Something prickled at the back of her neck. Had been there, tugging at the fine hairs, all morning.
At the base of the steps, leading to the front doors, he placed a hand on her shoulder. Index and middle finger pointed toward the open garage stall, his arm extending in front of her body, as if to stop her from entering the house. They wound in a circle, pointed toward the sky. Then he pulled his arm back, all five fingers extended as if awaiting a celebratory hand gesture.
Those lips she loved seeing with a smile, formed a thin line. He didn’t want her inside the house. Fine.
They were on the precipice of something big. Or nothing at all. No time to argue the finer points.
She turned toward the garage, her steps careful and quiet. Gun raised and back to the wall, until she hit the open stall. The smell of recent drywall hit her nostrils. Another gust of wind made goosebumps rush across her back, beneath her coat. The stall was empty, along with the one next to it. Closest to the house, a Harley Softail, gleamed in the receding light. Not a speck of dust lined the matte black paint and silver flake trim. The brass pushrods, gold plated pipes and motocross handlebars completed the picture-perfect bike.
Like the one Robinson had ridden that day on the highway, three years ago.
Behind it, a row of shelving held a few Tupperware containers, a Christmas tree box and a container of assorted wrenches. In the corner, a neat stack of broken down cardboard boxes was evidence of their recent move in.
The door exiting to the backyard stood ajar, rain starting to seep inward. She moved toward it and nudged it all the way opened with the toe of her shoe. An L-shaped pool with a connected water-feature jacuzzi tub, separated the main house from a smaller cottage-style home. Most likely used as a boathouse or guest quarters. A single level of the same red brick reflected in the pool’s rippling surface.
Soft pelts of rain hit the window to her right and echoed in the space. The entry leading into the house stood open.
She froze. No sound came from inside. After swallowing, she ventured forward. The scorpions she let in residence started a war dance in her stomach. She’d get Robinson. They’d check it out together. Something they should be doing anyway. She walked toward the door. The sight of the bike stopped her. And then her legs carried her in that direction.
A chip in the Harley emblem, on the gas tank, drew her attention. Faded gold letters rested under it. Every detail of the bike was pristine—no paint chips, rusty metal or sun-beaten paint. The tank itself looked as if it had received a paint job recently, sans the area the emblem resided.
Once crouched beside it, she ran a thumb across the unreadable letters. Each swipe removed more of a black film. Revealed the immaculate detail of the initials.
B.J.D.R. IV
Holy mother of…
Amanda stood so fast, dark splotches appeared in her vision. As far as she knew, Robinson’s bike hadn’t been fixable.
A boom split through the quiet, the walls around her shaking. Instinct had her hunching into a ball and covering her head. A groan of metal and wood came from above her. The sound of wood hitting concrete reverberated in the space, like coins falling on marble flooring. One of the tupperware bins, fell from the shelf and hit the floor. The lid busted open and spilled baby clothes.
Silence.
Fine dust floated around her, creating a haze. She coughed. The drywall in the center of the ceiling had a large dent, as if Hercules had punched the floor of the room above and left evidence behind.
Robinson.
Her heart hammered an unsteady tune. Amanda toed open the door connecting to the house and slipped inside. Smoke wafted from the hallway beyond the mudroom she stood in.
Please, let him be okay.
She followed the charred smell through the foyer to the curving stair case, which led to a loft-type landing. She held back a cough as her eyes watered. A figure rushed through the haze on the landing above her, footfalls slapping against the hardwood. Headed in the opposite direction of where the explosion had occurred.
Amanda followed, her back to the wall and gun centered in front of her. A door slammed to her right. Then everything was quiet. Even the sound of her heart was nonexistent. A soft sob came from farther down the hall, where the smoke had thinned. One bedroom remained between herself and the window, at the end of it.
Amanda nudged the door open. “CMPD. Hands where I can see them.”
In the far corner, a woman hunched next to a bed and nightstand. She stood and turned, her hands in the air. The swell of pregnancy was visible beneath a cotton shirt.
“Beth?” Amanda's hands shook, but she didn't lower the gun. Couldn't risk choosing the wrong truth. Resisted the urge to clear sweat from her palms.
Tears streamed down her sister’s face. Mascara tried to compete in the race for her chin. One arm lowered toward her mouth, the index finger moving over her mouth, unsteady. A cut ran above her right eyebrow, her hair a tangled mess. “She’ll hear us.” The words were the barest of whispers.
The gun wavered. “Who?”
Beth didn't move.
“Where's Guy?”
The other woman closed her eyes.
An act or true terror?
A creak on the stairs drew Amanda’s attention and she backed toward the hallway, gun still raised. The crackle of fire from the other end of the hall, past the stairs, gave off light. The shape of a manly arm poked from one room, the body hidden beyond the doorway. She hoped.
A healthy dose of saliva gathered in her mouth, her throat unwilling to help with the matter.
Probabilities swirled through her mind and had her moving forward. The creak came again. This time, a dark figure stepped into sight. Short, stocky and a beer belly to match. A gun drawn in her direction.
“What are you doing, Catsky?”
“Watching your back.” Something in his stance was off. Gone, was his cantankerous attitude. In its place lurked the solemn stance of a man who had nothing left to lose. Every step he took toward her increased the soggy handful of dread, hanging on her esophagus.
“How'd you know I was here?”
“Davis sent me.”
No. Davis was the biggest rule-follower Amanda had ever met. Catsky was lazy. Wanted the glory without the work. She’d always attributed it to his near-retirement status. “Guess I wasn’t there for you to send first.”
“You got here before me, anyway. How is it you always know just where to be, Nettles? The guys think you’re behind the Pilots bombing and all the other crimes.”
A sharp inhale came from behind her, Beth's soft sobs following it. “Mandy, no.”
Amanda shifted, keeping Beth in her peripherals. “You obviously agree.”
He shrugged. Took a slow, careful step forward, his gaze flicking toward Beth. “You've got the means and motive.”
Robinson's hand still hadn't moved. “With that flimsy logic, so do you.”
“I guess you could say that.” Something sad crept onto his face. “I don't have that computer degree like you do, though.”
All the times he’d urged her to take shortcuts with their work, had purposely evaded her questions, and his buddy-buddy act as of late, came to mind. He’d been hoping she’d take him and his advice at face value. She hadn’t.
A natural curiosity made her dig for satisfying answers. Made her join Robinson’s task forces whenever professionally necessary. How long had Catsky been hoping to set her up?
“That's poor evidence, even for you.”
Another sniffle came from Beth.
“Look who’s talking.” A sardonic smile lit his face. “You can’t even see what’s in front of you. Or the lack thereof. That bike in the garage? The one that used to belong to G-man-lover-boy.” He nodded toward where Robinson still rested. “You’ve walked past it so many times, in the last year.”
She tried to keep her breathing even. “Why is it here?”
“Because.” A strong female voice said. Beth stepped out of the shadows, tears gone, and ey
es sharp. The run of her makeup no longer added to the victimized persona of moments earlier. Now, it lent a crazed air to a woman who should have been on her side.
Not standing there without an ounce of fear, because she already knew how things would end. And that she’d come out the victor.
A flash of something in Beth’s right hand had Amanda turning toward the other woman.
“I rescue what others think is trash.” Beth stepped closer.
Something solid connected with the base of Amanda’s spine. Pain scattered through her body faster than a fire. The floor came up to meet her.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
“You just had a baby.” Rupert followed McKenna’s movements as she grabbed a Kevlar vest from the locked case, where she and Jordan kept all their gear, in the hallway.
McKenna slipped the vest over her head and tightened the straps around her torso. Okay, a little tighter than it used to be. Nothing she couldn’t handle.
A reminder that Rupert was right. She’d had a baby and things were still sore and out of proportion.
In the face of losing her best friend, it was worth fighting her way into some ill-fitting Kevlar. In light of all the evidence they’d missed…
“A little over a week ago, McKenna.” Rupert stood half in the hallway, half in the kitchen, a bundle of pink in his arms.
Riley gave a noisy wiggle and then settled back into peaceful slumber, her tiny lips parted. Someone had told her to rest whenever the infant did. They hadn’t told her adrenaline would keep her awake.
“I’m out of options. Neither Robinson nor Amanda are answering their phones.”
“What about Jordan?”
She pulled her SIG and two clips of ammo from one of the shelves, along with her duty belt. Then she closed the door and locked it. Tucked the extra clips in one of the Velcro pockets. “You don’t go to this type of thing alone.”
“You shouldn’t go at all.”
He’d never understand. And she got that. Wouldn’t waste time trying to explain she didn’t intend to leave her child motherless. That the choice wasn’t between child and career, but good versus evil. Because if the other side won, there wouldn’t be much place for her child—for mankind—in a lawless land.
She ran a finger across Riley’s baby-fine hair and over one rosy cheek. The baby squirmed in Rupert’s arms, a tiny smile covering her lips. This, she would protect for the rest of her life.
This little girl she would die for.
“My mom will be her in twenty minutes. I’ve packed her diaper bag. She shouldn’t need to be fed for another two hours.”
The slam of their front door took her attention from the infant. The heavy footfalls of Jordan’s feet preceded him into the kitchen. The same type of vest she wore, covered his torso, the letters FBI clearly visible.
“You ready?”
Rupert swung toward her husband. “You’re okay with this?”
Jordan’s gaze flicked to McKenna before lighting on Rupert and Riley. “This is what we do. Trust me, you don’t want me going in without the best shot we have.”
A strangled sound came from Rupert.
“You’re not helping, Jordan.” McKenna gave Riley a kiss on her forehead, breathed in the indescribable scent of new life and love. “Everything will be fine, Rupert.”
“Like last time?” Skepticism hung on the words.
Jordan’s gaze connected with hers again, as he approached. Riley wiggled as he traced his index finger across her tiny fist. “I’d love to have another heart-to-heart about these issues, but we’re wasting time.”
“Any word?” McKenna said.
“None.” Jordan rubbed a hand over the side of his chin. “Traced their phones to Beth and Guy Markel’s home. Rogge’s not answering, either.”
Amanda and Robinson might be busy, but Rogge would answer Jordan’s call, in the middle of a tornado with his last breath. “Let’s go. Thanks for helping us out, Rupert.”
A pinched expression covered her brother-in-law’s face, disagreement begging for release. He nodded.
“It's going to be okay.” Jordan clapped a hand on Rupert’s shoulder, conviction hanging on his syllables like a wood tick burrowing in deep.
McKenna headed for the door. Every ounce of her wanted to turn back and give Riley another kiss. One would turn into a thousand and she’d have to send Jordan out on his own.
That couldn’t happen.
“You good?” He stepped off the landing of their porch and headed for his truck, alongside her.
She took a breath, hoping the swirling monkeys in her stomach would subside. “How did we miss this?”
He jumped inside the vehicle, but didn’t start it. She followed suit.
“Hard to miss what isn’t there.” He locked eyes with her. “If you’re not good, I need to know. You’re honest, professional assessment.”
If he didn’t start the engine and drive, she would get out. “Will it get easier? Leaving her.”
He pulled his bottom lip inward. Then he started the car and pulled out onto the street. “I hope so.”
“I’m surprised you suggested Rupert watch Riley until my parents get there.”
Jordan flexed his jaw. “He’s a good dad. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her. But I did it to guarantee he couldn’t follow us. He got lucky last time. We all did.”
So true.
“SWAT has a good layout of the house.”
“You’re sure Robinson’s sister has something to do with this?”
He nodded. “The tests they ran this morning, showed Propofol in her system.”
“Don’t they use that to create medically induced comas?”
“Yes. There was no indication on her chart that she’d ever been given the drug. It prompted a thorough investigation of her file and the personnel. There’s only one employee they couldn’t reach. A receptionist. Cindy Hanson. Started around the same time Lilly Gabriel was admitted. She was on shift last night.”
Robinson and Amanda had been there. Wide open to the possibility of attack. “If she worked the evening shift, maybe she’s sleeping.”
He turned onto the freeway. “The address the care center has on file is a post office box. No one seemed to know where she lived. Never hung out with any of the staff.”
“It’s a fake identity, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. Sounds like someone in HR dropped the ball on a background check. The address the post office has correlates to an abandoned house. I sent a team over there to check it out.”
“Who does the deed belong to?”
“Walter and Eileen Nettles.”
***
Robinson came to, in a haze of pain that burned up the right side of his body. An inhale made his lungs spasm, in a cough that would have brought him to his knees had he not been on his rear end, a thick rope anchoring him to something at his back.
Despite several lengths of it squeezing the breath from his lungs, his hands were tied behind him as if he would have been able to move. The short breaths he took in smelled of gasoline.
The last thing he remembered was opening the door to what looked like a nursery, thinking he and Amanda needed to get out of here. Then an explosion rigged to the door had thrown him. In that split second, he hadn't thought about missing a life with Amanda so much as being unable to be sure she lived it. Preferably with him, but life was life regardless of the amount of people within it.
Where was Amanda?
Because he couldn’t give her bad news over the phone, he’d come here. Didn’t want to give her news at all. Just wanted to tuck it away and find Eric on some remote island, in the Caribbean. Nursing some wounds over the breakup.
Rehearsed lines had disappeared, like the beating of his heart, when he’d seen the blood on her face and clothing.
A strange sense of loss had entered his body. As if she were dead and not standing in front of him.
He’d seen some bad stuff. Murders, where the victim was unrecognizable. Childr
en dismembered and rotting in shallow graves. Victims of arson, their bodies a black, crumbling residue.
From time to time, those things kept him up at night. Anger, humiliation, and sickness at a world that wasn’t fair. Those emotions were nothing compared to the black despair that had shrouded his soul.
Amanda. Covered in blood.
It didn’t matter that she wasn’t hurt. His mind couldn’t disconnect from one terrifying second where he’d thought he might lose her. Before he’d ever really had her.
Like his dad had lost his mom. Like any of the other deaths surrounding him. Rogge, who was an eager agent with potential.
So, he’d ignored three of the best words he’d ever heard. Rejected his own response to the truth in those amber eyes. And the burst of words he’d wanted to shout for the better part of a year. So he could think, work beside her and forget she was in danger. That they were both in danger.
A lot of good it had done.
A dull throb started at the back of his skull and twisted toward his forehead, like a corkscrew splitting into a fresh bottle of wine. A groan came from right behind him.
“Where are we?” Eric's voice, laced with pain, filled the space. Fading yellow paint clung to the wall, near the ceiling, the rest a charred gray color. The place where the crib had sat was a splattering of black, splinters of wood all around them. Some smaller than others, some larger fractions of the piece of furniture. A portion of the floor, in that area, was missing.
A stuffed toy with a string attached, lay near his feet.
Two of the three windows, in the room had exploded, jagged edges of glass remaining. The outside light had all but faded, leaving an orange hue on a horizon covered with scattered clouds. Cold air wafted through tattered, once white curtains.
“It was a nursery.” Robinson shifted, the rope tightening with each move. “Any recollection of how you got here, Eric?”
Another groan. The other man shifted. “I was driving. Next thing I know, Amanda's in the car with me.” Robinson felt Eric shake his head. “My brain was screaming that it wasn't her, but before I can do anything, there's a gun to my head. I kept driving, trying to grab my phone to dial nine-one-one, but it slipped out of my hands. We parked outside a bar in the Hidden Valley area. Things are a bit fuzzy after that.” Another shift. “I'm sure something ran me over, twice.”
DISCONNECT (The Bening Files Book 2) Page 41