Because if he didn’t, then his brain might just splinter into jagged unrecoverable pieces.
He hooked Londyn under her armpits, turned her over until her face, already turning blue, was up and he dragged her as fast as he could out of the pool and onto the concrete.
He checked for breathing and a pulse.
None.
He turned her head to drain any water from her mouth, then quickly gave her five rescue breaths. He began chest compressions.
One... two... three...
“Fucking breathe, goddamn it! Breathe, Londyn,” he yelled, his voice breaking, his heart thumping in his ears as he did them. He shouted each number out until he reached thirty.
He gave her two more rescue breaths before beginning chest compressions again. “C’mon, baby, don’t you fucking give up. Stay with me.”
After the third set of breaths and compressions, he checked her pulse one more time. It was weak. But her face was beginning to regain color.
Her eyes were still closed but, thank fuck, she was starting to breathe.
He rolled her to her side as she began to cough out water.
“That’s it, baby, cough that shit out. Keep breathing. That’s it. Breathe. Breathe for me.” He rubbed her back as her body convulsed and she kept expelling the water from her lungs.
And then she vomited more water mixed with her breakfast all over the pool deck.
He cleared her mouth with his finger and kept her on her side for what felt like forever until her coughing slowed and her eyes opened.
They were unfocused but there was life behind them.
She tried to say his name.
“Just wait. Concentrate on clearing your lungs first, baby. Just keep breathing for me.”
Her fingers weakly squeezed his, she took a deep inhale that rattled in her chest, then coughed again.
After a while, when her breathing was almost back to normal and she no longer expelled water from her stomach or lungs, he pulled her into his lap, drew her tight against his chest, buried his face into her wet hair, and did his best not to cry like a fucking baby.
He continued to hold her as he dug his phone out of his pocket, thankful it was waterproof, and called Mercy back to give him the lowdown.
He didn’t envy the man who needed to tell Rissa they nearly lost her sister.
But that was the least of his worries.
Because now he had to get Londyn out of Kramer’s backyard and figure out a plan to cover up what he just did.
It didn’t take long to formulate that plan with the help of Mercy.
They both agreed.
There was no better way to hide the evidence of a kill shot than by making a larger hole at close range. One that couldn’t be traced back to Brick.
He hated to leave Londyn alone back at the house, and she begged him not to, but he had no choice. He needed to finish the job and do it in a way it would not be linked back to them.
As soon as she was settled on the couch under a blanket and he made sure she wasn’t suffering from secondary drowning, he gave her a kiss on the forehead, went upstairs to change out of his damp clothes and grab gloves from his duffel bag. Then he headed back to Kramer’s house.
He made his way through the broken gate, which luckily was still on its hinges, and carefully wedged it closed as best as he could behind him. It only needed to block the view from any nosy neighbors.
He donned the gloves as he made his way into the house through the wide-open sliding glass door, imagining Londyn struggling as Kramer dragged her outside through it.
He set his jaw and headed to Kramer’s office, closing the door behind him. After plugging in the password for the computer, the one that Walker had hacked, he pulled up a blank Word document.
It took a bit longer due to his gloves, but he typed out a suicide note confessing to Teresa’s murder. Brick worded it so it sounded as if Kramer’s guilt had been eating at him and he couldn’t live with it anymore. He added an apology to Teresa’s family. It was the least that fucker could do. Apologize to his wife’s family for being a lying, greedy fucker who stole their daughter’s life. He also had Kramer confess to poisoning Barb.
When he was done, Brick read it over, then clicked on the printer icon. Grabbing it off the printer, he set it directly in the middle of Kramer’s desk. He only stared at it for a second before he grabbed the Mossberg from the closet. He checked the chamber to make sure at least one round of buckshot was racked.
There was.
He headed back out to the pool, the shotgun heavy in his hand, the thought of almost losing Londyn heavier in his heart.
His hatred of Kramer searing his chest.
His brain was once again on autopilot as he grabbed the leaf skimmer that hung on the side of their shed and went to the edge of the pool. Catching Kramer’s body with it, he pulled it over to the side. Using Kramer’s hair, he lifted the man’s head out of the water, placed the barrel of the shotgun directly into the man’s slack mouth, pushed him under the surface to muffle the sound...
And pulled the fucking trigger.
He let the shotgun drop to the bottom of the pool, shoved the now headless body farther towards the deep end, blood, brain matter and worse trailing behind it. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911, calling in a possible suicide as a “concerned neighbor.”
And then he waited.
Brick scrubbed a hand down his face just as the uniformed officers rushed through the broken gate.
Show time.
He went from wanting to kill Kramer a second, third and even fourth time to an upset and alarmed neighbor in a split second flat.
With one hand pressed to his forehead and the other planted on his hip, he shouted, “Thank God, you’re here!” and stopped his pacing, his eyes wide.
One cop rushed directly to the side of the pool, taking in the carnage—Brick might have even heard a gag—while the other approached him. “What happened?”
The one on his knees next to the pool spoke into the mic on his shoulder, using code speak Brick recognized for a DOA. No reason to take a pulse to confirm it.
Two more cops hurried through the gate.
And now it was a party.
Brick gave the cop who was questioning him his full attention. “I’m concerned about his girlfriend.”
The cop, whose name tag said Woods, frowned. “Have you been in the house?”
“No. After I heard the shot, I looked out of my window and saw Chris,” he made a strangled sound, “or what remained of Chris floating in the pool. I panicked and ran over here and had to kick in the gate to get to him. I was afraid to pull him out but figured it was too late and couldn’t save him anyway.” Hard to do CPR on a corpse with an exploded melon. Brick sucked in a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure what to do, so I called 911.” He covered his face with both hands for a moment. After making a noise which he hoped sounded sincere, he dropped his hands, sniffling and wiping at his eyes and nose, even though they were bone dry. “I... I have no idea where Barb is and I’m worried. I hope he didn’t hurt her like one of those murder-suicides.”
Hook.
“We’ll check the house.” The cop turned his head and yelled out to another one, ordering him to check inside.
Another cop, a woman, pointed to Londyn’s breakfast chunks on the concrete. “Why is there vomit there?”
“That was me.” He sheepishly pressed a hand to his stomach and made a face. “I’ve never seen a dead body before... except on TV and in movies.” Brick covered his mouth and gagged a little. “And Chris... it doesn’t look anything like the ones in the movies.”
Woods patted him on the back. “First one’s always the hardest.”
Right.
“Can I go now?” Brick knew it wouldn’t be that easy, but he had to act like an average Joe citizen, who would be not only clueless in this type of situation but upset about seeing a man with his head blown off.
“I need to get some information from you fir
st. I know this is probably difficult, we can step outside the gate, if needed.”
Fuck no. He needed to hear and see what the cops were doing while he was stuck there answering their questions.
“I’m okay now, I think. What do you need to know?”
Woods, the middle-aged cop with a belly that hung over his duty-belt, hiked it up, then pulled a notepad from his back pocket and a pen from his shirt pocket.
He opened the pad, cleared his throat, and squinted up at Brick. “Name?”
“Seam—” He swallowed that down. They’d want a valid identification and would check it. “Shame this happened. Byron Williams.”
“You have ID on you?”
He shook his head. “I ran out of the house without my wallet.” He knew what came next.
“Sosh?”
He rattled off a false social security number the Shadows used for this exact purpose.
The cop scribbled it down. “Any outstanding warrants?”
Brick raised his palms up. “Nope. Just a concerned neighbor. Me and my wife live two doors down.”
“Okay. Give me a phone number, in case we need to contact you.”
He gave him the number to a burner phone at the warehouse, also kept for this very reason.
“She see anything?” Woods asked.
“She?”
“Your wife.”
“No, she was taking a nap when I heard the shot.”
“How long have you known the victim?”
Victim. Brick fought his sneer and stayed in character. “Only for about a month now. We’re new to the neighborhood, but we were becoming close friends.” He needed to add that bit in case his or Londyn’s DNA or fingerprints were found in and around Kramer’s house. But hopefully Kramer’s death would be an open and shut case of a self-inflicted gunshot wound.
And if it went any further and they dug deeper, Seamus and Gertie would be long gone.
“Had he seemed depressed? Down on his luck? Did he mention suicide at all or even hint at it?”
“He always mentioned his wife who died a couple years ago in an unfortunate accident. I don’t think he could move past it. Because of that, I felt bad for his current girlfriend.”
Line.
The cop nodded and jotted something down.
“A bus is en route for the woman upstairs. As soon as it gets here send them up,” a male voice came from the open doorway. “She’s not looking good.”
Woods arched an eyebrow at Brick. “Has she been sick?”
“Yes, we were worried about her, especially after we had dinner with them last night. My better half watches a lot of the Discovery ID channel, so she began to come up with some crazy scenarios.”
“Like?” Woods prodded.
Brick leaned in and whispered, “Like Chris was poisoning his girlfriend. Like maybe his first wife didn’t die of an ‘accident.’” Brick air-quoted that last word. “Wouldn’t that be crazy if that was true?”
Sinker.
“Right,” the cop mumbled, staring toward the door. “Crazy.”
“I hope she’s going to be all right.”
“As you heard, an ambulance is en route. Plus, the coroner.”
Sirens could be heard in the distance. At least Barb would be getting some help. That meant Londyn could stop worrying and they could leave with a clear conscience.
“Can I go? I need to break the news to my wife. She’s close friends with Barb. She’ll want to head to the hospital to check on her later and to comfort Barb on her loss. Hopefully, that’ll be all right?”
Woods, distracted with whatever he was writing, nodded again. His head shot up when another yell came from inside the house. “There’s a note.”
“We’ll be in touch if we need anything further,” Woods said, then headed inside.
Brick smiled as he walked out of the backyard through the broken gate.
They were getting the fuck out of Dodge while the getting was good.
He wouldn’t be answering any more questions or making any more statements. They needed to split before the cop ran his information.
On his way back to the house, he decided that he needed to have a serious discussion with Londyn about the risk she took. About how she almost died.
How the people who loved her almost lost her forever. Like her sister.
And the perfect time to do it was when they were on the plane and she couldn’t escape.
Because she was not going to like what he had to say.
Chapter Twenty-One
Londyn pulled up the Ft. Myers news on her laptop, searching the top stories. Every day for the past week, she checked the local network affiliate’s website for updates about Barb and that whole situation they left behind in Florida.
She’d sighed with relief when, the day after they arrived back in Pennsylvania, she read that Barb survived. Toxicology reports had shown she was slowly being poisoned by Kramer using small doses of arsenic and a cocktail of household products. All detectable, so that was stupid on Kramer’s part. Maybe he was arrogant enough to think he’d get away with the second murder since he got away with the first.
The list of toxins wasn’t in the news, but Mercy had Walker hack into the hospital’s lab records to find out the specifics. Londyn was surprised Mercy had taken her request into consideration, but then, maybe her sister had something to do with it.
Today, the online article said the case was officially closed; the coroner ruled Kramer’s cause of death a suicide. Law enforcement also speculated that it might have ended up a case of murder-suicide if Barb hadn’t been found when she was.
Luckily, Barb would recover and was currently surrounded by family, so she was in good, caring hands.
Londyn wished she could talk to Barb herself, but she was strictly forbidden by Mercy not to have any contact with her. They couldn’t risk Barb finding out who they really were or why they had been in Florida.
Mercy also proceeded to tell her, in not so nice terms, that she already risked herself and Brick enough by disobeying him and that result was almost deadly, so she needed to “listen” in the future.
And while she wanted to argue that fact with the dead-eyed jerk, she knew he was right.
Damn it.
But, no matter what, she had saved Barb. And Kramer was dead. In the end, it all worked out.
Well, everything except for her and Brick.
Because instead of waking up in Brick’s bed every morning, she’d been waking up alone in one of Parris’s spare bedrooms.
That would soon have to change. She couldn’t stay there forever. And Mercy made it quite clear that he didn’t like having her there. He acted like she was some pimple irritating his ass.
In fact, he’d offered her money several times to move to a hotel until she decided what her future held and where.
But right now, she was floundering. Just like she had been when she first left New York and arrived in Shadow Valley.
At least in Florida, she’d had a purpose.
Now she had nothing. Not even Brick.
On that plane ride, after he was done reaming her out for putting herself at risk. Informing her that she could’ve died. Telling her she actually did die, and she was lucky that he could save her ass...
After he was done reminding her that if her heart hadn’t started beating again, Parris would’ve killed him. And then Mercy.
And possibly even Diesel.
After he said she would’ve had those deaths weighing on her soul, even as a ghost.
During and after all that spiel, what she noticed most wasn’t his words, it was his face as he said them. It was his body, his expression, the look in his eyes that told her he would’ve been affected by her loss—maybe would’ve even been lost a little bit without her—if he hadn’t gotten to her in time.
So, she got it.
She got that he’d been angry, upset and worse because she had gone against his orders and went back to try and save Barb.
What s
he didn’t get was why they were pretending not to care about each other. Why they weren’t spending time together.
Why the second the job was over, so were they.
It was that she was having a hard time swallowing.
“That’s it, then?” she had asked before walking out of the airport and climbing into Mercy’s bulletproof SUV on steroids.
“What’s it?”
What hurt the most was, he wasn’t confused about what she was asking. Even with dark sunglasses covering his eyes—even though they were still inside the terminal—she could read it on his face. But he wanted to play it like the last month meant nothing to him.
“Us.”
A muscle ticked in his jaw and he adjusted his sunglasses. “Londyn, we promised not to touch each other and when we broke that promise, we swore we’d keep it to ourselves, remember?”
How could she forget?
But even so, while that was true... So many things had happened since they said they’d keep it quiet. She thought things between them had progressed past that point. Was she wrong? “Did we fuck up?”
“What do you mean?”
Again, he wanted to avoid this talk, but she wouldn’t let him. She needed to know.
Maybe he could fight his feelings, fight his emotions. Bury them deep to hide them. But she couldn’t.
She’d never been able to and probably never would.
Her mother used to chide her about her wearing her “emotions on her sleeve.” But Londyn got it honestly. It was passed down from her parents.
She reached into his open leather jacket to his T-shirt underneath and fisted it. Her knuckles brushed against his dog tags which were now back where they belonged, around his neck and tucked under his shirt. And, since he was back to wearing his contacts, she was sure his prescription glasses were now buried deep in the duffel bag he had flung over his shoulder.
“Do we like each other?” She cringed internally at the question she was sure she’d asked when she was twelve on the school playground.
His eyebrows shot up, then dropped so dangerously low they disappeared behind his sunglasses. “Well, I sure as fuck hope so, since we fucked. And more than once. In fact, I lost count with how many times. So, yeah, I’d say we like each other, Londyn.”
Guts & Glory: Brick (In the Shadows Security Book 6) Page 22