“Don’t get self-righteous on me now, son. You were happy enough to do the jobs as long as I was lining your pockets, as well.”
“I thought I was serving my country!”
“And that makes it all right?”
“For me it did.” Mostly. At least it made him feel okay about taking the money.
That seemed to give Randall Wyatt pause. And for a second, Rick was reminded of the man who’d seen him through four years of combat as a kid barely out of high school. The man who’d been there for him when his old man died.
When there’d been no one else to watch out for Steve…
“Why?” he asked. Because for that brief moment, it mattered.
“Think about it, Rick,” Wyatt said with a smirk. “You were there. In the army. We risked our lives every day—and for what? For the guys in Washington to get more powerful. For the rich to get richer. For moms to dress their girls in pretty dresses and give them away to rich businessmen. And what do we get except a pat on the back, the promise of a bed in the VA hospital and enough money to keep us in an apartment for life. Sometimes, if we were lucky, we got a little bit of appreciation. Most times, not even that. But, hey, we were heroes, while we sat home alone in rented rooms with demons in our heads for company.”
Maybe. Some of them ended up that way. Not most.
Rick thought of Huey Johnson out there, hearing all this, recording it. And knew he wasn’t done yet. He had a job to do. One last assignment.
And with Erin and Steve most likely dead, with his own life worthless, he had nothing left to lose.
“What did Charles Cook do to earn your wrath?” he asked.
“The fool saw me poking around in your truck one morning, but only because he’d come out to help himself to a roll of electrical wire that he took from your supplies and dumped in his trunk.”
“So you murdered him because he saw you outside the office?”
“No, I killed him because after I showed him my ID he reported me to Homeland Security. Luckily I still have friends in high places and I was able to explain that the man was on the attack because I caught him stealing. The emails were destroyed.”
The truth behind the stolen Homeland Security emails.
That was how it was with Sarge. That was how things worked. There had to be an element of truth behind every lie.
“And Saul?”
“Brady told him what he knew.”
“Which was?”
“That you three weren’t a legitimate ops team.”
“If Brady knew that, then why didn’t he tell someone official?”
“For the same reason you aren’t going to say anything. The same reason you’re going to get that evidence back tonight. Because if he reported me, he was going down with me. You guys have too many crimes on your heads to ever see the light of day again.”
“And that was the plan, wasn’t it? To get us so far under that we’d never have a chance of coming out.”
Wyatt shrugged. “Didn’t occur to me at the time.”
“So what were your plans at the time?” He was just curious. His life was over. Might as well know the details.
“You’d stay employed as long as it worked.”
“And then?”
“I think you know the answer to that.”
Sarge had planned to kill them all along. Kill them when he was done with them.
“You trashed Tom’s reputation on the street, didn’t you?”
“Of course. Who else would have done it?”
Rick thought of Brady. Of Saul. Of three lives purposely wasted. “Why us? How’d you choose us for your gutter trash and the others for the legitimate operation?”
“You three had no family to speak of. No money. No connections.”
Only Wyatt. He was their one connection. Because they were covert ops he’d been the only person who reported back to them. There were no checks and balances.
“We were expendable.”
Wyatt shrugged again and Rick could have killed him right then and there with his bare hands. Except that…he couldn’t.
Whatever else anyone might think about him, he knew he would never, ever have taken one assignment for any amount of money if he hadn’t thought he was serving his country.
He’d thought all those years of hell, those months in prison, that he’d been serving the president of the United States.
And instead he’d been sewer slime.
“I’m not stealing for you again,” Rick said, facing Wyatt, completely unarmed and uncaring. “I don’t give a shit if I rot in prison. Apparently that’s where I belong.” He’d never meant anything more in his life. And Randall Wyatt clearly got the message.
Wyatt’s shoulders stiffened, his eyes glazed. The man had no idea which FBI office Rick had supposedly visited. And even if he guessed correctly, he wouldn’t know which safe. Nor was he skilled enough to get in and out of a building, or a safe, in the hours before morning. Which was when the fictional evidence would be exposed.
“Then we both lose,” Wyatt said. Reaching into the back of his SUV he pulled out a device. At first Rick thought he was going to blow them both up with a grenade.
And then he saw what it was. A remote used to detonate bombs.
And he knew.
“Steve and that woman, that lovely woman…did I tell you how beautifully she screams when her legs are spread and she’s in pain—”
“No!” Rick yelled, an animal sound he didn’t recognize as he lunged. “You bastard!”
Wyatt jumped back, holding the detonator up and away from Rick. “They’re still alive, Thomas, out on Lake Huron, on a little boat. I kept them safe for you. I liked you. Out of all my soldiers, over all those years, you were my favorite. But now, right this minute, they are going to die.” His fingers moved over the detonator and Rick flew through the air.
“No!” he cried again. But he was too late.
Randall Wyatt had exploded the bomb.
38
It was Huey Johnson who pulled the trigger and killed Randall Wyatt. But only after Wyatt had shot Rick Thomas.
Luckily, at Johnson’s insistence, Thomas had been wearing a vest. And Wyatt didn’t get the chance to take a second shot.
Rick didn’t really care one way or the other. Life was over whether he was breathing or not.
Johnson called in his backup patrol and the coroner. Then he led Rick back to his truck. Johnson took the wheel.
Before he drove away, he handed Rick the tape. “It ends here,” he said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Rick said. “Steve and Erin are gone. I have no right to live.”
“Bullshit.”
Startled, Rick glanced at the other man.
“Any court in this country would exonerate you for what you did,” Johnson said. “That tape makes it very clear that you were an American soldier following direct orders from your commander. You thought you were serving your country.”
“I killed innocent men.”
“I doubt it,” Johnson said. “The circles Wyatt was traveling in were the furthest thing from innocent.”
“I stole defense secrets. He sold them.”
“We’re going to write a report delineating Wyatt’s crimes. The man’s dead, with no next of kin. We aren’t putting him on trial. We’re just making a record of what we know. We’ll include all information regarding any national security issues. Because there will be no charges against him—no trial—there’s no need to produce the hard evidence that didn’t exist before tonight.”
He could turn in the tape. And drag Brady’s and Saul’s memories into disrepute. Or he could go quietly away.
Either one was fine with him.
“You’re a hero to this country, son.”
Don’t call me that. The words rang out in Rick’s mind with a vehemence. He kept them there.
“If not for you, Randall Wyatt wouldn’t have been exposed. He would’ve gone on for another twenty or thirty years raping, robbing,
murdering—and putting national security at risk. You knew him. Were closest to him. You’re the only man who could have done what you did.”
“What? Face him down?”
“You beat him at his own game, Rick.”
Maybe. It might have mattered. Yesterday. Or earlier today.
“Erin and Steve are dead,” he said, no inflection in his voice. Or in his heart.
Johnson, who’d been driving, pulled off to the side of the deserted, wooded road and turned. Rick had no idea what he’d been about to say because Johnson’s phone rang.
“It’s the coast guard,” he said, his expression pained. “I’m sorry, Rick. I have to take it.”
With a wave of the hand, Rick told him to go ahead, staring out the windshield as though there was anything there that could possibly interest him.
Anything he could really even see.
Instead, all he saw, all he heard, was a black asphalt roof beneath his feet, a piece of cardboard clutched in his hand, the ground too far below him and the sound of two little-boy voices. One, the older of the two, ordering the younger to get on that ladder and climb down, or else.
Rick should’ve been the one to fall off the roof that day. He was the one who’d climbed the ladder to retrieve his Frisbee. He was the one who’d refused to climb down. Steve had only gone up that ladder to rescue Rick.
If only he could go back. Just live that day over again…
“Rick? Did you hear me?”
Rick turned, facing the man behind the wheel of his truck. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Did you say something?”
“I said they’re alive.”
“What? Who?” Those two boys? Rick already knew their fate.
“Erin and Steve. They’d been anchored in a cove, behind an island, hidden from view so the search boats missed them. Wyatt had attached a bomb to the anchor. They were chained to the boat. But they made a kite….” Rick wasn’t really listening to the older man’s words, but the tears in Johnson’s eyes, the catch in his voice, reached him.
“They were flying a kite,” Johnson said again, and Rick understood that he was talking about Erin and Steve.
Steve and his kites…
“About an hour ago, a coast guard boat saw the kite and followed it to the cruiser. They got Erin off first—”
“Erin’s alive?”
“Yes, she’s alive.”
Chills swept through him. Over him. He stared. And then burned.
“And Steve?”
“Apparently he fought them….”
No. Oh, no, God. Stevie…
“They finally got him loose with Erin calling to him from their boat.”
“So he’s okay?”
“The bomb exploded just as they were getting him off the cruiser, Rick. He’s alive, but he’s hurt.”
“How badly?”
“They aren’t sure. Emergency crews are with him now.”
“Where?”
“A couple of miles from here. I told them we’d meet them there.”
Erin stood beside the stretcher, holding Steve’s hand, shivering.
He was unconscious, but he clutched her hand. The medical personnel working on him insisted that was a good sign.
She trusted them.
She and Steve were alive.
But she was cold. So cold. She glanced around, looking for someone, anyone, who could tell her what was going on.
Did they get the guy who’d kidnapped them?
Where was Rick?
She needed to know what had happened to a man she’d known only a few weeks, a man who’d lied to her, who’d put her life at risk, a man she loved with every single part of her.
Loved like she’d never loved before.
She could try to deny her feelings, but she no longer wanted to hide from the truth.
And the truth was, she’d been unhappy with her life for several years. Not so much because of the cases she was taking or not taking, but because she hadn’t been true to herself. She’d lost her father and then Noah, and had run scared. Unable to take the risk of losing someone she loved again, of feeling that anguish, she’d let herself fall into the safety and security of hiding out in the Fitzgerald family. She’d loved and been loved—but only on the periphery of their world.
She’d only been partially alive.
That was why winning had seemed so important. Her cases were the one thing she’d put any life into. Any real emotion.
And…maybe because she wasn’t living honestly, she’d felt she had to earn the Fitzgeralds’ love, their respect. By being the best attorney in town, she could maintain her value and in turn maintain a place in their family.
She’d almost died out there on that boat. And realized just how much being alive meant to her. She wasn’t going to waste another second of her time on earth.
Whether she ever saw Rick again or not, she would live up to loving him. She would take care of his friend. If Rick didn’t make it back, she was going to get custody of Steve. She’d spend the rest of her life visiting him. And watching out for him.
And she would open her world and her heart to whatever else life had to bring. Losing those you loved hurt. But it was worse still to die not having loved.
She thought she was imagining things when she saw Rick’s truck pull up. Felt sure she was hallucinating when she saw Sheriff Johnson jump down from the driver’s seat.
Sheriff Johnson in Rick’s truck? That was almost ludicrous enough to be funny. If Steve had been awake, she would’ve shared the joke with him.
And then the passenger door opened and there he was.
Rick. Dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, looking exactly as he had in her living room that Sunday night eons ago when he’d held her. And kissed her.
The night she should have slept with him when she had the chance.
He walked straight toward her.
She felt Steve squeeze her hand at the same time that one of the medics beside her said, “He’s coming around.”
“Erin?”
“Yeah, buddy, I’m here.”
“Is Ricky here, too?”
“Yeah, I’m here now, sport.”
Rick’s voice, coming from behind her sent shivers through Erin.
And those achingly familiar arms closed around her. Erin couldn’t have stemmed the rush of overwhelming relief and sheer joy, even if she’d wanted to.
“Rick?” she asked, although she didn’t turn around.
His hold wasn’t gentle. It was urgent. And frantic. “Yeah, it’s me, sweetie.”
Sweetie. Her father used to call her that. She started to cry.
“Ricky? Erin’s crying.”
“I know, Steve. But it’s okay. She’s just happy.”
“We ’bout died, Ricky,” Steve said, still clutching Erin’s hand as he lay on the stretcher. He had an IV in his arm and someone taking his blood pressure and didn’t even seem to notice. He was glaring at Rick.
“I know, sport. I’m so sorry.”
Steve frowned, obviously confused. “Why, Ricky? You’re sorry that we only almost died? Didn’t you want us to live?”
“Of course I did. You’re all the family I have, sport. I’m just sorry you were in danger at all. Not sorry that you almost died.”
“You said family.” Steve’s voice was deadpan.
“I know.”
“We can’t say that, Ricky, ’member?”
“We don’t have to keep the secret anymore, sport.”
“You mean we can tell them?”
Erin turned then, and intercepted the look of intense love in Rick’s eyes as he gazed at the man on the stretcher.
“You have a secret?” she asked Steve. “One you didn’t tell me last night?”
He’d run through the gamut, from Rick’s brownie gluttony to the time he’d touched his friend’s breast by mistake and couldn’t look at her for a long time.
Steve nodded. And winced. He had a large bump on the back of his head. And a gash.
>
But otherwise seemed okay.
They’d said if he woke up, he probably had only surface wounds.
“What’s your secret?”
Steve glanced at Rick, who said, “It’s okay, sport. You can tell anyone you want. It doesn’t have to be a secret anymore.”
Steve’s expression grave, he looked up at Erin. “He’s my little brother.”
“First, you’re an agent. Secret number one. Then you’re not because your sergeant did you dirty. Secret number two. And now you have a brother. That’s three strikes, Rick. What else is there?”
Sitting in Erin’s living room much later that night, cuddled with her under a blanket to ward off the chill from the window she’d insisted on opening so she could hear her waves, Rick smiled at the petulant tone in Erin’s voice.
She deserved to be a little petulant. A lot, actually. For that matter, he was willing to sign on to a lifetime of petulance.
“Steve’s my third and final secret, Erin. Forever. You’re right. It’s three strikes and I’m out of the secret-keeping business forever. I give you my word.”
She nodded, her head moving up and down against his chest. Her legs were tangled around his, too, and if she didn’t quit moving them, he was going to have to excuse himself.
She’d had a horrendous night and day, very little sleep—though, thank God, Randall Wyatt’s claims of abuse had been a complete fabrication aimed at breaking Rick down. She was emotionally exhausted. He couldn’t ask her to make love to him. Not yet.
But God, he needed her. Like he’d never needed anything before in his life.
Mind control, man, he told himself. He could do it. Had spent a lifetime doing it. He just didn’t want to anymore.
He’d been given a miraculous second chance at life. A chance to be part of a real family. To claim Steve. Maybe even bring him home.
“Sarge told me that, in my line of work, I couldn’t have a family. Said it made men too vulnerable.” Rick didn’t really know how to share, but he figured he’d better learn. So he started saying aloud the thoughts running through his mind. “The night my father died, I was home on leave. He’d been drinking, as usual, and getting impatient with Steve. I told him to get out. He grabbed Steve by the hair and dragged him along. I ran after them. They didn’t make it ten feet down the road before he slammed into a tree. I thought I’d lost them both.”
The Third Secret Page 31