Mark (In the Company of Snipers Book 2)

by Irish Winters

  “They’re already done.” She stuck her tongue out at him, so he followed suit.

  He also rolled a few wooden dowels in her direction, his brow spiked in evil intent. “Well, if you insist.”

  Murphy pushed away from the table, stood, and stretched. “I’m done. There’s only so much painting an old man like me can handle in a day. I’m going upstairs to start breakfast. Anyone else hungry?”

  “Since you’re asking, I’d take a cup of coffee,” Roy said. “Bring some cream back with you.”

  “I’ll put a pot on, but I don’t deliver. If you want it, you’ll have to finish what you’re doing and get your own.”

  “’Scuse me?” Roy’s eyebrows shot up in mock exasperation. “Now listen here. You only had twenty-five square little pieces of wood to paint. I’m doing the darn legs. That’s—”

  “One hundred legs,” Libby teased.

  Roy leveled his paintbrush her way again. “I know. I can count. You keep this up, and you and me are going to be painting legs all day long.”

  “I’d love that.” She pointed her paintbrush right back at him, cancelling his imaginary shot. “Then we could sing carols and get into the spirit of Christmas together. Won’t that be fun?”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “I know.” Libby loved to taunt. “Maybe it will snow, too. We might need to put up a Christmas tree down here while we paint.”

  His eyebrow spiked. “Knock it off, young lady.”

  Libby looked up to Murphy’s hand on her shoulder. “I thought you went upstairs?”

  “Where’s my coffee?” Roy asked, still deep into the grumpy elf routine.

  “Libby.” Murphy pulled a chair over and sat down next to her, his cell phone in his other hand.

  She looked up into sad blue eyes. The festive spirit fled.

  “What’s wrong?” The same premonition she had experienced in June strangled her once more. Long before Mark had knocked on her parent’s door, she had sensed something happened with Jonathan. Her heart froze in her chest, holding back breath and time. Not Mark. Please, not Mark.

  “Honey.” Murphy sighed. “Just got a call from Alex.”

  She hadn’t even heard his phone ring. Roy and she were too busy teasing each other. She was having fun. Her stomach lurched. Please, not Mark.

  “I guess things went real bad in Spencer last night.”

  Libby blinked at him, not understanding what and not wanting to hear any more.

  “The cartel hit the safe house. They killed two FBI agents and one civilian. Injured the other civilian. She’s in the hospital.”

  Kelsey gasped. Libby couldn’t process exactly what Murphy had just said. Civilians? What civilians. Who were the civilians? Weren’t Faith and Marie at the safe house?

  “What?” Realization struck. Her heart thumped. “No.”

  He took hold of her arm. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Faith is dead, honey. Marie is in the hospital. She’s critical, but they say she’ll be okay.”

  The world fell out from beneath her. She swayed. Murphy anchored her to the chair.

  “No,” she whispered. “It can’t be true. Not ... not Faith.”

  Roy came around the table to stand beside her. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Kelsey knelt at Libby’s other side. It was true.

  “My sister—” Libby couldn’t finish. The words stuck in her throat.

  “I’m so sorry.” Kelsey hugged her tight.

  “I’m sorry, but there’s more.” Murphy rubbed a quick hand over his face. “There was a shootout at your parent’s place, too. Your dad had a heart attack in the middle of all the gunfire. He’s in the hospital.”

  “My dad?” Libby couldn’t believe she had heard correctly. This was too much. Faith dead? Shootout? Heart attack? Dad?

  “He’s in critical condition, honey. Your mother is with him. She wants you to call first chance you get.”

  Libby pulled away from Kelsey. “I’ve got to go home. My Mom and Faith … I have to leave.” She walked to the stairs, oddly energized. There was so much to do. Her mother needed her. Marie needed her. The house probably needed cleaning. Before she reached the steps, she turned back to Kelsey. “I can’t finish the rocking horses. I’m sorry, but I have to—”

  She stood there blinking in dazed confusion. Her world had just imploded. What was she thinking? Her discombobulated mind told her to stay and help Kelsey at the same time that it told her to run home. She took a step toward her friends even as her hand on the banister held firm. I have to leave. I have to stay.

  In a second, Kelsey had hold of her. “Let’s get you upstairs, Libby,” she said quietly.

  They walked up the steps into the kitchen together. Murphy and Roy followed on their cell phones, walking to different rooms in the house as they gathered information. Within minutes, Murphy joined Libby and Kelsey at the table, his face grim as he reached for Libby’s hand, big tears in his eyes.

  “You’ve got one helluva mother, you know that, don’t you?”

  Libby nodded. Her mother was the heart of her family.

  He wiped his face, still clenching her knuckles. “These cartel guys used RPGs on the safe house. You know what an RPG is?”

  Libby gulped. “That’s what … killed Jonathan.”

  “That’s right. I don’t know how they got hold of all the firepower, but it sounds like they came prepared for a battle. Your parents decided to stay in their home and shoot it out. You need to know your mother was doing her fair share of shooting right along with your Dad. With their help, Alex and his team stopped the Russians. He’s damn proud of your Mom and Dad. He says to tell you he’s sure sorry about Faith.”

  Libby nodded. That sounded like her parents. One was as stubborn and determined as the other. But poor Faith. Tears flooded her eyes at the thought of her sweet sister. Faith wanted to be a dental hygienist. She was in college. But now ….

  Gradually Murphy’s words sunk in. Shoot it out. His team. RPGs. She squeezed his hand, afraid to ask. “Mark?” she asked in a whisper.

  “He’s fine. He and Alex took down a couple dozen Russians all by themselves.”

  Knowing Mark was safe was her undoing. Libby buried her face in Murphy’s shoulder and wept.

  Waiting sucked.

  Mark stood clenching and unclenching his fists, the only thing he could do to alleviate the adrenaline in his system. And fume. The ambulance had long since screamed off with Jerry and Rosemary. Mark was ready to hunt the rest of the Russians down and finish the job. Mother had already relayed their exact location, headed south. If The TEAM was to intercept, they needed to move soon.

  Unfortunately, the local authorities had a different agenda. As soon as the Wisconsin state police rolled onto the scene, The TEAM’s plan to apprehend fell apart. With all the dead or wounded Russians laying all over Jerry’s farm, the sheriff’s department quickly jumped to the wrong conclusion.

  Just as quickly, they took Alex, Mark, and Zack into custody, confiscated their weapons, and bagged everything in their pockets as evidence. Since all three wore cargo pants, all those pockets provided a lot of evidence. Ammo. Handguns. Clips. Extra magazines. And more. At first glance, Alex and his team were simply hired guns without any authority to do everything they had done. By the looks of the place, they’d done plenty.

  The sheriff in charge was on his phone verifying Alex’s side of the story, while Alex was on his phone with the FBI in D.C. For some reason, he was the only one allowed to keep his phone.

  “I don’t care about your sonofabitchin protocol. You cost one civilian her life.” Alex stilled barely long enough for a reply from whoever was on the receiving end of the line. “That’s the whole point. You shouldn’t have lost anyone!”

  In aggravation, he slapped his phone shut and barked at Zack simply because he stood the closest. “We’re never working with the FBI again.”

  Zack shrugged and turned away. Mark stepped away, too. His boss radiated hostility, but Mark had
enough of his own. Grinding his teeth, he clenched his fists again, then spread his fingers wide. This whole operation had turned into a nightmare, and Libby was in the middle of the firestorm. Something had to give.

  Searchlights flashed through the upper level of Jerry’s once pristine barn. The dairy herd inside was probably never going to give milk again after the ruckus of the night, but at least the Russians hadn’t set the barn on fire. The state medical examiner was busy with his forensic team. An array of lights displayed the carnage that Mark caused when he’d shot the crate full of grenades. He didn’t think twice about it then, and he didn’t care now. Every single one of those men was responsible for murdering Faith. He’d do it all again.

  But why Libby’s parents? And why breach a safe house in a sleepy farming community that held two elderly people and two young women? It seemed the cartel had zeroed in on the Clifton family. Nothing made sense. Logically, Mark could understand if the hit had been against Jonathan’s parent’s home if only because the dope was buried in their son’s casket. That would have made sense, but how did the cartel know where the safe house was? The simple problem of a drug lord out to retrieve his stolen dope was not so simple anymore. When did the cartel get so smart?

  Too many questions, and Mark had no answers. More than all the armed soldiers behind the barn, it was the man with the laptop that bothered him the most. That guy was obviously their communications man, but exactly who was he communicating with? What else did he know, and how did he know so much? These guys had to be inside The TEAM’s server. Maybe the FBI’s too. Nobody was safe.

  Mark shuddered. An instinctive need to protect Libby flooded his normally rationale mind. She was safe on the other side of the country, but he needed to hear her voice to make sure.

  “Do we know what happened at the cemetery yet?” Alex snapped.

  “FBI had agents staked out there,” Zack offered. “Haven’t heard what happened though. Been kinda busy.”

  Alex stabbed another number into his cell phone just as the sheriff in charge ambled over, interrupting the call. Mark sized him up. Sheriff Dawson looked like just another farmer, tanned and tired. He walked with a slight limp that didn’t seem to slow him down, but his calm demeanor did not reflect in his sharp eyes. This was his crime scene, no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

  “Your story checks out, Mr. Stewart.” He nodded to another officer to return their property. “Honest mistake. Thought you might have been the guys who killed that family in West Virginia the other day.”

  “Understood.” Alex snapped his thigh holster where it belonged, sinking his SIG into its place. “Are we free to leave?”

  Sheriff Dawson didn’t answer. “You and your men did a good job protecting Jerry and Rosemary. Sure wish you would have been at that first house though.”

  “We should’ve been there,” Alex said brusquely. “What about the cemetery? The FBI get hit there, too?”

  “I’ve been busy processing the safe house, but from what I hear, the FBI agents are still on site. They’ve had a quiet night. Looks like these Russian were only after the safe house and this place.” He dusted his hat against his leg as he shot a scrutinizing look at Alex. “You wouldn’t happen to know why, would you?”

  “No.” Alex glanced at the Clifton’s damaged home. “FBI said the cartel was headed for the cemetery. Not here.”

  “Seems to me this little war of yours ain’t about the drugs at all. If what the FBI told me is the truth, all the opium in Jon Wells’ casket is still six feet under.” The sheriff looked around at the tremendous crime scene. “Guess when you’re dealing with folks like these Russians, you never know what’s going to happen next do you?”

  “Are we free to leave?” Alex asked again, annoyed.

  For once, Mark agreed with him. They needed to move.

  “No.” The sheriff stared at Alex. “I need you and your men to stay put for the next twenty-four hours. FBI is supposed to call me back. I want you guys handy when they do.”

  Stay? Mark cringed, his blood pressure already pounding loud and clear. No way. Wrong answer. Alex is gonna kick your—

  “Well, okay then.” Alex glanced at his weary men. “Mark. You know the town. Get us a room.”

  Nineteen

  “Bastard,” Alex muttered.

  It was late morning by the time the sheriff let Mark, Alex, and Zack leave the crime scene. By then, they had been grilled a dozen ways to Sunday as to precisely what transpired during the confrontation with the cartel, who did what to who, and where they did it. Alex and Sheriff Dawson were on a first name basis. Maybe not Christian names, but names nonetheless. Whether they wanted it or not, The TEAM was forced to retreat to the only hotel in Spencer to wait out the twenty-four hour hold.

  Mark drove while Alex’s speakerphone got a nonstop workout.

  “I’m telling you there is absolutely no way anyone hacked my firewall, Boss,” Mother insisted. Until now, Mark had no idea she was every bit as stubborn as Alex, or that she sassed him the way she did. The two of them sounded like they were married.

  “Well, someone got hacked, and it better damn well not have been us.”

  “It wasn’t.” Mother sounded sure.

  “Make damn sure,” Alex growled. “The FBI will be all over—”

  “And I’m telling you for the last time. It isn’t possible. It wasn’t us.”

  “Just do it.” Alex snapped his phone shut, glaring at Mark. “For two cents, I’d ....”

  Mark caught the implied threat that Alex didn’t finish. A bossy woman like Mother wouldn’t have lasted two seconds in the Corps. One mouthy reply, and she would have been transferred or discharged. Harley insisted she was pure genius, but Mark wasn’t convinced.

  He pulled their rental up to the motel, parked and unloaded their gear and backpacks. The motel wasn’t much, but it would give him the privacy and time to make a very urgent call. He hated having to break more bad news to Libby, but if anyone had to do it, it should be him. Poor girl. His heart ached all over again for her and her family.

  Zack bumped him as he picked up his gear. “I’m hitting the shower and then the bed. Do me a favor. Don’t bug me.”

  “I’m calling Libby,” Mark answered. “Anything you need me to tell Murphy, Boss?”

  “Already talked with him.” Alex slung his backpack over a shoulder. “Libby knows.”

  Mark’s jaw dropped. “When did you do that?”

  “You didn’t think I’d let you make that kind of a call, did you?” Alex shot him a hard look. “I called while we were standing around waiting for the sheriff to wake up and let us leave.”

  “But I—”

  “No. You should not have been the one to make that call.” Alex cut him off. “That’s not your place. It’s my team. My error. My call.”

  “But I—”

  Alex’s glare silenced Mark. The subject was non-negotiable.

  “Fine. I’m going to the hospital then. I need to see Libby’s mother.”

  “Make it quick,” Alex growled. “First chance we get, we’re out of here.”

  Mark went to his room and stowed his equipment, but instead of leaving right away, he called Libby. Her cell phone rang, but no one answered.

  “Come on,” he muttered. He needed to hear her voice, to know how she was handling this awful news. “Please answer. Talk to me.”

  Her image came to him like a punch to his solar plexus. She was crying. He could feel it. Mark redialed, in case he had called a wrong number. Still, no one answered. Where are you, Libby?

  Aggravated, he pocketed his cell phone and hurried out the door. He’d call again after he visited with Rosemary. Maybe then, he would have a little bit of good news. It was with a weary heart he drove to the hospital and tracked Libby’s mother to the emergency room, nearly noon when he found her. She stood alone at the end of Marie’s bed, staring at her unconscious daughter. He placed a gentle hand on Rosemary’s shoulder so as not to startle her.

  “
Oh, Mark,” she whispered when she saw him. “You didn’t have to come.”

  “Yes, I did. How is she?” He put his arm around her shoulders.

  “The doctor thinks it’s only a concussion,” she answered very matter-of-factly as she leaned into him. “They’ve run some tests and done an MRI. She doesn’t have a broken back or neck like they first thought, so that’s good.”

  “She hasn’t regained consciousness yet though?”

  “Not yet. I guess it’s just a matter of time.”

  “Come on.” He pulled her to a nearby chair. “Let’s sit down so we can talk.”

  She agreed, and Mark located another chair so he could sit with her.

  “How’s Jerry?”

  She scowled at that question. “He sure picked a heck of a time for a heart attack, didn’t he?” Rosemary was still plenty feisty.

  “Is he okay?”

  She sighed deeply. “He’ll be fine. They’ve taken him somewhere upstairs to do an angioplasty. I should be with him, but I was hoping Marie would wake up. I don’t want her to be alone when she comes to.”

  “His attack wasn’t serious?” It sounded plenty serious to Mark.

  “Oh, yeah.” Her eyes lit up. “It’s serious all right. After the angioplasty, he’ll need a valve replacement. That will set him back a couple weeks. Maybe months. Don’t look so worried, son.” Rosemary patted his arm. “Nothing can keep my Jerry down. You’ll see.”

  They sat in silence. Faith’s death was the tender subject he did not want to broach, but something needed to be said. Rosemary patted his arm again, a sad twinkle in her eye as if she had read his mind. “I might need your help with another funeral though.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Tears sprang to his eyes. Libby’s mother had a no-nonsense way about her, but losing a daughter was still hard. He hurt for her. His mother’s death still haunted him after all these years. Somehow, losing a child had to be so much worse. Mark remembered Faith’s sweet flirtation. Her box of unopened stationary was somewhere in his new apartment in Virginia; he didn’t know where. Now he wished he had written at least one letter to her.