Santiago grinned. “Finito. I wish you’d let me do it instead of Ric. You have no idea how many times I wanted to kill Mickey when we were on the road.”
Chuckling, Christian nodded to Ric. “Go into my office. We need to talk.”
Ric set down the bottle of water he’d been drinking onto the counter. “Right away,” he said and walked past him to the refurbished office that stood between the bedroom and the guest room Mickey had been held in throughout the day.
Once Ric had disappeared, Christian called Santiago to his side. The Columbian rushed over. “Amigo? What’s wrong?”
“Ric has to go.” Which was a damned shame. Good hired help was difficult to find. “I just found out he’s been fucking me over.”
Santiago narrowed his eyes. “Never liked that hijo de puta. What do you need me to do?”
“Slit his throat. Do you have a problem with that?”
The Columbian grinned. “I’ve been itching to do it for fifteen years.”
Christian didn’t doubt Santiago. The Columbian had begun working for him a few months before Christian had met Ric. Because of Ric’s background and education, he’d moved into more prominent positions. Where Ric was his yes man, Santiago was his henchman, and there had always been a not so friendly rivalry between them.
“Good. Come with me.” As he walked passed Vlad, he said, “Watch Rose and Harrison.”
The Russian, whose IQ probably bordered on that of an uneducated fifteen-year-old, nodded. Vlad might not be his brightest employee, but like a well-trained dog, he always obeyed and never bit the hand that fed him.
At the closed office door, Santiago stopped and withdrew the knife hidden in his boot.
“Ready?” Christian asked.
Santiago gave him a single nod.
“Good. Make it quick.” While he wasn’t sure if the FBI had made a connection to him, in case his suspicions were true, he’d have to act fast. Plan B wasn’t his ideal, but it would serve as a brilliant distraction.
Christian turned the doorknob. When he entered the room, Ric moved away from the desk and approached them. “I think we should leave. You still have to make your statement regarding the latest bombing, and the laptop needs to be destroyed.”
“Agreed.” Christian nodded to Santiago, who took two steps and, with lightning speed, slashed the knife across Ric’s throat.
The sadist’s eyes bulged with shock and accusation as he clutched his neck. Blood spurted from between his fingertips as he mouthed, “Why?”
Christian moved behind him, careful not to stain his suit with Ric’s blood and pulled the gun Ric kept clipped to his belt. “Does it matter? Well, I suppose, after keeping you on as my servant for fifteen years I should give you some sort of an explanation.”
Ric, wheezing, gasping and still holding his throat, dropped to his knees.
Crouching low, Christian smiled at the dying man. “I don’t like being mocked,” he said, wrapping Ric’s free hand around the gun and pointing it at Ric’s head. “Do you hear that, Columbian?”
“Si, amigo.”
“Then you’ll understand.” Christian quickly turned the gun on Santiago. “I fucking hate being called Honey Badger,” he said and pulled the trigger.
Chapter 15
JAKE RUSHED INTO the room when he heard the gun shot. Naomi met him halfway. Without saying a word, he latched onto her hand and led her back out the door, down the hall and into the stairwell. Although he wanted to hold her and make sure she was okay, his sole focus was to evacuate before the FBI stormed the warehouse.
“There were two other men,” she said, breathing hard while keeping pace with him. “One took the laptop Christian was using to detonate the bombs.”
Jake didn’t respond. Instead, he reached for his vibrating cell phone. “Yeah,” he answered.
“The FBI is there,” Ian said. “I’ve made it clear my men are in the warehouse.”
“I have Naomi.”
“What? I told you to stand—”
“There was gunfire.” He and Naomi reached the garage, just as a dozen agents rushed inside. “Gotta go,” he said and, still holding the phone, stepped in front of Naomi.
“We’re with CORE,” he shouted, raising his hands as armed agents approached them.
While half the agents made their way toward the stairs, the rest either cordoned off the warehouse exits or surrounded them. “Agent Kyle Suts,” one of the agents said, reaching into Jake’s pockets. Suts pulled out Jake’s wallet, looked over his ID, then handed it back to Jake. “We were told CORE had two men in the building. Where’s the other?”
“Jake,” Dante called. He had his hands behind his head as a Fed escorted him.
“That’s Dante Russo. He’s also CORE.”
Once Dante reached them, he said, “I just explained to your agent here that two men escaped on foot.
“We’re already on it.” Suts moved Dante’s jacket, eyed the SEAL’s utility belt, then found his ID. After he’d cleared Dante, Suts told them to stay put, then he stepped away and made a call.
“What the hell happened?” Dante asked, keeping his eyes on Suts and his voice low. “Before the gunshot, I saw two men running through the warehouse. I tried chasing them down, but they were too far ahead of me. I did get a vague description.” He shook his head. “They weren’t the same men who killed the guy Hunnicutt called Mickey.”
Needing answers, Jake turned to Naomi and raised her arm. The twine that had been wrapped around her wrist, hung loosely. “Who cut you free?”
“One of the men I’m assuming Dante chased after.” She rubbed her wrist where the twine had left a chaff mark, and look at Dante. “Big blond guy and another guy with longish brown hair, right?”
“That’s them.”
“Christian called the blond, Vlad. The little he spoke…I caught a Russian accent. He’s also the one who cut me free. The other man was Harrison.” She winced and her chin trembled. “Mickey was his brother.”
“We’re taking you out of here,” Suts said, and motioned to a couple of his agents, who immediately began escorting them from the building.
“Wait,” Naomi called. “Christian Hunnicutt. Did you find him? He’s the one behind the bombings. He also has two—”
“Ma’am, get in the car.” Suts opened the door of a dark sedan. “You’ll be debriefed when we reach our field office.”
Jake nudged her inside the vehicle before she could protest any further. This was the part of protocol he detested. They’d be detained for questioning, without being given any information, then set free. Because this case dealt with domestic terrorism and had become extremely high profile, chances were they wouldn’t know the specifics of what the FBI ultimately found on the third floor of the warehouse.
And that pissed him off. He wanted specifics. Like when, specifically, would Christian Hunnicutt pay for his crimes? Knowing the judicial system, the man could sit in jail for decades before he paid the ultimate price.
He glanced down, caught Naomi rubbing her wrist and thought about everything she’d been through today and the past eight years. Damn it. He should have ignored orders and killed Hunnicutt when he’d had the chance. Prison was too good for the bastard.
*
“Move, Harry,” Vlad ordered and shoved Harrison forward.
“Stop pushing me. I don’t want to drop the laptop.”
Vlad pointed to a row of older houses that had seen better days. “Should leave behind.”
“Easy for you to say,” Harrison panted, as he tried to keep up with Vlad. “Your fingerprints aren’t all over it.”
“No matter. We leave country and hide. Vlad knows people.”
A cramp seized Harrison’s side, but he pushed himself to keep moving. “I’m not leaving the country and living the rest of my life as a fugitive.”
The Russian turned down an ally and led him into a high traffic area of Norfolk. He waved down a taxi and pushed Harrison inside. After giving the driver an address
Harrison wasn’t familiar with, Vlad rested his head against the cab’s torn, leather seat and closed his eyes. Given how much the Russian smoked, Harrison couldn’t believe the man wasn’t out of breath. His lungs burned from running, while his legs and stomach still cramped. “Listen,” he began, “We need—”
“Shh. Vlad need to think.”
Harrison hugged the laptop to his chest and stared out the window at the passing cars. Whatever Vlad came up with, Harrison doubted they’d agree on it. The Russian’s position was worse than his. Chances were, the FBI would dig into Hunnicutt’s employment records and discover Vlad worked for him. Plus Vlad’s fingerprints would be all over that warehouse.
His mind raced as he tried to think about the things he’d touched while being held in the warehouse. A water bottle, a pen, the toilet handle, the bathroom faucet. Shit. And once the Feds found Mickey, they’d know about him. A quick check, and they’d see he had a prison record, match the fingerprints and, bam, he was frickin’ cooked.
He scrubbed a hand down his face. Throughout the day he’d come to terms with where his future lay. Dead by Hunnicutt’s orders, or Death Row for his part in the bombings. When he’d been making peace with whichever way he’d die, he’d envisioned taking Hunnicutt with him in some capacity. While he had no clue what had transpired in the office between Hunnicutt, Ric and Santiago, he doubted Hunnicutt was dead.
You can’t kill the boogeyman.
But he sure as hell wanted to try.
The taxi stopped along the curb of a row of two story shops. The signs above several stores were in Russian. Vlad paid the driver, then led Harrison through a door next to one of the stores and up several flights of steps, then down a hall. When they reached the door at the end of the hallway, Vlad pulled keys from his pocket and unlocked it.
“Come, Vlad’s apartment.”
“I thought you lived with Honey Badger,” Harrison said, looking around the small, sparse and dusty studio.
“Vlad like options.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “Honey Badger don’t know about apartment.” After flicking the lighter, he lit a cigarette. “Ric and Santiago in dark, too.”
“Okay, so we’re safe here?”
The Russian shrugged. “For now. The woman saw Vlad and Harry’s face. Should have done what Vlad says and took her.”
Harrison rolled his eyes and set the laptop on the grimy, laminate kitchen countertop. “And be charged with kidnapping, too? The only reason I wanted to free her was to help her get away from Hunnicutt. You know what he was going to do to her.”
The Russian released a stream of smoke. “Vlad knows.”
“And that doesn’t bother you?” He shoved away from the counter and slumped into a ratty chair in need of reupholstering. “You know? Never mind. With how broken up you were over my brother, I know the answer.”
Sympathy softened Vlad’s eyes as the Russian sat his enormous body on the equally ratty, small floral patterned couch. “Vlad sorry about the mouse.”
“Mickey,” Harrison said around the lump in his throat. The reality of his loss setting in hard now that they’d escaped from the warehouse.
“Mickey,” Vlad echoed. “Vlad made no secret. Mickey not favorite person. But…the mouse Harry’s brother.”
“Twin,” Harrison reminded him.
The Russian shook his head. “Harry want revenge.”
“You have no idea.” Harrison rested his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “Not just for my brother, but for what Hunnicutt did to all of those people.” He dropped his head. “For what he made me do.”
“Harry had no choice.”
Harrison looked up and met the Russian’s eyes. “I’m starting to question that.” When Vlad’s brow furrowed with confusion, Harrison admitted, “When Hunnicutt first told me to send the signal and trigger the bomb, I should have told him no. Even then, deep down, I didn’t think me and Mickey would walk away from this.”
“Ric knew how to signal,” Vlad reminded him. “Bombs explode anyway. And, Harry did walk away.”
“Mickey didn’t. Now I have to live with not only being responsible for hundreds of deaths, but for what I did to my brother.”
“With gun to head,” Vlad said, his tone harsh. “Vlad see this before. Harry have survivor fault.”
“Survivor fault? What the hell are you talking—wait, do you mean survivor’s guilt?”
“Fault…guilt.” The Russian shrugged. “Same difference. Harry feel guilt for outliving the mouse. Vlad be truthful. Before we go to warehouse, the Columbian told Vlad Harry and Mickey would die.”
Show no fear, Harry…Honey Badger loves seeing fear in man’s eyes. Keep cool like ice cream. Trust Vlad.
“Vlad like Harry, not Santiago or Honey Badger. I…Harry, this very hard for me. Vlad felt like helpless kitten today.”
Harrison half smiled. “You and me both.”
“There is difference. Harry had gun to head, Vlad did not.”
“You said yourself if you walked, Hunnicutt would kill you and your family.”
“True. Vlad also say he would kill Harry if ordered.”
“And now?”
The Russian shook his head and lit another cigarette. “No. Vlad hate killing.”
“It’s not my thing, either. But there’s one person I’d like to see dead.”
“Honey Badger.” Vlad rubbed the blond stubble along his job. “Until he dead—”
“No one is safe. Not me or you. Not your family. Not the woman, Rose.” He stood and moved back to the counter where the laptop sat. “There are three explosives remaining. Who’s to say Hunnicutt doesn’t walk and find a way to detonate them?”
“We disarm them.”
“No. We let the Feds do that. But, we can tell them about the bombs. We can tell them everything. If we do, they’d have to believe us and Hunnicutt—”
“Could still walk.”
“Vlad, you’re not listening. If we—”
“No, Harry not listen.” The Russian smashed the cigarette into an ashtray, then stood and folded his arms across his chest. “Vlad not turning to FBI. This not Law & Order, this real life. You think FBI will slap wrist? No, Harry.” He shook his head. “We help, we get firing squad.”
Harrison held up his hands. “Okay, okay. First, that’s not how they execute prisoners.”
“No matter how. Dead is dead.”
Vlad had a valid point. Until he knew they could somehow clear their part in this—which would likely be impossible—they couldn’t go to the FBI. Vlad’s original idea of leaving the country and living as fugitives started to sound like an excellent option. Before he did any running, he would finish this. If he couldn’t kill Hunnicutt, he’d find a way to destroy the man.
“Fine. We don’t go to the FBI. But we do need to take care of those three bombs. Remember when we were in Bloomington, Indiana and you left me in the motel to get smokes and coffee?”
“Vlad remember.”
“Don’t be mad, but when we were planting the devices last week I started suspecting what they were. Because I wasn’t one hundred percent sure, I didn’t run to the cops. Instead, I messed with the laptop.”
“Vlad no understand. What is this mess?”
After Harrison gave Vlad the short version, the Russian grinned. “FBI will arrest Honey Badger.”
“I hope so. For now, the laptop is still our leverage. It might not be our get out of jail free card, but it’s all the evidence they’ll need. Their computer forensics people will be able to link all of the bombings back to Hunnicutt.”
“So how do we use laptop as leverage and not go to FBI? How does Harry plan to disarm bombs and not go to FBI?” Vlad released a deep sigh. “We need good plan.”
“I know,” Harrison said, his mind turning in a million directions and zeroing in on one. “What we need is to know what the Feds are planning to do with Hunnicutt first.”
*
Christian Hunnicutt adjusted the ill-fitting ju
mpsuit he’d been forced to don upon his arrival to the FBI’s Norfolk Division. Never in his life had he worn something so cheaply made and…orange. Not that it mattered. Soon enough he’d be on his way. The FBI had already held him in custody for five hours. Knowing his rights, unless they charged him with something, they’d have to release him. Once that happened, he’d return to his plantation home, take a long hot shower and put on something more respectable.
The door to the interrogation room he’d been led into thirty minutes ago opened. He quickly stood and offered his hand. “Martin, thank God,” he said to his longtime friend and the Director of the FBI. “What’s happening? Why am I being detained?”
“I apologize for the delay,” the director said, his expression grim, his eyes filled with sympathy. “Considering our history and the gravity of our investigation, I won’t be taking part in your questioning.” Two other men entered the room. “These are Agents Suts and Hicks.”
“Yes, I remember Agent Suts from the warehouse.” He nodded to the agent, who looked as if he’d graduated from Quantico while still sucking on a pacifier. Hicks was older, heavier and balding. “Thank you for your help today. I…” He looked to the stark white wall. “This afternoon was disturbing and terrifying,” he said, making sure the sincerity weighed heavy on each of his words. “The woman, Rose. Is she okay?”
Martin headed toward the door. “I’m going to let my agents answer that for you.”
“Wait,” he said, approaching the director.
The agents moved to stop him, but Martin held up a hand. “It’s okay. What is it, Christian?” he asked, weariness in his tone, the strain of today’s events etched on his face.
The United States’ top cop had definitely had a bad day. Which was a shame. He actually liked Martin.
“Suts and Hicks,” he began, keeping his voice low and for Martin’s ears only, “I’m sure they’re good agents, but I expected you to send in men with more experience.” He was Christian Hunnicutt, after all, not some street punk being questioned about a misdemeanor offense.
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