by Cindy Gerard
“How do you know this?”
“The Russian ringleader you shot? In the hospital, he sang like a wounded canary. The attack had been orchestrated by a woman he knew only as Anya.”
“Our shooter?”
“None other. She was supposed to knock off the One-Eyed Jacks for them—something she’d probably have done for free—and clear the way for the Russians to scoop up Dr. Corbet and Eagle Claw. Thanks to her mole in the CIA—”
“What?”
“B.J. and Steph, pretending to be the assassin, smoked him out online. We arrested him yesterday,” Mike told her.
“Looks like Rhonda and I weren’t the only ones playing ‘get the bad guy,’ ” Cooper said, not doing a very good job of masking his pain.
“Yours had guns,” Mike pointed out. “This pissant was a communications clerk with an expatriated father who persuaded him to aid Mother Russia. Anyway, B.J. and Steph went to work digging for photos of Brewster. They finally found one with the woman at his side, and that led us to an ID and a profile.”
Mike’s eyes were hard, and Rhonda could read his thoughts. He wanted this woman. He wanted her a week ago, before his wife had almost died from one of her bullets.
“Marjorie Reynolds, a.k.a. Jane Smith and a dozen other aliases. Blond, blue eyes, plain, average build. She’d blend in with any crowd. But not anymore—now we have a way to find her.”
“Facial-recognition software?” Rhonda’s heart beat with excitement.
“Damn straight. Her photo is rolling through intelligence agencies around the world, along with an APB. If she shows up in any airport, any train station, hell, on the streets of New York City, some camera somewhere is going to spot her.”
“But the trick will be spotting her before she comes after another one of us,” Cooper said.
40
“I’m going to see if I can help B.J. and Steph with their search,” Rhonda said once Mike called an end to the meeting.
She didn’t waste any time getting out of the briefing room, Coop thought.
Then his teammates crowded around him, pronouncing him an idiot for not taking advantage of sick leave, as ugly as ever, a pansy-ass for letting a woman save him, and generally making him feel loved. His brothers.
By the time the room cleared out, he felt like shit. Yeah, he probably should go home to bed. But the guys felt really solid that Marjorie Reynolds was going to make a play soon, maybe even today.
And he didn’t want to miss that action, even if Mike decided to stick him in a surveillance vehicle with a pair of field glasses, covering their backs while they closed in on her.
Then there was the issue of Rhonda. He wanted to talk to her. Problem was, she clearly didn’t want to talk to him.
Tough noogies.
He walked down the hall to her office, rapped on the door, and let himself inside.
“Hey. How are you doing?” she asked after a moment of surprise clearly mixed with discomfort.
“Well, if you’d answered or returned my phone calls, you’d know exactly how I am. Let’s start with confused. Then cut through all the rest of it and go straight to pissed.”
She folded her hands together on the top of her desk. “I’m sorry. I was going to return your calls. But I was afraid you might be sleeping and didn’t want to bother you.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Long enough that she actually started to squirm. “Don’t try to bullshit a bullshitter, Buttercup. Tell me straight. You’re avoiding me.”
“I’m working,” she insisted.
“Goody for you.” He sat down grumpily in a straight-backed chair across from her desk. “I remember every word I said last night.”
She looked at her folded hands. “It’s okay. The medication—”
“Had nothing to do with it,” he interrupted. “So talk to me. Tell me what you would’ve said if I’d said that I love you just now.”
• • •
His voice had softened. So had his eyes. His sad and angry eyes. And Rhonda felt as though a fist had wrapped around her heart and squeezed.
“You don’t really want to have this conversation here. Not now.”
“Oh, I do. I really, really do. Now, tell me. What would you have said?”
She’d never anticipated that this moment would come. That he’d tell her he loved her. That he’d want her to love him in return.
That she’d want to tell him that she loved him.
“We had an arrangement,” she said, collecting herself.
“Screw that. That was then. That was before—”
“Before we had blistering-hot sex, then almost died? Yeah, we had some really intense, life-changing moments. But you knew from the start that I didn’t want to get involved in a long-term relationship. You didn’t, either.”
“I repeat, that was then.” He leaned forward in the chair, wincing when it jostled his shoulder. “Are you honestly going to try to convince me that you don’t have any feelings for me?”
“Of course, I have feelings for you. My God, Cooper. We went through a small war together. We almost died together. How could I not have feelings for you after that?”
He leaned back again and slowly shook his head. “So . . . you’re saying this is like a band-of-brothers feeling.”
“No. Yes. Cooper, don’t make this any more difficult than it has to be.”
“Difficult. Good word,” he said. “Tell me about difficult. Tell me why, when we have this amazing thing going between us, it would be difficult to ride it all the way to the end.”
She felt tears sting her eyes. She never cried. Not anymore. She swiveled around in her chair so her back was to him. Grabbed a stack of folders from an open drawer and . . .
“Rhonda.”
His voice was so soft, so concerned, she almost lost it. She clutched the folders to her breasts, not even knowing how they’d gotten into her hands.
Then he was beside her. Squatted down on his heels, his hand on her arm, his eyes as full of pain as her chest. “Baby, what happened to you? Who hurt you so badly that you’re scared to death to believe what you’re feeling?”
She wasn’t a babbler. She was a thoughtful and guarded woman, and she didn’t share details of her life easily.
But he wasn’t going to back away until he knew.
She battled her decision for several long moments, then finally gave up. “You wanted to know why I have a fear of hospitals,” she began, not looking at him. “I don’t fear them. I hate them. I spent too much time watching and waiting for someone to die in a hospital bed.”
She waited for him to say something. To ask who, when, how. But he didn’t. He just stood, eased a hip onto the corner of her desk, and took her hand in his.
“I was engaged once. Eight years ago. The wedding was just weeks away when Dan was in a car accident. He was late for our date and ran a red light. It was a miracle that he didn’t die at the scene.”’
He squeezed her hand tighter.
“I spent weeks at the hospital, watching him on life support, nauseated from the overwhelming fragrance of flowers. Weeks where I mourned and grieved and blamed myself because he was in that horrible condition. He knew he couldn’t be late that night; we had tickets to a show. Tickets I’d worked to get for months. He’d hurried so he wouldn’t upset me. Four weeks and three days later—the week before our wedding—he died.”
She stopped, then steeled herself to continue. “And there I was. Almost a bride. Not even a widow. But the man I’d planned to live my life with was dead.”
“I’m so, so sorry.”
“Yeah. I was, too. I grieved for over a year. Blamed myself for over a year. Then my best friend, who would have been my maid of honor, came to me one night, drunk, crying . . . and admitted that she and Dan had been together that night. That’s why he was late. He’d l
eft her bed . . . to be with me. And she couldn’t live with the guilt any longer.”
She paused again, feeling oddly suspended above the pain now. “Apparently, they’d fallen in love. Oh, they hadn’t meant to; they didn’t want to hurt me. They’d planned to tell me, but the time was never right. Then, while he was dying, she didn’t want to burden me with the truth. After he died, same story. So she waited. A full damn year. She let me live with the guilt and the loss for a year before she could bother to tell me the truth.”
He tried to pull her into his arms, but she stood, needing space. She crossed her arms over her breasts and paced to the glass window that looked out to the hallway.
“So then I got to grieve all over again. Over the fact that my best friend had betrayed me. That the man I’d loved had no longer loved me. And I got to grieve for the full year of my life that I’d lost wallowing in a guilt I hadn’t deserved to feel.”
She shook her head, remembering. “I felt humiliated and stupid and naive for not seeing it. And that’s when I’d started hating him. A dead man. How small and petty is that? And I hated her, too. I hated my friend, who was in just as much pain as I’d been in.”
She turned to face him, made herself look past the empathy and concern in his eyes. “And once I got past that, I made peace with the truth. I was never going to let myself in for that kind of heartache again. It changed me, Cooper. I’m not a person who can love anymore. I can’t take that chance. I won’t take that chance.”
He was quiet for so long. So long that she finally made herself meet his eyes and realized that’s what he’d been waiting for. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all you went through. But you’re wrong about love.”
She slowly shook her head. “I’m not wrong. Love isn’t worth the pain.”
Another long, searching look. “So what you’re saying is that I’m not worth it.”
Weary, she closed her eyes. “Don’t put words in my mouth. That’s not what I said.”
“The hell it isn’t.” He was angry now.
Fine. Let him be angry. “You’ve twisted it.”
“No. I’ve clarified. And while I’m at it, let me clarify something else, in case it didn’t register the first two times. I love you. Do you want to know how many other women I’ve said that to?” He held up his index finger. “One: my mother. I say it every time I talk to her. Because I mean it, just like I mean it when I say it to you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
“You don’t need me in your life,” she challenged. “You just think you do.”
“Wow. Thanks for clearing that up for me. I never dreamed you’d know my mind better than I do.”
She walked back to her desk and sat down, needing a barrier between his anger and her resolve. “You need to think this through. This . . . feeling we have for each other. It’s nine parts chemistry and one part wishful thinking. You want to love me. I understand that. I might even want to love you.”
“That’s good enough for me.”
She pressed her closed fists on the desktop. “No. It’s not. You deserve more.”
“So do you. I’ll give you more.”
“Do you not understand?” she shouted in frustration. “Did you not hear me? I’m damaged. I can’t love again. I’ve known that for a long time. I accept it. Now you need to.”
He opened his mouth to reply, but her office door flew open, and Santos burst into the room. “We’ve got her!”
Startled, even relieved for the interruption, Rhonda jumped to her feet. “What?”
“We’ve. Got. Her! She landed at Reagan on an Air Canada flight about an hour ago. I could freaking kiss the guy who invented facial-recognition software, because TSA was locked in, and boom. Caught her at a rental-car agency. We’ve got the make, model, color, and plate number of the SUV she’s driving.”
“And?” Rhonda knew there was more.
“She’s headed toward McLean.”
“I think I know where she’s going,” Rhonda said as a revelation hit her. A sixth sense told her that she was as right about this as she’d ever been about anything.
Except maybe Cooper. Who looked as if she’d delivered a bullet to his heart.
She couldn’t . . . she just couldn’t think about it now.
“Where’s Mike?” She skirted around her desk and headed for the door. “I’ve got to talk to him.”
41
They wouldn’t expect her to return to McLean. They’d expect her to hide.
That worked for her; she wanted to hit them hard and fast. Take out as many as she could before she went to be with Ray. She hoped he’d understand.
She was weary.
She was lonely.
And she’d failed again.
The Russians would be after her, once they regrouped and decided she was the perfect sacrificial goat for the failed Area 51 raid.
Time was limited. Brown and his team might know her name by now, and they’d be using all the weapons in their arsenal to intercept her. Surveillance cameras, facial-recognition software—they’d find her. And if they didn’t already know where she’d set up shop to make her final stand, they’d soon figure it out.
God, she would have loved to see the looks on their faces when they realized she hadn’t died in Squaw Valley along with her beloved Ray, who had been blown into red mist and ash. Just before the missile hit, he’d sent her to retrieve a gift he’d brought for the cartel. So her survival was a sign as big as any neon sign in Times Square: she was meant to avenge Ray’s death.
He’d been the one person in her life who had seen her as more than a pawn. Her parents had deserted her. Her foster parents had abused her. The courts had failed her. Killing the man who’d proclaimed he loved her like a daughter, then violated her while his wife watched, had been the first thing in her life that had felt right. The next kills had been easy, even profitable. And when she’d hooked up with Ray, she’d felt as if she mattered for the first time in her life. And he became the one person who had ever mattered to her.
But Ray was gone . . . and Eva Salinas, Jamie Cooper, Bobby Taggart, and Mike Brown were responsible.
She knew how to get to them now. She knew their habits and their weaknesses, like she knew the cold blue eyes that stared back at her in the mirror each morning.
She glanced in the rearview mirror after she parked the SUV, stunned to see tears running down her face. Everything twisted and dead inside her had taken any emotion out of killing. But that emotion was alive again because Ray was dead, and so was the pain. And pain, she’d discovered, was a much greater motivator than mere money.
After retrieving her weapons from the backseat, she stepped onto the sidewalk.
By the time she’d climbed the stairs and reached the sixth floor of the building where she’d fired the shot that hit Eva Salinas, she was breathing hard. She would always regret not killing her. Taking out her husband today would have to do.
As it had been eight days ago, the building was as empty as a confessional in a thieves’ den. She walked toward the room where she had originally set up her hide. Crime-scene tape, plaster dust, and chunks of concrete from her grenade blast still littered the floor.
They’d figure out that this was where she would be. And she wanted them to find her here. She’d armed herself with enough ammunition to eliminate them all, starting with Brown.
She stopped, listened, and heard only silence. Confident that she was alone, she walked into the room.
The rattle of several rifles being raised immediately reverberated around her.
She stopped in her tracks. Cooper, wounded but alive, like Taggart, who stood beside him, their Glocks pointed at her heart. And Brown, rifle shouldered, pointing directly at her center mass. She recognized Santos because she’d managed to hit him. Carlyle and Waldrop. Faces hard. Jaws set. Safeties off.
“Y
ou surprise me, gentlemen,” she said conversationally.
“Yeah.” Brown seemed barely able to contain his rage. “That was the plan.”
Her heart rate spiked with anticipation. “How’s your bitch of a wife? I truly hope she’s suffering.”
“Drop your weapons,” Brown said, his mouth tight, his eyes glazed with hatred, and she wondered what kept him from pulling the trigger. Sense of fair play, she supposed. It was generally the downfall of men like him.
She held his gaze, staring straight into the eyes of the man who’d killed Ray.
“You’re going to die here today.” She pulled her MP5K out from under her jacket and aimed it directly at him.
The first bullet hit her in the chest just as she squeezed the trigger. And kept on squeezing, screaming like a crazed animal as bullet after bullet ripped into her body.
She dropped to her knees. The pain. Oh, God . . . the pain was unbearable.
And still she fired. Ready to be with Ray, a blood-curdling cry still spilling from her mouth, she fell facedown on the cold cement floor.
• • •
The screaming finally stopped.
The roar of gunfire stopped with it.
And the men who had delivered her to the end she’d so desperately wanted stood over her body in a silence that still vibrated with her hatred and insanity.
“Sit rep,” Mike barked, his gaze never leaving her prostrate body.
Only after every one of the men flanking him had assured him he was okay did he lower his M4.
There was no pleasure in killing. But there was peace in knowing that it had come to an end.
42
Rhonda’s apartment had always been her refuge, but it didn’t feel like a haven tonight.
It felt empty. And even though a gas fire burned in the fireplace, it felt cold.
It had been three days since Marjorie Reynolds had committed suicide by cop. There’d been no doubt that she’d wanted to die. And there’d been no question that the world was a better, safer place without her.