by Amy Gamet
Gemma’s shoulders dropped in relief. Her eyes went around the room to each of the men—strong, capable soldiers.
“Cole’s house was a trap,” said Jax. “He knew we’d find it. Now we need to figure out where he’s really hiding Judge Royce.”
“Does he own any other property?” asked Austin.
“Negative. No living relatives, either.”
“Friends?”
“Everything we’ve got on this guy says he’s a loner,” said Logan, flipping through papers in front of him. “Lives in the woods. Unemployed and on public assistance for a psych disability. If he had friends, they would have been few and far between.”
“A hotel, or rental property?” asked Jax.
“Possibly.” Logan rubbed a finger along his jawbone. “But there was no Internet service at the cabin. Cable lines don’t reach out that far and he didn’t subscribe to any of the satellite options.”
“Then a rental’s probably out,” said Austin. “All that shit’s done online these days.”
Gemma leaned forward. “What about Royce’s property?”
Logan shook his head. “We already checked the house.”
“He has a house up on Lake Hartwell, or at least he used to. There’s a peach orchard, too. It’s been in his family for generations.”
The men looked around at each other.
“Would you be able to find this place again?” asked Cowboy.
“I don’t know. I don’t think so. It was just up a hill from a gas station, but I don’t know the address.”
Logan opened a laptop computer. “Searching property records now. Do you know if it was passed down on his side or his wife’s?”
“He talked about spending time there when he was a kid. It definitely belonged to his family.”
The click of Logan’s fingers on the keys was fast and furious. “Got it. Eighteen fifty-four West Lake Road. Property of Anthony and Barbara Royce.”
“Nice work,” said Jax. “Let’s roll.”
Hawk leaned forward in his chair. “Hang on a second.” He was staring at Gemma. “I found a picture when Austin and I were searching Royce’s home office. I believe it’s a picture of you, Judge Faraday.”
She shrugged. “What kind of picture?”
One look at his face and she knew exactly the picture he was referring to. Royce had taken it at a hotel in the Adirondacks shortly after they’d started seeing each other, claiming he wanted something racy to keep in his desk.
Her cheeks filled with heat. “Oh.”
“Oh!” said Austin, pointing at Hawk. “I know what you’re talking about. You put it in your pocket, didn’t you?”
Jax cleared his throat. “Return it to her.”
Hawk hesitated.
“Go on,” Jax said.
Hawk put it facedown on the table and pushed it toward her.
“Now let’s get going,” said Jax.
Gemma stood up and tucked the picture into her pants pocket.
“You’re staying here,” said Logan. His voice was sharper than normal, and she knew he’d been embarrassed by the photograph, and her knowing about Royce’s lake house. It was clear to everyone in the room she’d had a relationship with the missing judge.
“But I’ve been there before. I might be able to help.”
“You might be in the way or get yourself killed. I think you should save the trip down memory lane for another time.”
“That’s not fair.” A couple of the guys turned around, but she held her ground. “I’m sorry if my past embarrasses you, but I should come with you on this trip. No one else here knows the property like I do. I could be useful.”
“I’m trying to protect you,” Logan said.
“And you will protect me. I’m not afraid to go up there because I know you’ll keep me safe. I’ll stay in the car. Whatever you want me to do.”
“We’re taking the chopper and the van,” said Jax.
Gemma rolled her eyes. “Then I’ll stay in the van, but don’t leave me sitting here by myself when I could help find Royce.”
Logan put his arm out, gesturing for her to go first.
“Thank you.”
“Stay in the van.”
“I already said I would.”
22
Heat lightning danced in the evening sky as Logan ran through the orchard surrounding Royce’s lake house. The smell of rotting fruit clinging to the humid air, pungent and cloying.
Noah’s voice came through his earpiece. “I’ve got eyes into the house.”
“Any sign of Royce?” Jax asked.
“Negative. Two tangos so far, both male.”
“Where are you?”
“Fifteen feet up a tree on the north side of the front door. Clear shot into the kitchen and master bedroom, over.”
Logan was approaching from the far side of the property, still a considerable distance from the house. “Jax, you got audio?” he asked.
“Negative. There’s some kind of interference. I’m going to get closer. Austin, what’s your location?”
“I made it through the orchard on my side and took cover behind the shed. I can hear yelling from inside the residence.”
“Yelling for help, or in anger?” asked Logan.
“Anger.”
Logan crested a small hill, the lake house coming into view, rising above the orchard. He stayed low. He could see Austin’s shed and wondered where Jax was.
Cowboy’s voice came over the radio in Logan’s ear. “Charges placed under the tango’s van. Payback is a bitch, gentlemen.”
“I’m going in,” said Jax. “The backdoor to the house is unlocked. Somebody get over here and cover my six.”
In the distance, Logan saw the slightest movement by the backdoor of the house, knowing it was Jax in camouflage.
“Right behind you,” said Austin, his form moving low from the shed to the house.
Noah’s voice was calm. “You two stay away from the windows. I’ve got a clear view of the kitchen sink area if you need me to take the shot.”
“Stand down,” said Jax.
“Approaching the house now,” said Logan, staying low and seeking cover behind an oak tree some twenty yards from the back door.
“Definitely arguing,” whispered Jax. “Three voices. We may have more than two tangos. What can you see, Noah?”
“Two men in the kitchen, both wearing black.”
“Can you see their faces?”
“Negative.”
The sound of breaking glass reached Logan’s ears. He needed to get closer to that house in case Jax took a shot.
What do you mean in case?
Jax always takes a shot.
“Don’t shoot unless you’re sure it’s not Royce,” said Logan.
“Don’t piss into the wind, either,” said Cowboy.
Logan rolled his eyes.
“And look both ways before you cross the damn street, kids.”
Logan’s earpiece exploded with yelling voices. A shot rang out in the distance.
“Tango has his back to the wall, rifle in plain sight. The other one’s missing,” said Noah.
From the cacophony in his right ear, Logan was pretty sure tango number two had found Jax.
“I’m going in,” said Logan. “Austin, on my six.”
“You’ve got it.”
“Now, Noah,” said Cowboy.
The sniper’s rifle echoed through the orchard.
“One down,” said Noah. “Looking for number two.”
Austin snapped in Logan’s ear. “Doc! Up high!”
Logan looked up a split second before a man jumped from the second-story window, his boots landing on Logan’s head, twisting Logan’s neck as he fell.
Austin fired, but the man kept going.
“He’s heading to the van,” said Logan.
“Stay back,” said Cowboy. “Arming the charges. Preparing to detonate.”
The man got into the van and closed the door. It exploded in bli
nding flash of light, the noise deafening and flaming debris flying everywhere.
Logan covered his head, the shock wave knocking him against the house.
“Inside. Go! Go! Go!” yelled Cowboy.
Logan ran toward the back door just as a propane tank on a gas grill exploded. When he opened his eyes, the house near the grill was on fire, completely blocking the doorway.
“Jax!” he ran toward the front of the house, looking for another way in.
“He was in the kitchen, fist-fighting a tango,” said Cowboy.
Jesus.
How many people were in there, and where the fuck was Royce?
“Hurry, Doc. He’s getting his ass kicked.”
The front door was locked and Logan smashed a window, carefully climbing in over the broken glass, the thickly knit fabric of his fatigues resisting the sharp edges. The inside of the house was quickly filling with smoke and a piercing chemical smell.
He covered his mouth with his arm and ran, looking for the kitchen. He came full circle. “Where the fuck is the kitchen?” he yelled.
“Upstairs. Second floor,” said Noah.
“You could have mentioned that.”
“Jax is down and the tango is out of sight. Repeat, I can’t see the tango. You’ve got to get Jax out of there.”
Logan’s eyes were burning from the smoke as he made his way up the narrow staircase, not knowing where the enemy was hiding.
“Shit!” yelled Austin. “The fire shot up the dumbwaiter. Hallway’s completely blocked. I can’t get to Jax.”
“I’ve got him,” said Logan. “Get out of there, now. This place is going up way too fast.” He reached the top of the stairs and crawled to stay beneath the worst of the smoke. “Which way is the kitchen?” he yelled into his mic.
Out of nowhere, he was hit in the back of the head with something heavy and solid. “You’re gonna die, you son of a bitch, just like my brother.”
Stewart Cole.
Logan made out the silhouette of the man just as an object came swinging toward him again.
A baseball bat.
He ducked just in time, the barrel clipping him on the skull, and trained his weapon on Cole.
He fired three times in quick succession, the other man falling to the ground. Logan moved close to Cole’s face, seeing life still lingering in his eyes. He didn’t even hesitate, shooting him point-blank in the forehead.
“Jax!” Logan screamed, crawling past Cole’s body and through a pool of blood. His lungs filled with noxious air, the heat of the hallway way past a hundred degrees.
In his earpiece he heard the voices of his HERO Force brothers, their words incomprehensible over the roar of the blaze.
He made it to the end of the hallway.
No kitchen. He’d gone the wrong way.
He turned back the way he’d come, an eerie orange glow now visible through the smoky haze. He crawled through Cole’s blood, it’s metallic odor mingling with the burning air that was taking his breath away.
It was getting hotter with every inch he crawled in that direction, and he struggled to hear what his teammates were saying.
Had Jax made it out safely without him? Was he attempting a rescue that didn’t need to be made?
“I’m not leaving you behind,” he ground out against his clenched teeth. “Jax! Can you hear me?”
He rounded a corner and the flooring changed from wood to vinyl. The smoke was lower here, visibility no more than a few inches beyond his face. He put his belly on the floor.
There, through the thinnest layer of clean air, he could see Jax’s leg across the room, unmoving.
With a burst of renewed energy, Logan crawled to him, quickly moving to his friend’s face.
He was unconscious.
Logan’s lungs were screaming, pain unlike any he’d ever known seeming to turn their lining to something caustic. He looked around for a window. A doorway. Some way out of the room.
I’m not going to make it.
Fire broke through the floor beside Jax’s head and Logan wrapped his arms around Jax’s torso. He remembered Noah’s words.
Stay away from the windows. I’ve got a clear view of the kitchen sink area if you need me to take the shot.
Logan’s eyes snagged on the drainpipe coming down from the old farm sink behind Jax’s head. The window must be on the opposite wall.
He pulled Jax away from the flames and pushed him toward the window. The legs of a chair came into his field of vision and he grabbed it, hurtling it toward where the window must be.
Glass shattered and cool air rushed into the room, feeding the quickly growing flames. They billowed high against the wall and he reached for Jax’s frame.
Again he grabbed Jax and lifted him into his arms, forcing his body to a stand against the intense blowing of outside air into the house to the fire.
“Over here!” he called out the window, his eyes so stung he couldn’t see.
Austin’s voice in his ear was like the sweetest music. “We’ve got them! Out the kitchen window!”
What happened next was a blur of motion as HERO Force rallied to get them down. Then Austin was on a ladder, pulling Jax from Logan’s arms.
“Climb down the ladder, Doc.” It was Cowboy, calling as if from so far away. Logan listed dramatically to the side. Dizziness overtook him and he fell back into the smoke and heat.
Cowboy’s voice was the last thing he heard before he blacked out. “I’m coming for you, buddy. I’m gonna get you out of there.”
23
Vitals are stable, pulse is elevated. Minor burns and external injuries—scrapes and bruising. Pulse ox is rising, currently at eighty-five.
The smell of smoke clung to Logan like a campfire as he worked to make sense of the voices hovering over him. He must be on rounds in the hospital.
Someone had been in a fire.
He remembered the dead weight of Jax in his arms, felt the heat of the flames so close to his body. His eyes shot open just as the ambulance doors closed.
“Breathe deeply, sir,” said the EMT, a bald man with dark brown skin trying to fasten an oxygen mask over Logan’s ears.
Logan pulled it off. “Where’s Jax?” he croaked.
“The other big guy? Dark hair?”
Logan nodded.
“Already on his way to the hospital. I hear you saved his life.”
Logan leaned back, allowing the other man to put the oxygen mask on him. He remembered crawling on his hands and knees, searching for Jax. He remembered firing a bullet into Stewart Cole. He remembered arguing with Gemma.
She didn’t want to see him anymore.
The ambulance started to move. Logan sat up suddenly. “Wait!”
“Sir, you need to—”
“Where’s Gemma?”
“I don’t know who Gemma is, sir.”
“Stop the ambulance.”
“We need to get you to the hospital.”
Logan pulled the mask completely off his head and ripped an IV out of his arm. “I said stop it, now.” He cleared his throat and immediately regretted the action as the raw sides of his trachea rubbed against one another. “I need to get out. I have to make sure she’s okay.” He turned toward the driver. “Stop this vehicle, goddamn it!”
The ambulance came to a stop. Logan stood and wrestled with the door until it opened. Five hundred feet away stood Cowboy, and Logan took off at a jog. “Where’s Gemma?” he asked.
“Back at headquarters. She didn’t come with us.”
“Yes, she did. She was in the van with Jax.”
Cowboy’s eyes went wide. He and Logan ran across the property searching for the vehicle parked on the other side, a full moon lighting the way.
If she’d gotten hurt because of him, he’d never forgive himself.
Logan reached the van before Cowboy. Gemma was slumped over in the passenger seat, what looked like dark stains all over the upholstery in the light off the moon. Logan opened the door and she fell into
his arms, lifeless.
Blood.
Those stains are blood.
It was splattered along the back of the seat in a pattern that was all-too familiar from his medical school days. “She’s been shot! Get that ambulance over here!”
Cowboy took off running.
Logan rested her on the ground and felt for a pulse. It was weak and racing. “She’s in hypovolemic shock. She’s lost too much blood.” He didn’t know who he was talking to.
He didn’t care.
He lifted her shirt and saw two wounds, one on the edge of her breast, the other just below her rib cage. The lower was bleeding far more than the upper and he folded her shirt, using it and his hands to put pressure on it.
“You’re going to be okay.” He stared at a drop of blood as it rolled down her breast and around to the side of the other, seeming to mix into the tattoo of the ocean wave where it touched the shore. She’d been through so much already. It didn’t seem fair she should be dying right in front of his eyes.
“Please let her be okay,” he begged.
The ambulance came racing across the property, headlights shining and emergency lights flashing. Logan showed the EMTs her wounds and stepped back so they could care for her, strapping her onto a gurney, loading her into the back, and taking her away—leaving him and Cowboy standing in the dark outside Anthony Royce’s burned down lake house, in an orchard full of rotting peaches.
Crickets chirped in the distance.
“You know what this means?” asked Cowboy.
“What?”
“This isn’t over.”
“What do you mean?”
“You killed Cole, Noah got one from his sniper’s nest, and I got one when the van exploded. That’s three tangos down.”
“But someone shot Gemma.”
“That’s right. Someone shot Gemma, and this ain’t over yet.”
24
Logan refused to be admitted, spending the night in a corner of the Intensive Care Unit, half sleeping in a chair next to Gemma’s still form. He awoke every time a nurse or doctor came to check on her, and each time they gave him a sad little smile.
She’s going to make it.