by Leslie Jones
“So who watches it with you? Your family. Tell me about your little sister. She’s fifteen, right?”
Alex tried to tighten his fingers. Mace brought his other hand around and clasped them both around Alex’s, trying to squeeze all his own strength into Alex through sheer force of will.
“Annie,” Alex wheezed. “She turned sixteen last month. Got her driver’s license, even though she’s been driving the . . . tractor since she was . . . ten.” His eyes fluttered closed.
“Hey! Alex! Stay awake. Open your eyes.”
Alex raised his lids with difficulty. “So tired.”
The wail of sirens penetrated the air. Three ambulances roared into the clearing, EMTs jumping out and running toward them before the vehicles came to a stop.
“Hang on, Alex. Help is here.”
Alex mumbled something, gaze unfocused as he started to close his eyes again.
Mace grabbed him by the shoulder and shook him, putting all his fear and desperation into the one motion. “Goddammit, Alex, you open your goddamned eyes, do you hear me? Fight it. You’re a fighter . . . fucking fight!”
Alex rolled his head toward Mace. “Just let me—”
“No. You keep your fucking eyes on me. On me!”
Alex’s hand relaxed in Mace’s grasp as his head lolled back. Mace sagged, cradling Alex’s head in his lap while the light died out of his eyes.
Chapter 42
Thursday, March 2. 7:05 a.m.
Otis Fitch’s Property. Ducard, Massachusetts.
Mace became aware of the EMTs pushing him out of the way, checking Alex’s pulse and shining a light into his eyes. Someone jostled his shoulder, and he realized another paramedic had torn his uniform top, trying to see his bullet wound. He yanked away, standing to stalk toward the woman who’d shot Alex, now upright and being dragged to an FBI cruiser. He didn’t even know what he intended, riding a wave of fury and grief and the need to tear her apart. Hands gripped him, pulling him to a stop, and he fought them, until his teammates finally just wrapped their arms around him and held on. They stood together with heads bowed, sharing their grief as they shared everything else.
“Command, a Life Flight is four minutes out for the two criticals,” Javier Castellanos said. “I’m sending down police transport for our prisoners, and another HMRU team is on its way.”
Mace stepped away from his teammates, anguish and guilt tearing through him like knives. He walked back to Alex, aware of his team flanking him. Mace knelt next to him, placing a hand on his chest and bowing his head.
“It’s my fault,” he muttered, emotion clogging his throat. “It’s my fault.”
“You know better than that,” Jace said. “You did everything you could. We all saw that.”
Tag gently closed Alex’s eyes and folded his hands over his stomach. “It was just a freak thing. A one in a thousand shot that the bullet would hit above his tactical vest.”
“I tried. But I couldn’t save him.” Mace fisted his hands. “Who’s going to tell Annie her big brother’s never coming home? Who’s going to watch over her to make sure boys don’t take advantage?”
“I’ll make the call to his family,” Jace said.
“No.” His gaze snapped up. “I will. It needs to be me.”
Tag laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t fail, Mace. No one could have . . .”
“I should have.”
“Don’t be stupid,” Tag said. “You’re not Superman, no matter what you think.”
“Let’s get that shoulder looked at,” a paramedic said, setting his trauma kit near Alex’s legs. He squatted next to Mace and reached for his shoulder, not even glancing at the obviously dead man.
“Get the fuck off me,” Mace snarled, jerking upright. His chest tightened as rage swamped him. “Get the fuck away from us. From him.” He grabbed the trauma kit and hurled it as far as he could. It bounced against the ground, undamaged.
“Hey, man,” the paramedic said, raising his hands. “I’m just trying to help.”
Mace advanced on him, not even knowing what he intended. “You can’t help. Don’t you get it?” His voice wobbled. “You’re too late.”
He stumbled, lightheaded from blood loss. Jace and Tag were right there, supporting him on either side. The Sandman bellowed for a stretcher. The paramedic came forward again, eyeing Mace as though he were a dangerous animal.
As his adrenaline levels dropped, though, Mace became aware of the throbbing pain and the steady drip of blood down his arm. The paramedic cleaned around the wound and put on a dressing, then wrapped an emergency blanket over him. Tag pushed on his shoulders, so he allowed himself to sit, then lie, on the stretcher. In the background, he heard arguing, but the voices drifted away, getting fainter.
“We’re staying with him,” Jace finally barked. “End of discussion.”
Relieved, he closed his eyes, but immediately opened them again as Alex’s empty, staring face swam to the fore. Tag sat next to him, head in his hands, staring at nothing as the ambulance wailed its way to the emergency room.
He was barely conscious as he went into surgery to have the bullet removed. Afterward, he lay in the recovery room, wishing that Lark, not Jace, had tipped back a plastic chair and gone to sleep.
As though he’d conjured her from thin air, Lark inched open the door and peered in, eyes wide and worried, mouth pinched with anxiety. When she saw him awake, a brilliant smile spread across her face, and everything inside him relaxed.
“Hi,” she whispered, coming right over to his bed. He lifted a hand, which she immediately grasped, squeezing so tightly he thought a finger or two might pop off.
“Hey, yourself.”
She looked at Jace, who settled the chair onto all four legs and brought it over to her. “Thanks for calling me.”
“My pleasure,” he said. “I’ll be in the waiting room.”
“Oh, don’t let me chase you—”
“See ya,” Mace said over her.
Jace managed a wan smile and left.
“So,” she said, sitting down on the hard plastic. “The bullet. Clean entry, but it missed your clavicle and scapula. It caused only tissue damage.”
Mace forced a smile. “You sound like you’ve been a doctor for years.”
“I’m just repeating what the surgeon told me. You’ll need physical therapy, but you’ll heal good as new.”
“Whew.”
“Mace.” Her face grew sad. “I’m really, truly sorry about Alex.”
He nodded, throat tightening. “Thanks. He was . . . one of the good ones.”
“He was brave and true.”
“He saved me,” Mace managed.
Lark peered into his face, but he didn’t know what she was looking for. “And you would have done the same for him. I know that. Everyone knows it, Mace. Don’t beat yourself up.”
He just shook his head, unable to speak.
“And I just want you to know that I’m here for you. When you’re ready to talk about it, I’m ready to listen.”
He nodded again, ashamed of the tears suddenly pressing behind his eyes. How had she known he needed time to process what had happened?
“Listen, I have an idea.”
“Yes?”
“Why don’t you all come up to my parents’ place in Nantucket this week? Today. Or tomorrow. Get some R&R.”
His brows lifted in surprise. “What does your mother say?”
She grinned, pumping a hand in the air in triumph. “That’s the best part. She and my father are away until next week. So we’d all have five whole days with the place to ourselves.”
He gently pried her fingers loose from his hand, which had lost all feeling. “I think that’s a very generous offer. I’ll talk to Jace about it.”
She cleared her throat, shifting around in the chair, looking everywhere but at him. “Um, I might have already talked to him. He might have said some leave after this mission is in order, and he’s clearing it with Colonel
. . . Granite?”
Mace chuckled, delighted with her spontaneity. “Granville.”
“So, you’ll come?”
“Bet on it, little bird.”
Chapter 43
Friday, March 3. 3:00 p.m.
Larkspur Mansion. Nantucket, Massachusetts.
“Thanks for letting me come up here with you.”
Lark glanced uneasily at Jocelyn. “You didn’t actually give me much of a choice, Joss. I’ve never seen you so stressed. Now that we’re almost there, can you tell me why you needed to get away from the office so desperately?”
She turned to stare out the window. “I just did.”
“Man trouble?” But Lark thought she already knew why Jocelyn was running away from Boston. The Cyber Action Team from Washington, DC must have finished its investigation into the malware, and the results didn’t look good for her.
“I suppose you could look at it that way.”
Lark mentally willed Jocelyn to face her, but she wouldn’t turn from the window. “Joss, you’re going to have to talk to me sooner or later. Wouldn’t you rather do this in private?”
Jocelyn finally looked at her, hostility pinching her face. “Do what? What needs to be talked about?” she barked. “Your loyalty should be to me. To me!”
Taken aback, Lark took a hand off the wheel, patting the air in a calm-down gesture. “Easy, Joss,” she said, hoping to soothe the other woman. “I only found out you were ChaosCowboy last week. How have I been disloyal to you?”
She crossed her arms and refused to answer. All the brainpower in the world wasn’t going to help Lark understand Jocelyn’s antagonism if she refused to talk about it.
“How?” she insisted.
Jocelyn flopped back in her seat morosely, plucking at the seat belt. “Who got you this job, anyway? Me. Not Melvin. Not Doug. Me.”
“Ooookay,” she said, drawing out the word. “Let’s try this another way. Why didn’t you tell me when I started working at the field office that you were ChaosCowboy?”
“I wanted to wait for the right moment, I guess,” Jocelyn said, sounding calmer, thank God. “Didn’t you ever wonder how you got assigned to Boston right out of Quantico? Most new computer scientists get sent to small offices to get experience before they’re ever even considered for a bigger assignment.”
“You recommended me?” Lark asked, certain the answer would be yes. No coincidence would place the two of them in the same office.
“I pushed hard for you. Went around Melvin to Doug. I told him he’d be missing out on a stellar asset if he didn’t ask for you by name.”
She didn’t know what to say to that. Jocelyn had opened her eyes to a whole new world. “But you never contacted me again after you were arrested years ago.”
“I was protecting you. I didn’t want you implicated. They didn’t know who SPURious was, and I wouldn’t tell them.”
Lark thunked her head against the seat back, hands gripping the steering wheel with stiff fingers. Hell, just go for it.
“Here’s the thing, Joss. Remember when you found the Leonard Rose account in Elliott’s code string? And we said whoever created the bogus account framed me for the theft of Sokolov’s money?”
“Of course. Melvin did it.”
“Here’s the thing, though. When I accidentally let it slip that the spy stealing classified secrets used the same fake account, you weren’t surprised. You already knew that.”
“I had no idea at all,” Jocelyn said, shifting in her seat. “It shocked me, same as you.”
“No,” Lark said sadly. “It didn’t. You didn’t even ask me about the espionage. You asked me if I cracked the malware. You knew the malware was designed for spying.”
The enmity returned. “So what? I’ve always been a better hacker than you, Lark. I’d already looked at the malware before Doug assigned it to you.”
Lark felt something inside her wither and die. ChaosCowboy had been her lifeline. Her friend, mentor, and protector. This woman—Jocelyn—she didn’t know at all. Her head dropped to her chest. “Was it all a lie?”
“We’re here!” Jocelyn said, turning completely away from Lark. “Holy Mother Mary. That’s not a house. That’s a mansion.”
The main house stood only two stories, but spread out over four separate wings. The facade mimicked a rustic farmhouse, with shingled siding and white trim. The center wing even had a barn-shaped roof. But no farmhouse possessed a five-car garage, three chimneys, or eight bedrooms. There was a barn, sure, in addition to the stables, guest house, trainer’s bungalow, housekeeper’s quarters, and the caretaker’s cottage. The cook, daily cleaning staff, grooms and stable hands, exercise riders, and jockeys came in daily.
The whole thing was immense, sitting close enough to Nantucket Sound to see the white sailboats littering crystal blue water.
Lark parked near the garage. The two vans pulled in beside her, and everyone piled out. Jocelyn lifted her suitcase from the trunk, refusing to acknowledge her. Heart heavy, Lark spotted Mace with the larger group shouldering duffle bags. His left arm hung in a sling, but she reminded herself that he would regain full use of the arm. At six-three, he stood taller than all but the huge, black, extremely senior sergeant, Ken Something-That-Started-With-An-A. He saw her first, nodding and turning his head to say something to Mace, who immediately came to intercept her.
“What’s wrong?”
Ken must have seen something in her body language. “I’m fine. I’m better now that we’re here and can all relax.”
Mace looked unconvinced, so she smiled brightly, grabbing her suitcase and rolling it to the side so she wouldn’t bounce it over his toes.
Even though a tiny part of her wanted to do just that. One problem at a time. She and Jocelyn would have to have a meeting of minds at some point. But right now, what was she going to do about Mace and his ‘love you’?” As much as it thrilled her to hear him say it, it equally terrified her. In her experience, men were either controlling, unreliable, or weak. Mace was none of those things. Maybe.
He put his arms around her and hugged her, warming her instantly. “Tell me, little bird. What’s wrong?”
Lark shook her head, throat closing up. “I’ll tell you, but later, okay? Let’s get all of you settled first.”
He frowned, clearly wanting to push the issue. “All right.”
“Lark!” called Jace. “Would you come up here for a moment, please? Your mother thinks we’re an advancing horde of Mongols.”
Oh, shit. Fuck. Shit fuck. Her parents were in residence. Why? Why why why?
Chances were her mother had used those exact words, too. Lark hurried to the front door, where her mother stood with her arms folded imperiously across her chest, barring the entryway. Lark’s vision of a few carefree days shriveled into dust.
“Hadley,” her mother said. “This is a surprise. Why aren’t you still in Boston?”
“Why aren’t you still in Scottsdale?” Damn it. Her hostility was reflexive. She tried to modify her tone. “I mean, it’s nice to see you. I just didn’t expect you to be home.”
Her mother’s chin lifted. “Evidently. Who are all these people?”
“They’re Army soldiers, Mother, stationed at Fort Bragg in North Carolina. They make sure soldiers fighting in Afghanistan and Iraq have all the ammunition they need to kill people.” She felt honor-bound to protect their true identities, but she deliberately needled her haughty mother. Though why she cared enough to push her mother’s buttons confused her. Shouldn’t she have matured past that by now?
Mace appeared at her side and slipped an arm around her waist. She felt more than saw the rest of the team array themselves behind her, offering tacit support. It warmed her.
Her mother pinned Mace with a pointed look. “I know you. You’re responsible for the mayhem that ruined my daughter’s wedding.”
“Not exactly, ma’am, though I am the man responsible for saving your daughter’s life.”
Lark smothere
d a laugh at her mother’s uncomprehending frown. “Everyone, this is my mother, Isla Larkspur.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am,” Mace said, echoed by similar sentiments from the others. Lark wasn’t fooled, though. Mace’s indignation matched her mother’s aloofness.
Who offered a chilly nod. “Always a pleasure to meet Hadley’s friends. Were you all planning on staying here?”
How did her mother manage to sound so disapproving?
“If it wouldn’t be an inconvenience, ma’am,” Jace said.
They all turned to stare at her mother. She gave a minute shrug, turned, and went back inside.
Lark turned to Jocelyn, Heather, Stephanie, and the cluster of men. “Well. See? We’re all perfectly welcome.”
They laughed, some with less amusement than others.
Lark led the way through the door. Inside, the room opened up into a two-story open living area, set with imposing striped chairs and a square rotating coffee table. She knew from experience the chairs were stiff and uncomfortable; her mother used them with guests she did not want to linger. A Berber rug separated the area from the entryway, and a curved staircase led to a balcony on the upper floor. To the right, a hallway led to other areas of the house. Unlike the exterior of the mansion, there was nothing rustic about the inside. It screamed wealth and privilege.
A comfortably overweight woman rushed down the stairs and enveloped Lark in a warm embrace.
“Lark, my sweet girl! At last, at last. You stayed away too long.”
She returned her hug. “So good to see you, Mrs. G.”
“Heaven’s sake, honey. You’re all grown up. Call me Peggy.”
Lark laughed. “Not that grown up. You’ll always be Mrs. G to me.”
The woman turned to the group overflowing the entryway. “I’m Peggy Galati, the housekeeper here. My goodness, look at you all. Big, strapping men. And lovely, lovely ladies. All right, all right, let’s get you sorted out.”
She eyed the group, rubbing her hands together with brisk efficiency, and saw Heather and Jace holding hands. She pointed to them. “You two, I’ll put you in the Rose Suite. Ladies, I have three rooms on the second floor that will do nicely for you. I think I’ll have to split you men between here and the guest house. Lark, honey, your room is just as you left it.”