Thatcher’s house. Agents swarmed the farm, bagging and removing evidence. Thatcher and the boys had been taken into custody and transported into Santa Cruz for questioning, while the women and children were being interviewed by representatives of a women’s shelter. Dusk had crept onto the farm, casting long shadows over everything, including the Coroner’s van, which held the remains of Finn Getter.

  Radar hadn’t moved in more than an hour, sitting in his flak jacket, combat boots, and black FBI ball cap. He hardly acknowledged Peyton as she sat down next to him, staring at his sunglasses which he twirled back and forth in his hands.