Troubleshooters 09 Hot Target

by Suzanne Brockmann

  “I’m sorry,” Robin whispered.

  “You’re not quitting on me, are you?” Jules asked.

  “Go,” Robin begged. “Please. I don’t want you to die, too.”

  “I’m not going to let you die.” But Jules could hear distant sirens. Ambulances and police approaching.

  This was the moment of truth. If the shooter was intending to get away, he was going to have to make his final move now, before the SWAT teams arrived.

  And whatever it was he had in mind, Jules was certain it involved using Robin as a bargaining chip. The shooter obviously had him sighted in his rifle scope, and Jules knew that the man had Jane’s cell phone number. He’d called her before—he’d call again.

  “Adam,” he said, “act! Wayne! Make it look like Robin’s dying.”

  They both sat up, not quite understanding.

  “We’re losing him!” Jules said loudly, leaning over Robin, pretending to give him CPR.

  Wayne leaned in, touching Robin’s neck. “I don’t have a pulse!”

  Adam hovered, looking distressed.

  “He might be watching through a scope.” Jules turned his face away from the hillside where the shooter had to be positioned. “Let him read your lips. Robin, listen to me—only pretend to die, sweetie, all right?”

  When he leaned in for one last round of fake mouth-to-mouth, Robin kissed him.

  He opened his eyes, and they were filled with pain and remorse. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered again. “I was too much of a coward.”

  “You’re going to be okay,” Jules told him. He didn’t have to fake the rush of tears to his eyes. “Save the deathbed speech for another day.”

  Adam took over. “He’s gone,” he said, facing the hillside. Anyone watching could surely read his lips. “He’s dead.” He reached down and pulled Jules’ jacket up over Robin’s head.

  “Get ready to lift him,” Jules ordered. “Robin, don’t scream this time. Remember, you’re dead.”

  Robin was dead.

  As Jane hid behind Jules Cassidy’s battered rental car, she watched the video monitor. Adam had just pulled something—a jacket—up over her brother’s motionless face.

  “No,” she said. “No . . .”

  Tess was beside her. “Jane, you’ve got to keep your head down.” But then she saw the screen. “Oh, God . . .”

  Jane was going to be sick.

  On the screen Jules and Adam and another man picked up her brother’s body.

  Her brother’s body.

  Jane couldn’t breathe.

  “Keep your head down,” Tess ordered her. “I’m going to go help them bring him inside. We’ll bring him to you, Jane—do you understand? I know you want to see him, but do not move from behind this car.”

  Jane managed a nod and Tess disappeared.

  Her cell phone rang, cutting through the babble of voices, through the sound of the helicopter thrumming to life out on the beach.

  And Jane knew, with a certainty that was chilling, exactly who was on the other end. Sure enough, the number showing was that of Patty’s cell phone.

  “You are so dead,” she said instead of hello.

  The man laughed. “Today’s a good day to die, don’t you think?”

  It was the man who’d called to say Patty had been kidnapped. Whoever had been found dead in that apartment this morning, it wasn’t this man—the same man she’d spoken to last night. Patty—completely drugged—probably hadn’t pulled the trigger of that gun, either. It was all an elaborate setup, a ruse to bring them all to right here and right now.

  A right now in which her baby brother had just been killed.

  “You’re not going to get away with this,” she told him, her voice shaking.

  “I’m not looking to get away,” he said. “Like I said, it’s a good day to die. You have twenty seconds to step out from that tent, or I’ll start shooting. I was going to say that I would start with your brother, but gee, it looks like he’s already dead. I’ll have to change my plan. Oh, but look, isn’t that your boyfriend, the Navy SEAL, getting into that helicopter? I think, instead, I’ll start by shooting him. He’ll make such an easy target when he gets into the air. Or maybe I’ll shoot the pilot and he’ll die in the crash. Two for one. Wait, three for one. Someone else is getting on board, too.”

  “No!” Jane said.

  “You have the power to stop me,” he said. “Nineteen. Eighteen . . .” The connection was cut.

  “Harve!” Jane shouted for her makeup man. “I need you! Now!”

  Decker slid open the helicopter’s starboard-side door as Cosmo ditched the coils of extension cord he’d taken from the production tent. They didn’t need it because there was a length of mountain-climbing rope right on the helo’s deck. As Deck watched, Cos quickly tied it to a built-in anchor.

  It would be easier on their hands than the plastic extension cord, in case they had to fast-rope to the ground. Although without gloves, the trip down was pretty much going to hurt, even with the rope.

  But it wouldn’t hurt until later. In the moment, Decker knew he’d feel no pain. He’d be focusing on the here and now.

  And here and now that pitted two poorly armed SEALs against one psycho with a sniper rifle.

  Deck had only his handgun. And the room broom that Cosmo had conjured up from God knows where didn’t have much range, either. They’d have to get close.

  Whereas psycho-sniper could start shooting at them before they even left the ground.

  Decker hoped PJ really knew how to fly this thing. They were going to need to do some fancy maneuvers to keep from getting drilled.

  “Go!” Cosmo shouted.

  PJ revved the engine and . . .

  It sputtered and coughed.

  “Shit!”

  “PJ!” Cos didn’t sound happy.

  “I’m trying! Come on, baby. . . .”

  The helicopter was having trouble getting off the ground, which was more of an assist from God than an actual heavenly sign.

  Jane was certain that no matter how many seconds Mr. Insane-o had given her to get out from underneath the tent, he wasn’t going to shoot until the chopper was in the air.

  Still, she knew if Tess or Nash saw her, they’d tackle her and toss her back behind the car. But they were both dealing with Robin’s body, carrying him behind the wall of crates, helping him sit up so they could see—

  Helping him sit up?

  Her brother was alive. His face was pale but his eyes were open, and he was talking.

  If Jane had needed a sign from God, that would have been it. But she didn’t need one. She knew what she was doing. She had total faith that this was her only choice. She also knew that Cosmo would think otherwise, but he was wrong. This was not a foolish risk.

  Moving to the edge of the tent so she’d be in position when PJ finally got that chopper off the ground, Jane used her cell phone to call Decker.

  “Shoot to kill,” Decker shouted. “Jane just called. The shooter called her. She said he was suicidal—said it was a good day to die. He’s not likely to surrender.”

  No way. Suicidal? Cosmo didn’t believe it. But there was no time to argue.

  He was glad for the MP-5’s shoulder strap. Because when PJ finally jerked the helo up and into the air, he had to hold on with both hands to keep from falling out the door.

  “Sorry,” PJ yelled.

  There was no time to exchange a “Navy pilots are better” look with Decker, because even though they’d gone straight up first, PJ was now blasting toward that hillside.

  Then again, maybe Navy pilots weren’t better, because Cos had never seen a toy like this—a nonmilitary helo—move at quite this speed.

  As far as suicidal shooters went . . . Even though he didn’t buy it, he had no problem with a shoot-to-kill order.

  None at all.

  “Shit, is that Jane?” Decker shouted over the roar of the blades. “What is she doing?”

  Words to chill his heart.

/>   Cosmo hung out the door, looking down and back and—

  It was.

  Jane.

  Running down the beach.

  Toward the hillside.

  Moving in a zigzag pattern.

  Her long hair flying behind her.

  She looked up at the helo, at him, her face a pale oval, already too far away for him to see clearly. Cosmo heard the crack of the rifle shot, saw her jerk and fall, blood spraying behind her.

  Jesus Christ! She was wearing both a vest and a flak jacket—the shooter must’ve hit her in the head.

  And with that knowledge, Cosmo became the man everyone thought him to be.

  A robot.

  “Shooter at ten o’clock!” Decker shouted.

  Cos went out the door, searching the brush below him and slightly to the left for any sign of movement. As he slid down the rope, it tore at his hand, but he didn’t feel a fucking thing. He held the MP-5, ready to fire as soon as he got within range. . . .

  But the gunman didn’t fire again and time slowed down the way it often did when his finger tightened on a trigger.

  As an instant became an eternity, Cosmo caught the glint of sunlight on a rifle barrel. The blue of the sky was such a pretty color, it almost hurt to look at it. Cirrus clouds were wispy overhead. He saw the spidery veins of the leaves of the brush. . . .

  He saw the green of a uniform hidden there behind those leaves and he slid closer and closer and . . .

  Nazi.

  Jack had seen a Nazi in a brown uniform, he’d said, climbing this hillside.

  Brown, not green.

  Jack might’ve been wrong. He was old—his eyesight might’ve been failing him. His memory might’ve been rusty.

  Still, Cosmo hesitated for a lifetime and then another lifetime, enough for the shooter to raise that rifle and blow this helo right out of the perfect blue sky.

  But the barrel didn’t move. And the barrel didn’t move.

  Their man wasn’t suicidal. He was a game player. How did a game player win a no-win scenario?

  The sunlight on that barrel sparkled and jumped, but the movement was all Cos’. The rifle didn’t move and it didn’t move and it didn’t move as his finger tightened on that trigger.

  And down the hillside, away from that still-life portrait that could have been titled Green Uniform with Rifle, in that moment that lasted an eternity, something did move.

  Cosmo caught a flash of brown out of the corner of his eye a fraction of a second before he finished squeezing that trigger. A fraction of a second before he released a deadly hail of lead into the wrong man.

  Jack wasn’t wrong about that uniform.

  In that eternity that lasted that fraction of a second, Cosmo saw—as clearly and as cleanly as the veins on those leaves—Murphy’s eyes as he learned Angelina was dead. Cosmo saw Jane, too, hair flying, blood spraying as she jerked and fell.

  And he turned, finger tight against the trigger as he swept the MP-5 in the direction of that movement of brown, letting go of the rope and dropping the last dozen feet or so onto the rocky hillside.

  He sensed more than saw Decker sliding down the rope after him as he skidded and scrambled for footing, as he dashed through the waist-high brush, as he came face-to-face with a man in a Nazi uniform, bleeding from three different entry wounds, none of them fatal.

  The man was fumbling to get a sidearm free from a waist holster, but he froze when he saw Cosmo.

  And Cosmo froze, too.

  Jane was bleeding. Profusely.

  Jules could see the blood from here.

  He’d watched as she’d bolted from the tent, as she’d run across the beach, as that rifle had cracked and she’d been violently pushed back, as she’d hit the sand with a sickening crunch.

  And, as he held Robin down to keep him from trying to run after her, Jules had heard the ragged firing of an automatic weapon. It paused and then fired again.

  Jules told Adam to stay with Robin. He made sure Tess was there to greet the ambulances and police, whose sirens were getting louder and louder as they finally approached.

  Then he ran out onto the beach.

  Wayne, the extra who’d helped Jules and Adam carry Robin back to the tent, was right on his heels.

  The kid had no fear.

  The helicopter thrummed overhead, Cosmo catching a quick ride back to Jane by clinging to a rope. He leapt off and ran the rest of the way while the chopper made a rough-looking landing farther down the beach.

  Cosmo reached Jane right about when Jules did, his pace picking up when he saw that she was covered—covered—with blood.

  But then she sat up.

  It was like something out of a horror movie. She just opened her eyes and sat up.

  Cosmo dropped his weapon and stared at her. He was breathing hard, much harder than he should have been from that short run.

  Jane met his gaze. Neither one of them spoke.

  Jules caught Wayne’s arm. Pulled him back.

  Jane opened her flak jacket to reveal the empty bladders that had held all that blood. Fake blood. “He didn’t even hit me. I just fell when I heard the sound of the gunshot.”

  Cosmo nodded. Looked at Jules. “We’ll need a body bag on that hillside.” His voice was raspy, and he had to stop and clear his throat. “Decker’s still up there. He’s got the weapon and some kid our guy took hostage. Kid’s really out of it. Doped up or something. He was parked behind the sniper rifle. I’m pretty sure we were supposed to kill him, thinking he was the shooter, while our guy snuck down the hill and walked out of here with the rest of the extras.” He turned and looked at Jane again, and his voice shook. “I thought I told you to stay behind that car, in the tent.”

  “I couldn’t,” she said.

  He nodded, and then he walked away. Not far. Just about four yards. He sat down in the sand. Arms around his knees, he stared out at the ocean.

  PJ dashed up, first aid kit from the helicopter in his hands, like that would’ve helped at all had Jane really been shot.

  “You have medical training, right?” Jules asked him.

  PJ nodded.

  “We could use you up in the tents,” Jules continued. “We’ve got a bunch of extras who’ve been wounded. None fatally—Robin’s probably the worst off. He’s first in line for an ambulance.”

  Jane looked up sharply at that, and Jules went to help her to her feet. “He’s been asking for you,” he told her.

  She hesitated, looking over at Cosmo.

  “Cos, you coming?” Jules called.

  Cosmo turned slightly, just enough to acknowledge him, not quite looking back over his shoulder. “In a minute,” he said. “Just give me a minute.”

  --------------------------------------------------------------------------------

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  A dam was in the lobby, sitting next to Jack Shelton, when Jules came into the hospital. Jane Chadwick was there, too—down at the end of the room near the gift shop, giving an on-camera interview.

  Which had to mean that her brother was okay, didn’t it? He’d tried calling on the way over, but couldn’t get through. He’d spent the entire ride imagining the worst.

  “Robin’s out of surgery. He’s going to be all right,” Adam told him, and the relief was so intense Jules had to sit down. “The doctor came out to report that a bullet nicked his artery, but they worked their magic, and now he’s resting comfortably, which is a really stupid thing to say. I mean, the man was shot. What’s comfortable about that? You okay, J.?”

  Jules looked up. “Yeah. Just . . .” He shook his head. Thank God.

  “Not used to being on the other side of it, huh?” Adam said, standing up and feeding coins into a nearby soda machine. “Welcome to my world.”

  As Jules rubbed the back of his neck, he could hear Jane talking to the reporter.

  “The story we’re telling in American Hero has nothing to do with Judge Lord—except for the fact that because Hal grew
up in a world with zero tolerance, he was forced to hide who he really was. His entire life was a lie—except for a few days in Paris, in 1945.”

  Adam shoved a bottle of Coke, cold and slick with condensation, into his hands. “This was just another regular day for you, wasn’t it?” he asked.