Jameson (In the Company of Snipers Book 22)

by Irish Winters

  Which had been the luckiest guess of Maddie’s life. She’d snagged the burner phone back at the safe house, and then, after she’d snuck inside the power company truck that had been parked fortuitously on the curb outside the safe house, she’d finally called the number that wicked loan shark had nailed to the middle of her front door, like an eviction notice. Which seemed like another good sign at the time, him answering his phone as quickly as he had.

  But now that she stood in the shadow alongside the Black Irish Rose Tavern, avoiding eye contact with everyone and keeping her head down, she wasn’t so sure of anything. Planning a strategy back inside the safe house was easier than implementing it out here where anything could go wrong. She’d used every last bit of her savings to rent passage on the private plane that brought her to an airstrip outside South Boston. There she’d called a cab to get her to this exact business on the Harbor.

  The grimy denim jacket she wore now, she’d stolen on her way past a row of disgusting, smelly forklifts. It was too large and smelled so strongly of body odor that it watered her eyes. The ball cap she’d picked up from the ground didn’t fit any better. But the jacket concealed her nine, and the dirty cap made her anonymous, just one of the guys. One of the short guys.

  She’d never met Nash’s loan shark in person, but when he’d first called, demanding she pay off Nash’s debt, he’d sounded just as she’d expected, cold and ruthless. What she hadn’t expected was that he’d also be Irish. That made her think. Maybe Pops Delaney owned every loan shark on the East Coast, and bingo. She’d been right, at least that Pops had owned this guy. When she’d informed Mr. Shark that his boss was recently deceased, that she’d seen him die with her own eyes, he’d called her a liar and hung up. But he’d quickly called back, said he’d checked and confirmed her story. He’d been ready to listen then.

  “So what do you want, Missy?” he’d asked. Guess he hadn’t known Delaney’s daughter was even in the picture, or that Lucy Shade, the uppity news celeb, was really Lucy Delaney, Pops only daughter, and the heiress to his empire. Or that she was headed to Boston to take control of his gang. And him, Mr. Bigshot Shark. Guilt by association made him one of Lucy’s targets, and that was how Maddie had fed him her lie. He needed to get on Lucy’s good side. Him sending his new boss a quick chunk of change might make things easier for him. Never hurts to grease the hand that feeds you, right?

  All Maddie wanted in return for the privilege of ending her ex’s affiliation with the underworld, was the address in Boston, to make that deposit. After a couple more terse minutes of dishonest negotiation as to who had the better hand, during which Mr. Shark threatened to slice all of her fingers off, then her toes, one by bloody one, until she paid him—or else. Not like she wanted to know what ‘or else’ meant, but somehow, she’d stood firm. Demanded he tell her where Pops Delaney lived or worked in Boston, that she would only hand over the money—yes, all thirty-thousand dollars Nash owed, plus fifteen thousand more in interest—to the woman in charge today, not to one of her lackeys.

  Not that Maddie had that kind of cash, but she wasn’t going to visit Miss Delaney to hand over money anyway. No. She was here to kill the woman who’d tried to murder Jameson Tenney too many times.

  Maddie was at peace with her decision because, like Lucy Shade, she was her father’s daughter, and she would always be just that. Nothing more. She wasn’t a Marine, never would be. But she’d worked alongside enough of them these past few months, former soldiers and SEALs as well, to know they’d chosen the path less traveled. That in doing so, they made a difference every day. They were the brave and daring heroes America needed. Not her.

  This was just her way of honoring the men and women who’d put their lives at risk for her. They’d served; she hadn’t. But she would serve them now. She owed the people she worked with more than she’d ever owed Nash or her old man, and she meant to keep Jameson alive. He deserved a better hand than what life had dealt him. She meant for him to have a chance at that better future and more. Just not with her. She was no good for him. A loser like her would only hold him back.

  But now that he was here, and marching straight at her as if he’d scented her like bloodhounds scented criminals… Good grief, he looked good. And hot. His chin was set in grim determination, his eyes hidden behind those dark glasses. His head was up, his stride powerful and confident. To look at him, no one would ever know he was blind. He was a soldier in charge, and he moved without his cane or a lick of hesitation. As if somehow, he knew there were no obstacles in his way. As if there wouldn’t dare be anything between him and her. He was a hard man, ready for war. Somehow the mountainous stacks of shipping containers behind him only made him look more fierce. Larger than life.

  Harley and Eric cut imposing sights, but Jameson had them beat. Her heart squeezed out a dozen sets of jumping jacks that pounded like thunder beneath her breastbone. “What the heck am I doing here,” she murmured to herself. “He’s the warrior. He’s trained. I’m just…” Just what? So in love with that man that it hurt to see him looking so mean? So focused? So ready to kill in order to protect her?

  And now I’ve put him in danger.

  She forced herself not to wave at him and give herself away. She was nothing, but Jameson Tenney was someone. The world would miss him.

  Not if she could help it.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Keep up!” Alex ordered the old man slacking behind him. Until they’d run between the two-mile-wide stacks of shipping containers along the dock at Conley Terminal, Mel had been lucid and actively engaged. But now he was tired. His pace had slowed and was looking around like he didn’t know where he was. Despite his good intentions, if that was truly what he’d had back at the house, he looked bewildered now.

  “Son of a bitch,” Alex hissed at himself. Eric, Harley, and Jameson were just up ahead, and here he was, dragging his sickly, deadbeat father behind him, like some idiot nine-year-old who wasn’t smart enough to give up on the old fart. Or admit that Mel might not be helpful anymore.

  Alex slowed, still moving forward but with more measured steps.

  Mel was panting and sweating, obviously suffering from his age and the disease. “It’s here. We’re close, I can tell,” he wheezed. “I can find it. Just give me a minute, will ya?”

  That, at least, sounded semi-coherent. “It’s okay,” Alex replied evenly. “Catch your breath. My men are just up ahead. We’ll connect with them and take it from there. You can rest then.”

  “Damn it. I don’t wanna rest, but nothing around here looks familiar, boy,” Mel grumbled, scanning the docks ahead and behind himself, as if he’d misplaced the Black Irish Rose Tavern, the alleged home base for Delaney’s gang, and all those supposed promotions and demotions Mel had bragged about.

  “When was the last time you were here?”

  “Umm…”

  “You’ve been here before, right?” Alex shook his head, annoyed that he might’ve fallen for yet another of Mel’s cons.

  By then, Eric and the guys were walking toward him. Jameson Tenney lagged behind, then came to an abrupt stop. As if he’d heard something, he turned to his right and cocked his head. Must’ve been the long row of containers grinding along a railway track at Alex’s left.

  Mel sputtered and pointed. “There! See? Told you it was here.”

  Sure enough. The Black Irish Rose Tavern sat between two massive warehouses, tucked between their wide-open concrete docks, nearly hidden from view. The simple red-brick building sported a lattice-work, Kelly-green awning over neon signs that invited the hardworking dockworkers in for a pint of Guinness and Harp, or a bottle of Jameson, Teeling, or Bushmills.

  Jameson took off running toward the tavern just as—

  Son of a bitch! Was Maddie holding a pistol, her arms extended in a proper firing position, just outside the warehouse corner nearest Jameson? Could he get to her in time to stop her?

  “Maddie! Stop!” he yelled. />
  She’d just turned and looked over her shoulder when—

  BA-BOOM! A mighty ball of fire and heat ripped sideways through the tavern, sending a hail of bricks, burning debris, and shrapnel, out toward the Harbor and up into the sky.

  Holy shit! The ground shuddered, knocking Alex to his knees. If that wasn’t enough, the rat-a-tat rapid fire of machine guns peppered the air, coming from the warehouse Maddie had been aiming into.

  Scrambling to his feet, Alex told his father to stay put, then took off running. By then, Jameson already had Maddie covered. She lay prostrate beneath him. Was he hit? Was she hurt? Alex couldn’t see through the dense billowing smoke that now obscured the entire dock.

  He cast a quick glance back at Mel. God, no. Mel was bleeding and—what the hell? He had a pistol in his right hand. Alex ran back to his dad.

  “She shot me, boy. That little bitch shot me. It’s over,” he whispered as if he were breathing his last. “Don’t cry for me.”

  “Shut up and stay down,” Alex growled as he assessed the tiny trace of blood on the outside of Mel’s upper thigh. It was nothing more than a graze the length of a pinkie finger. Lexie’s pinkie finger! This damned situation was out of control. He didn’t have time for a drama queen. “Talk to me,” he ordered into his cell.

  “One shooter, near as I can tell from here,” Harley replied evenly. “Too much smoke to be sure.”

  “Where are you?”

  “On my belly to your far right. Beside the forklift. Got my scope on some guy standing just inside the open warehouse door. He might be who Maddie was after.”

  Yeah, well might and is were two different damned things. “Eyes on, Harley. Identify that bastard, and take him out.”

  “Copy that.”

  Men were running away from both warehouses by then. An overhead PA system dominated the air with booming instructions on where to seek safety. Sirens screamed from every direction. But the blowback from that burning tavern brought the unmistakable aroma of charred flesh with it.

  “Anyone know how many people were in the tavern?” Alex asked his TEAM, his vision tearing from the dense gray clouds billowing his way.

  “All Pops’ boys I imagine,” Mel groused where he lay. “That’s how I’d clean house if I were Lucy. Invite them in for drinks. Tell ’em a bunch of lies. Get ’em drunk, then step outside and blow ’em to hell. All of ’em. All at once. Make it look like an accident.”

  Alex stared down at the old man he never, ever knew. Aghast, and damned ashamed that they shared the same blood.

  “First responders are in transit,” Eric reported, dragging Alex back to the present fiasco. “They’ll be here soon.”

  “Good. Where’s the damned bomber?”

  “Not sure yet. Got my eye on some guy in black inside the warehouse. Just inside, left of the door. He’s armed. Two pistols. Tactical vest. One short-stock rifle. Thought he was one of ours at first, but he’s not.”

  “Harley’s already on him.”

  “Yup. Same guy I’m watching,” Harley added.

  “Anyone else?” Alex demanded to know.

  “Not as far as I can—”

  “Yes, Boss! Lucy Delaney’s on the second level.” That was Jameson. “I heard high heels on wooden stairs just before the explosion. She’s somewhere upfront, over the warehouse doors. I can’t see. Can someone tell me if there’s a window up there? Maybe a vent she can see through? She’s the one who fired that MAC 10.”

  Now how the hell did he know all that?

  “Good call,” Alex told his newest agent. “There’s a five foot long louvered vent near the peak of the warehouse roof. You sure you heard heels? Not something else?” There was no way Alex could’ve deciphered the sound of high heels in this chaos.

  “Heels, Boss. Stilettos. Just like she wore back at the hotel and farmhouse.”

  Okay then. Alex believed. Jameson might be every bit as good as Walker had said.

  MAC 10s, aka Military Armament Corporation, model number tens, were machine guns, similar to Uzis. Both were, generally speaking, illegal in the States, and subject to specific NFA rules, aka National Firearms Act. Them being here made perfect sense. MAC 10s were the weapon of choice that, until yesterday, Pops had been pushing on the black market. They were also why Tucker Chase had an agent inside Delaney’s gang. One of his psychics, not Vladimir Morozov.

  “Guys,” Alex muttered, pissed at himself for his lack of full disclosure. “Tuck’s got a man inside. Don’t know who, but he might be who you’re both tracking. Are you certain Lucy Delaney’s up top, Jameson? I don’t want to take out Tucker’s man.”

  “Yes, Boss. Positive. She wears enough rose-scented perfume to gag a pig.”

  “And you can smell that? From out here? Through all this smoke?”

  “No, not anymore. But before the explosion, yes,” Jameson explained. “Guess it’s a gift.”

  Alex shook his head as his sweet wife’s words came back to him. Kelsey always said when one door closed, another opened. Guess Jameson was the winning prize behind this particular door.

  “Yup, that’s her,” Mel breathed, his eyes closed and a silly smile on his face. “Always thought she was better than everyone else. Entitled, you know? Rich little bitch. Loved roses.”

  “Who blew the damned tavern?” Alex muttered.

  “She did,” Mel answered. “Lucy’s a nasty, spiteful little thing. Spoiled rotten. Greedy as shit but smart as sin, and she’s good with Semtex. You ought to see what she can do with C4.”

  “You know her?” Alex had to ask. Could things get any more bizarre?

  “Sure. She’s your younger cousin. Pops is my older brother. Always hated the fucker.”

  Alex couldn’t believe what his ears were hearing. “My cousin?! Gramps had two sons? I have an uncle? When were you going to tell me that?”

  “Never,” Mel replied as he folded his hands and interlocked his fingers over his belly. “The less you and your mother knew about my brother and me and his illegal crap, the better.”

  “Son of a bitch! Did Gramps know he was running guns?”

  Mel turned and stared into Alex’s face, icy cold blues drilling into blues just as hard and just as frigid. “Why do you think he kicked me out? Told me to never come back? He knew. He sure as hell knew.”

  Suddenly, there wasn’t enough air in the world. Alex sat back on his ass, his equilibrium blown to hell with all these revelations, and no longer sure who was the bigger liar in the family. He didn’t have time for his family bullshit. Not now. The unnamed man in black had just walked to the center of the wide-open warehouse doorway and pointed a black-gloved hand straight up, as if signaling Alex and his team of Lucy’s location.

  “Who the hell is that guy?” Harley asked. “What’s his name? Anyone know?”

  “I have no idea, but he just saved Maddie’s life,” Jameson replied, his voice laced with pain. Real pain. Not Mel’s whiny version.

  Alex snapped out of his fog. “Are you hit?”

  “Maddie’s safe. She’s not hurt.”

  “I asked if you’re hurt!”

  “Nothing serious. Just a scratch.”

  Which was what every damned spec ops guy ever said, didn’t matter if they’d lost a limb, an eye, or… shit. Jameson was blind, yet still working as hard, maybe harder, than everyone else.

  “Son of a bitch! Move in,” Alex ordered. “She’s armed. Take her ass out, Goddamnit!”

  His damned cell rang!

  “What?” he snarled into the phone.

  “Please hold your position, Alex,” the cocky director of the FBI’s one and only psychic team, Tucker Chase, ordered calmly. “Tell your men to stand down. Don’t you dare shoot my guy.”

  Alex hated working with the FBI, but Tucker and his psychics? They weren’t so bad. Had actually been helpful once or twice. Just annoying.

  “Belay that order!” he told Eric, Harley, and Jameson. “Son of a bit
ch, Tuck, which one is yours? Lucy Delaney or the lone man still inside the warehouse?” At this point, he honestly didn’t know who was who.

  “The cocky son of a bitch standing at the open door is mine. He’s now looking square at your man on the ground, whose body is spread over… What’s her name?” he asked someone else. Had to be chatting with the psychic agent Alex now had in his crosshairs.

  Tuck came back with, “Maddie Bannister. Your man’s protecting your protocol officer and she’s scared shitless. Jameson Tenney—he’s the lucky bastard on the ground with his body on top of hers. Don’t worry. Delaney got off a few rounds, and Tenney’s hit, but he’s a former SEAL. He’s tough. He’ll be okay. The other round hit that old guy with you. Is that… My hell, that’s your father?”

  Tuck never waited for an answer, not like Alex would’ve provided one. “You never told me your dad was in town. Bottom line, both Tenney and your old man aren’t seriously injured. Eric Reynolds and Harley Mortimer are with you, too. Sure wish you’d promote Zack Lennox. He’s long overdue to be senior agent.”

  “Shut up,” Alex snapped. Tuck always did talk too much, and now that he was FBI director over the psychic team, he seemed to think he knew too damned much as well. “What do you need?”

  Delaney opened fire again and—

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Jameson Tenney fired three answering shots in lightning quick succession.

  The wooden louvers above the open warehouse bay cracked outward. The new boss of the Irish mob tumbled through them. Like a bag of cement with arms and legs extended, Lucy Shade fell face first to the concrete dock a good forty feet below. Her weapon shattered on impact.

  Jameson Tenney, the one and only blind TEAM agent, had just taken out the mass murderer no one else could see. Made a man wonder what else he could do.

  Tuck’s man strolled forward and looked down at her, his weapon poised to deliver a double tap if needed. Which it wasn’t. The human skull wasn’t much different than a melon when it impacted concrete from that altitude. Lucy Delaney expired on contact. Good riddance.