Blind Fury

by Gwen Hernandez

  There was more on the line than money. Claymore had an important job to do. They helped keep the U.S. safe from terrorists. As the military moved troops out of Afghanistan, contractors were being used in bigger numbers than ever before, and the truth was, they didn’t always color inside the lines.

  Whether or not anyone was willing to admit it, the U.S. was at war with Islam. Sometimes you had to do whatever it took to get the job done. Screw the media, screw the politicians who spent all day in their cushy digs in D.C. with no concept of what it was like in the desert. They visited sometimes, and after spending a few hours on the dry soil, they acted as if they understood what it was really like. As if they knew the struggle and the frustration of the average man on the ground just from breathing the same dusty, filth-ridden air.

  Claymore was doing the work that the military could no longer do, and the fucking American people should love them for it. They should bow down and kiss their feet for saving their fat, lazy asses every single fucking day.

  But hey, as long as Griffin and his guys got to keep going over there and doing God’s work, the American people and the media could spew all the hate they wanted.

  He wouldn’t let anyone jeopardize Claymore’s mission or its success. Not Mick and Jenna, not Rizzo and his merry band of fuck-ups, and not James Longstreet either. It was time to get rid of the whole lot of them.

  “Sir?” Rizzo said. “How do you want us to handle this?”

  Griffin laid out his plan—the part Rizzo needed to know, anyway—in slow, easy-to-understand language that a third grader could handle. “Last chance, Rizzo. Don’t fuck it up.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll be at the Leesburg house in two hours. Grizz is already on his way. Once everyone’s there, wait for me.”

  He’d given the dimwits too many chances already. Today was payback time.

  Mick stood in the back hallway of the coffee shop and removed the battery from his cell phone, pocketing both. He approached their table and watched Jenna’s beautiful profile as she bent over the newspaper he’d left behind. He had one goal. Meet with the reporter, tell him their story, and get the hell away from Virginia.

  Okay, so that was two or three goals, but either way he needed to move. Being around Jenna was torture. Even more so after the morning they’d shared.

  She had a hopeful gleam in her eye when she looked at him and he couldn’t stand it. She’d forgiven him too easily. The next few weeks, maybe even months, of his life were going to be ugly. He didn’t want her to suffer for his mistakes. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that once the smoke cleared and life returned to normal, she’d realize her mistake and he’d be left wrecked by his foolish love for her.

  He wanted his old life back. No attachments, no commitments, no one to care if he went a little nuts.

  “How’d it go?” she asked as he approached the table.

  Her hair had dried into soft curls that fell to her jaw, and he itched to run his fingers through it. Mainly as a precursor to kissing her. “He was falling all over himself to meet with us,” he said in a low voice, forcing himself back into the present moment. “He’ll be at the library down the street in an hour.”

  “The library?”

  “Public, but not too busy. And they should have study rooms where we can talk privately. Plus, it’s close. I’d prefer to stay out of cabs and off buses until after the story breaks.”

  “Okay. So, we’ll need somewhere nearby to stay the night.”

  “Let’s worry about that later. I want to get over there before he arrives so that we can make sure he comes alone.”

  She finished her coffee and wiped her mouth with a paper napkin. “Do you trust him?”

  One could only trust a reporter so far, but they needed this one. “I think it’s in his best interest not to give us away to the police. He’d never get another informant if he did that.” Still, Mick would be on the lookout. He always was.

  They cleared the table and left, detouring to a discount department store—open twenty-four hours—where Jenna bought a warm pink fleece that clashed with her new hair color. Mick picked out a sporty windbreaker and left the oversized sweatshirt he’d been wearing in one of the dressing rooms.

  The walk to the library would take about ten minutes. Jenna slid her hand into his, and they strolled casually along the sidewalk in the gentle morning sun.

  “Have you figured out what you’d like to do when the dust settles?” she asked, stroking his thumb distractingly.

  This was so not a conversation he wanted to have with her right now. “I’m still thinking about it. I need to get back to work pretty quickly though. My brother has two years left at MIT. I told him he was on his own for grad school.” He rubbed her chilly fingers between his palms while they waited to cross the street. “Maybe I’ll get a job as a paramedic. The pay won’t be as good, but I have the background for it. It’s something I could do anywhere. Or, if nothing else, I can go to work for Kurt.”

  “Where do you want to live?” she asked. The walk symbol popped up and they crossed the road to the library.

  Wherever you’re going to be. But that was crazy talk. He couldn’t risk thinking like that. “I’m not sure yet. Maybe near the ocean.”

  She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and smiled. “That sounds nice. If I ever got up the nerve to work for myself, I think it would be nice to start over somewhere new.”

  He didn’t—couldn’t—respond to the invitation in her statement. Instead, he eyed the parking lot. Four people sat in their cars, presumably waiting like they were, but he’d keep watch, just in case. According to a sign on the door, the library opened at nine. Mick checked his watch. Five more minutes.

  “I think you should do it,” he said as he leaned against a tree that shaded the front of the brick building. “Rob would be happy.”

  She put her hands on her hips and studied his face, a frown replacing her pretty smile. “Are you going to leave me when this is over?”

  “What do you mean?” Damn. She was too smart, too perceptive. And he needed her to be focused for this meeting. They could argue about the future later. He switched positions, trapping her against the far side of the tree, out of view of the parked cars. Leaning in, he kissed her, drinking in her sweet taste.

  Wrapping her arms around his neck, she returned his kiss with ardor, turning him to putty. If she asked now, he’d agree to almost anything. Even to stay with her. Which scared the hell out of him.

  He unclenched his fingers and released the handfuls of her fleece he’d grabbed to pull her closer. Smoothing his palms down her sides, he slowly dialed back the intensity, planting feather-light kisses on her lips in an effort to ease himself away from her. He needed to stop, but Jesus, he didn’t want to.

  And judging by Jenna’s grip on him, she didn’t either.

  With a low groan of protest, he broke the connection and grabbed both of her hands, scanning the parking lot once again. At the far end of the lot, James Longstreet ambled toward the library, fifteen minutes early. He was wearing a tweed jacket and carrying a red backpack, which was how he’d told Mick to identify him. “He’s already here.”

  Jenna stiffened and looked over her shoulder.

  At the same moment, the library doors opened and a short, gray-haired gentleman put out a sign advertising the schedule for the day. Still holding one of Jenna’s hands, Mick drew her to the building and through the doors to search out an empty meeting room. He found two down the side hallway and chose the one closest to the exit.

  Once inside the room, Mick took a seat facing the door and Jenna sat down next to him, fiddling with the strap on her leather bag. Longstreet peered through the window thirty seconds later and Mick waved him in.

  “Mick?” he asked, setting his backpack on the table with a loud thunk. He shook hands with him and then pushed back a few strands of graying brown hair that had come loose from his short ponytail. “And Jenna,” he said, turning toward her. “A l
ot of people are looking for you two. I think the police figure that you’ve skipped town.” He squinted, his gaze bouncing between them. “I must say, you’ve done a good job of disguising yourselves.”

  “Do you have ID on you?” Mick asked.

  Longstreet nodded and held out his press credentials and his driver’s license. Both looked legit. And Mick knew that Virginia was now one of the most difficult places to get a license under false pretenses and had one of the hardest cards to counterfeit.

  The reporter put away his identification and pulled out a handheld digital recorder and a notepad before settling his bulk into the plastic chair across from Mick’s.

  Jenna clenched her tote bag until her knuckles turned white. Sensing her nerves, Mick slipped his hand under the table and gave her thigh a quick squeeze. “Did anyone follow you?” he asked Longstreet. “Does anyone know you’re here?”

  “Not as far as I know. I don’t have to tell my editor where I’m going, but I’m not an espionage expert. All I can say is that I didn’t see anybody on my tail.”

  Mick’s threat radar pinged madly, but he couldn’t explain why. Maybe it was just that he hadn’t been able to do his due diligence on the guy. Normally, he would have checked him out online, found some photos, talked to people who knew him. And he’d have backup. They were flying blind, which wasn’t a good feeling when everything hinged on this meeting.

  The man leaned toward Jenna and pressed the record button on the small device. “When I received your email, I had a feeling you knew something. What made you change your mind?”

  She glanced at Mick and he nodded to her even though unease was prickling the back of his neck. He pulled his gun from the holster at his back and set it on his thigh, hidden under the table.

  “We hope that our lives won’t be in danger any longer if we take the story public,” she said.

  Longstreet watched her intently and leaned forward even more, his pencil at the ready. “Who exactly are you in danger from?”

  “We’re not sure how high up it goes, but I think it has to do with these photos that my brother took.” She pulled out a sheaf of papers and set them on the table, holding them down with her hand. “They provide evidence of what appears to be arms and drug smuggling by Claymore contractors. Whether or not it’s sanctioned by the company, I don’t know, but I do think that my brother was killed to keep it quiet.”

  The reporter scribbled in his notepad, his demeanor tense and excited. “But wasn’t he killed in a shootout with insurgents?”

  “Not exactly,” Mick cut in. “There’s a lot more to that story, but the important part is that Alan Smith shot Rob.”

  Longstreet’s jowls sagged in surprise. “Is that why you got into it with Smith the other night?”

  Mick looked away. The meeting room had dirty, cracked linoleum floors with multicolored speckles that reminded him of his old high school cafeteria. “Yes.” He met the other man’s gaze. “But I didn’t kill him. Someone else did that. I was with Jenna the entire night.”

  Her cheeks blazed red and she fiddled with the handle of her bag.

  “So Smith shot Ryan in the heat of battle and you saw it happen. Why didn’t you report this before now?”

  “I reported it to the State Department investigators. And I wasn’t the only one. But none of us suspected murder. We thought it was an accident.” He took a deep breath. Once he put this out there, there was no going back. “I’m not sure if Smitty took advantage of the situation, or if he started the shootout so that he’d have an excuse to kill Rob. Either way, unfortunately, Rob made it easy for him.”

  Jenna sat in the hard plastic library chair and watched the pain cross Mick’s face as he described the shooting and massacre to the reporter. It hadn’t occurred to her that Smitty might have started shooting with full knowledge that the civilians were unarmed. Her stomach curdled at the thought.

  Slowly, Mick walked Longstreet through the entire fiasco, laying it out in much more detail than he’d done for her. She didn’t want to hear it. The images were making her ill, and tears let loose long before Mick got to the part where Rob died.

  She rubbed the memorial bracelet Mick had given her as he finished his story, ending it by telling the reporter about the attempts that had been made to keep them quiet, as well as Jenna’s suspicions about Tara’s disappearance.

  “I’m not sure if Di Ferio just got involved with her as a means to keep tabs on us or what, but it has to be related,” Mick said.

  “This is incredible.” Longstreet nodded and sat forward, his eyes wide. “It wouldn’t surprise me if this goes all the way to Troy Griffin. Claymore is bidding for two big contracts right now, and this story could kill any chance they have. Without those deals, they could go under. I’d say that’s a huge motive for them to shut you down.”

  “So now you see why I couldn’t turn myself in,” Mick said. “A company like Claymore has endless resources and plenty of people in their hip pocket. I’m sure the evidence would bury me, and the story we have to tell would be kept under wraps if I took it to the police first.”

  “Quite so,” Longstreet said, his head bobbing up and down. “I’ve uncovered a string of inappropriate dealings by Claymore, but this is the first time I’ve had a witness who’s willing to come forward.”

  “We’re hoping that once the information goes public, there’ll be no reason to continue targeting us,” Jenna said. “The risk of coming after us in retribution would be high. If they’re logical about it, they’ll see that anything that happens to us after the story breaks would only place more suspicion on them.”

  “It’s a decent theory.” He scratched the gray stubble on his chin. “I’d still watch my back if I were you, but they’ll have bigger problems on their hands after the story breaks.” Longstreet fixed his brown eyes on Mick. “You realize that you’re going to need to turn yourself in after this goes public.”

  Jenna’s head whipped around to look at Mick. It was stupid of her not to have realized that.

  Mick nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

  “But you just said that the evidence would probably convict you,” she sputtered.

  “Not once the story is out.” He closed his large hand around hers. “I can’t run forever, Jenna.”

  Her chest tightened, but he was right. If he wanted the police to believe him, he had to be willing to submit to their process. That didn’t make her feel any better about it, though.

  Longstreet gave her a sympathetic look. “I’m glad to know you’re not a hostage. I was worried about that. The police are too.”

  “I’m here willingly.”

  Mick gave her hand a squeeze. “How long until you can get the story out?”

  “I’ll have to validate your story, but I’m hoping to get it in tomorrow or Saturday’s edition, maybe even break the news online before that.”

  “Thank you,” Mick said. “We’re ready to come out of hiding.”

  Rising to his feet, Longstreet turned off the recorder and packed up his things, then turned to shake hands with each of them. “Good luck. Obviously, this is a scoop for me, but I hope it gets you the results you need.”

  “Yeah, thanks. And be careful. Until the story breaks, you’re a target too.”

  “It won’t be the first time,” Longstreet said with a grin, his excitement radiating from him.

  And then he collapsed to the floor.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  JENNA REACHED FOR LONGSTREET, her brain not processing what had happened until Mick leaped on top of her and pulled her to the hard floor beneath him. “Roll to the wall!”

  She screamed and rolled without thinking, unable to see anything but the blood pooling across the floor, mingling with broken glass from the door. Outside in the hall, more screams joined hers.

  Mick reached over and took the reporter’s pulse. “He’s gone.”

  Someone had shot him. Panic made her heart race in her chest. How had the bad guys caught up to them? And even mor
e important: The room only had one door. They were out of the shooter’s line of sight for now, but there was little to protect them in the room. How were they going to get out? She glanced at Longstreet again. Her stomach roiled, but she fought the nausea. They didn’t have time for her to be sick.

  “I can’t put my full weight on my bad arm, honey. I need your help,” Mick said.

  She pulled her gaze away from the dead man. “What can I do?”

  “Get ready to jump through that window.” He pointed to the far wall, where a tinted window overlooked the main road.

  The door burst open and Mick fired his weapon, bringing down a short, stocky, dark-haired man with a shot to the knee. Mick punched him hard enough to knock him out and grabbed his gun. Peeking through the doorway, he sent off two more shots, then turned the new gun on the far window, shattering it with one shot. “Go now.”

  “What about you?” Jenna asked. She didn’t want to go out there on her own.

  “I’ll be right behind you. Jump out and get behind the bushes.”

  She pressed a quick kiss to his lips and then ran for her life as Mick put down covering fire. A bullet slammed into the wall next to the window. She screamed but kept moving, launching herself over the broken glass.

  Scooting to the side, she crouched into as small a target as possible in the bushes and mulch and examined her bloody hands. She’d caught some sharp edges on her way over, but she would survive. An eternity later, Mick rolled over the window sill, landing on the ground with a thud.

  “Were you hit?” she asked, moving toward him.

  “I don’t think so.” He handed her Longstreet’s voice recorder and note pad, and the photocopies of Rob’s pictures they’d brought to show him. “Here, put these in your bag.”