Ky (In the Company of Snipers Book 13)

by Irish Winters

  He let her handle him. Some women were touchers, and it honestly didn’t bother him since he’d been with Eden. His phobia had all but disappeared. If only the nightmares would. They’d come back with a vengeance.

  Chappy ended the motherly moment. “Eat. Then we talk.”

  He ladled one spoonful to his lips, intending to pacify her. Then another, but just because she’d taken the chair across from him and rested her elbows on the table, watching. Every spoonful garnered a twinkle in her eyes. “How is it? Good or bad?”

  He offered a quick, “Good,” another mouthful on its way. Who would’ve thought potatoes and leek would go down so easily?

  “My special recipe will make you better and stronger,” she said with a nod of approval. “It is full of rich cream and my secret ingredient. A man cannot run on cigarette fumes and anger. You will come to Mama Chappy for breakfast and dinner every day you are in my country. While you eat, I will tell you what I have discovered, and we will become good friends.”

  Damned if that didn’t sound like a good idea, but the soup was gone. While Mama Chappy returned to the kitchen at the end of the bar to remedy that, Ky leaned into Tate. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me Chappy’s a woman?”

  Tate set his fork to his plate. “You’ll see, brother. Just wait.”

  A group of five men and a young couple entered the bar. The men assembled at a table in the far corner while the couple settled at the bar, their heads together like lovers. Mama Chappy chattered at them, then took their orders, the five men, too, but Ky looked away. The sight of couples in love only reminded him of all he’d lost.

  “Shit,” Tate hissed.

  Ky’s sixth sense ramped up. He glanced over his shoulder at the men in the corner. “What’s up?”

  “Not them.” Tate stuck his chin toward the entrance. “Them.”

  “Sam!” Mama Chappy called to the two shadows blocking the door—Sam Becker, and on his six, Tucker Chase.

  Shit indeed.

  “Morning, Chappy. Morning, boys,” Sam said over a hearty handshake. “Good to see you again, Agent Higgins.”

  Tate reverted to a grunt, but returned the handshake.

  “Why are you guys here?” Ky had to know.

  “Because your boss has a business he can’t seem to leave, and my boss is too smart to let the Bureau go to hell,” Tucker responded with his usual snark.

  “And mine’s running the country. You know how it goes,” Sam said with a wink. “Have you located Levine yet?”

  Sam Becker. Ex-Navy SEAL. Ex-FBI sniper. Current Secret Service Agent assigned to the President of the United States. Must’ve been on extended administrative leave. He stood a good six-feet-five, give or take. Broad shouldered. The man needed a decent haircut and a closer shave. Hell, his razor must’ve barely grazed the stubble on his ugly face.

  Dressed in khaki pants and a flowered safari shirt with pockets, at the moment he looked the part of a guy on vacation instead of a covert operator with that five o’clock shadow scruffed over his cheeks and chin. Brown-eyed and grinning, he tended to assume you worked for him.

  Tucker Chase, also ex-Navy SEAL. Current FBI special agent, and always—as in always—the biggest jerk in the room. Women, no doubt, might think he was a tall, dark, and handsome cliché of a guy, but he radiated nothing but ego and smirk behind that big, square chin of his. Jeans and a too-small black T-shirt. Black boots. The guy thought he was a rock star, that he knew it all. Like now. He slammed a meaty palm to Tate’s back and leaned over his shoulder, getting square in his face. “You miss me?”

  Ky blew out a snort through his nostrils. Here we go again.

  “I don’t miss shit,” Tate growled, shrugging the unwelcome jerk away.

  Tucker grinned. “Good one, Higgins. Can we get a beer over here?” he called to Mama Chappelle, then swung a chair backwards and straddled it. “Thought you boys would’ve done more by now.”

  Boys? Ky tamped his temper down. The way Tucker said it implied ridicule. Disgust.

  It had taken Ky the last three months to understand this particular FBI agent. He didn’t know what gnawed at the man, but in many ways, Tucker Chase was not so different from Ky—driven and filled with impatience when things went wrong. A hard charger who didn’t know when to stop or back up—or shut up. Honestly, the guy cussed worse than Alex, and that was saying something. But Tucker cared for Eden, and he’d come to respect that she meant the world to Ky. There were rare moments when Ky thought Tucker’s ears actually worked.

  “Grab a chair, why don’t you,” Ky offered sarcastically. “I just got in a couple hours ago.”

  “How was the flight?” Sam considered himself the old man of the operation, that he needed to keep an eye on all operators, but in no way did Ky or Tate subscribe to that theory. One boss was plenty.

  “Long,” Ky offered as little personal information as possible. Sam didn’t need to know how much difference that one bowl of soup had made, or how depleted his emotional reserves were. The only cure for what ailed him lay in the emerald glow of a certain lady’s eyes.

  “My friend,” Mama Chappy purred at Sam, her tray filled with steaming plates and opened long-necked bottles. “You did not call. I would’ve made my special dessert for you.”

  Sam winked at her, the flirt. “You know why we’re here, Chappy, so take a load off. Join us. Let Serena run the place for a minute or two.”

  “Ah, Serena,” Mama Chappy huffed. “That girl is giving me the grandbaby I always wanted. She cannot stand the smell of the wonderful food I cook, so...” She turned toward the kitchen and yelled, “Bobby!”

  A slender girl in an apron and a shift of all the colors of the world peered around the door. “Yes, Mama?”

  “I’m taking a break. Keep my customers fed and happy,” Chappy ordered with a wave of her hand.

  “Yes, Mama.”

  Mama Chappy doled out two more full plates and bottles to Sam and Tucker as well as the bowl of soup for Ky. Of course, Tucker noticed. “You on a diet, Winchester?” he mocked as he sliced the sizzling mystery meat off his skewer and stuck one entire piece into his big mouth.

  “Ah, no, no, no,” Mama Chappy scolded before Ky could reply. “This is not soup for losing weight. Only for strong men. Not you.” That almost helped until she finished with, “And soon Mr. Winchester will be strong again.”

  Ky rolled his eyes. Well, shit. It sucks to be me.

  Tucker grunted, but Sam ignored the whole song and dance, just sopped up some of that dry bread in the juice brimming his plate. “So spill, Chappy,” he said with his mouth full, and his smiling eyes on Mama Chappelle. “Where is he? Who’s watching him and how long before we can make contact?”

  Finally! Intel.

  “When Little Sammy comes home for breakfast, he will tell me if your friend is coming into town today.” She peered out the open door as if divining Little Sammy’s approach. “He has kept a close eye on him. Do not worry.”

  “Little Sammy?” Tucker asked, one brow peaked at Sam. “There something you want to share, buddy?”

  Sam didn’t bat an eye, just kept on eating. “Chappy and I have been working together for years,” was all he offered.

  Interesting, but Ky cared less who Sam spent his time with. “Does he have her with him?” was all he wanted to know.

  Chappy narrowed her eyes and whispered, “I have seen Mr. Levine twice with a young woman at his side. I believe she is the one you seek. She is a white Christian woman, as skinny as the branches of the red mangrove in the swamp with hair as black as the char in my stove. I tried to make talk with her, but she only met me in the eye one time. The second time I saw her she wore dark glasses.”

  “Only looked you in the eye,” Tucker corrected.

  Whatever. Ky leaned in to avoid being overheard by the other customers. “Where’s he live?”

  “Between Sussex and York.”

  Ky shot Sam a questioning glance at those very proper British cities in western Afri
ca.

  “On the beach?” Sam asked Chappy, still chewing and slugging down his beer.

  She nodded wisely. “Levine owns much land. Many ears and eyes in town, too. You are safe to speak here because I know my customers, but be careful what you say and who you say it to on the streets.”

  Sam translated. “Sounds like Levine’s got Eden stashed on the Atlantic side of the peninsula. There are a few mansions of the rich and famous along that shore. The Peninsular Highway will get us there, but it might be better to go in by sea. What kind of security does he have, Chappy? How many men?”

  She frowned. “Maybe twenty, but these men are... different. They do not make nice with the young girls in town, and they do not drink or eat. Always serious. Never smiles. Not friendly. They wear dark glasses, and they look like—”

  “Drones,” Ky hissed.

  “Yes,” Chappy’s head bobbed, “if drones are machines that can walk and breathe and not just fly, then yes. These men are drones.”

  Aw shit. His eyes locked with Tate’s. That changed the game, but Ky caught the glint of one-upmanship in his buddy’s dark eyes. “We can still take ’em, right?”

  Tate nodded once. No doubt.

  “Are you sure that young woman is the one we’re looking for?” Sam asked Chappy, his plate cleaned and dabbing a napkin to his moustache. “The woman we’re after has long blonde hair. Green eyes. She’s about the same age as your Bobby.”

  “Ah yes.” Chappy nodded. “The proof is not in the hair, it is in the eyes. The dark-haired little girl who looks like death and walks like a ghost has eyes like sad emeralds. No fire. No life. And another thing. There is a different scent in the wind around her. A scent of—”

  “Menthol.” Ky grabbed at that definite proof that this woman was Eden. His slim hold on control slipped. What the hell had Levine done to her? Bought her a fresh jar of Vicks? Why the hell? Was he kind to her? Bribing her with a few niceties? Charming her? The thought riled his gut. “Was she well?” he asked. “Is she hurt? Did she look healthy?”

  “Eucalyptus and menthol,” Chappy corrected, nodding at Ky. She reached for his hand. “My dear man, I see now why you are unwell. You are lovesick.”

  Ky could’ve bawled. He wasn’t sick. He was dying without Eden.

  “Where the hell’s your boy?” Tucker muttered, his neck stretched so he could peer around the place. “When’s Little Sammy getting here?”

  Mama Chappy released Ky. She leaned back into her chair, her gaze narrowed on Agent Chase. “You have met my son?” she asked, and Ky sensed a heap of trouble headed Tucker’s way in that quiet, imperious tone she used. A woman could pack a load of humility in one word if a man wasn’t careful.

  Tucker never saw it coming. “No, ma’am,” he replied, wiping his mouth with the back of his clenched fist and still gawking toward the door, “but we’ve been on this asshole’s trail for months and have yet to receive good intel, so your kid better be right.”

  Aw shit. If calling Chappy’s son boy wasn’t bad enough, now Tucker questioned her integrity, and he’d used crude language in the presence of a lady. The dumb jock stared her down, totally not getting it, and she stared right back.

  “My son is twice the man you are, Agent Chase,” she declared civilly, her chin lifted in pride. “I think you will eat your tongue before the day is over.”

  “You mean eat my words,” he corrected her yet again, the know-it-all.

  Her eyelids reduced to mere slits, like a lioness before she went in for the kill. “No. I meant what I said, and I said what I meant. You will eat that smart tongue of yours because I will grill it on a stick and feed it to you.”

  Ky scrubbed a hand over his chin and mouth to keep from laughing out loud. You go, Mama Chappy.

  Tucker took the hit like a man. He coughed. He sputtered, but then he ducked his head and offered a sincere apology. “You’re absolutely right, ma’am. I tend to forget where I am sometimes, and whom I’m with. I spoke out of turn. I’m sorry, and I apologize if I’ve offended you. I’m particularly anxious to meet your son. He sounds like quite a guy.”

  Appeased, a gentle sigh eased from her flared nostrils. “I do not have a telephone to call him, but he will be here. He is a big boy and he needs his breakfast. You will wait.”

  Ky settled. Mama Chappy had just gone up a hundred notches in his estimation.

  Shortly, little Sammy arrived. Little nothing. The man dwarfed his mama. Tucker, too. A toothy grin cracked his mocha-colored face when he spied Sam. “You came!”

  Sam introduced everyone and ended with, “You’re looking good, LS.”

  LS looked straight at Ky. “You are her man?” he asked simply.

  Ky nodded, his heart on his sleeve.

  “Then we must leave now or you will not see her again.”

  “How do you know that?” doubting Tucker asked.

  LS met him head-on. “Because it is my job to know. Mr. Levine drives a car when he comes to town, but today his helicopter is being prepared for travel. He plans to fly.”

  “Where?” Ky asked, that heart on his sleeve now stuck in his throat.

  LS never flinched. “He is going to the mines.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  “Faster,” Ky growled.

  With Tucker driving like a madman and kicking up dust, Tate had a hard time keeping pace despite the light traffic. Right-hand driving was the rule of the road, a pleasant change for a country that had once been a United Kingdom Protectorate. He and Tate were fast on Sam and Tucker’s tracks, eating dust as they flew south from Freetown along the Peninsula Highway to a place Sam called the old garrison. When they reached the curve in the road at Sussex Beach, the Atlantic loomed to the west.

  But why take a woman as dainty and delicate as Eden Stark into a man’s world as inhospitable as a diamond mine? To bury her? Imprison her? Kill her and hide her body so no one would find her? Was this about concealing the evidence of her murder or did it have something to do with more drones? After what Ky and Tate had stumbled onto in remote Canada, anything seemed possible, and none of it was good.

  Faster,” Ky urged, his need for speed choking him with regret for letting Eden get taken in the first place. This was all his fault, and he accepted full responsibility. If anything happened to her, it was all on him. If he hadn’t been so tired after they’d made love... If he hadn’t kept her awake all night. If he’d been a smarter, better, more thoughtful man... God. He could’ve made so many wiser decisions in his life.

  At last, the highway veered to the east. “There,” Ky ordered, pointing at Tucker’s taillight off the highway and barely visible through the billowing dust. Tate hit the dirt road that branched to the right and kept going.

  Sam’s calm voice came over the earpiece tucked deep in Ky’s ear. At the moment, he ran the show. He knew the lay of the land. “We’re going to park in the grove of cotton trees up ahead. From there, we go in on foot.”

  “Copy that,” Ky answered, his throat so dry he could barely speak.

  “Take it easy, son,” Sam cautioned. “We’ll still have a couple miles to go, but this is the only way we’ll get inside without being seen.”

  “Yeah. Understood,” Ky spoke up, his palms sweating and his heart about ready to climb up his throat. Little Sammy had sounded so sure he’d seen Eden, but Ky’d been sure before.

  Tate pulled in behind Tucker, the dense cotton trees providing cover from Levine’s place. Ky hit the ground before their truck rolled to a stop. Sam and Tucker were on their feet by then, and LS, too. Tucker had the tailgate of his SUV opened and all men were strapping on tactical gear. Camouflaged body-armor vests. Ammo belts. Plain, gray ball caps. Multiple pistols and... I’ll be damned. Omni 9000s. Too bad Alex hadn’t been convinced to absorb the high cost of the rifles yet.

  Tucker noticed Ky drooling. “You want one?” he asked while he strapped a holster to his thigh.

  “You got extras?”

  “You didn’t think I’d go into hel
l without the best sharpshooters at my back, did you?”

  Damn. Just when Ky thought he had Tucker figured out—he didn’t. The son-of-a-bitch handed one Omni 9000 to Tate another to Ky. Of course, then he spoiled it. “You sure you can handle ’em, boys?”

  Again with the boys...

  Tate had already balanced the butt stock into his shoulder. “Where’s the helmet and heads-up display to this system?”

  “No helmet,” Tucker explained, two gray ball caps at the end of his fingers. “Flip the visor on these bad boys down. Trip the built-in heads-up display to line up your shot. It syncs instantly with your weapon. There’s a pressure pad where you’d normally activate your laser. Tap it once to paint your tango. Twice to delete the setting if you change targets. Once you’re lined up, all you’ve got to do is pull the trigger and watch the asshole you’re aiming at fade to dust.”

  “Do you have one for me?” LS asked excitedly.

  Ah, the innocence of one who’d never killed shone bright on this young man’s face. If he only knew the soul-sucking responsibility he’d just asked for.

  Tucker shot Sam a spiked brow instead of answering.

  “You ever shot a high-powered rifle, son?” Sam asked.

  “No, but I am always willing to try.” The kid just wanted to please.

  Sam unholstered his pistol and checked the safety on it. “What say we start with something a little smaller, but just as powerful?” he asked as he handed the pistol over, grip-first to Mama Chappy’s son. “Grab that black nylon holster next to the ammo box. Strap it on. Gear up.”

  Ky lost track of the momentous first for Little Sammy. He was too busy familiarizing himself with the new technology at his own greedy fingertips. He slapped a ball cap over his head and flipped down the visor, sighting in what appeared to be a large seagull sitting out on the water. Ended up being a yacht.

  Holy shit. He double-checked his scope. A Rapid Fire Blacknight Z-18, 5-25x50. Friggin’ amazing. That was a fifty-millimeter diameter lens that offered a twenty-five times magnification ability for those of you without a clue. It meant your target appeared twenty-five times closer through that fancy scope than by the naked eyeball.