Beau (In the Company of Snipers Book 18) Read online

  But first…

  Tugging her nitrile gloves back on, she stretched forward and once again dug all ten fingers into the lush, rich soil. Gloves gave her the perfect amount of tactile sensation without fear of contracting AIDS, Ebola, or any number of disgusting contagions that came from handling bodies. Plus, gloves kept her nails clean.

  This was why she loved planting roses and things. The outdoors. The fresh air. The absolute surety that nobody in America knows I’m here! Better rephrase that. After all, a few bodies did know she’d arrived, and soon another would understand the meaning of her presence as well. There’d be no need for gloves then. The touching of skin on skin was important in this next step. Like her roses needed the sun, she needed the tactile sensation of a man’s rugged body writhing beneath her. The bleeding. The screaming. And ultimately, the begging. But until then…

  The lid to the container came off. The most potent soil amendment in the world spilled a crimson cascade into the grave. Catalina Montego growled with deep throated glee, “I have loved each of you to pieces my dear, brave boys. A piece over there. Another there, and, oh yes! One. Right. Here.”

  Chapter One

  Like so many times before, Alex stood at his office window with one foot on the low sill. Dressed in his uniform of the day, a charcoal-gray business suit, a red power tie that never failed to constrict his throat or his temper, he glared down at the pleasant streets of Alexandria, Virginia. This solitary watch had long ago become his thinking place, his chapel. It was here more prayers than anyone could ever know were flung heavenward in his struggle to understand and accommodate the Almighty Man Upstairs, and the problems He bestowed on the few, the brave, and the proud.

  There was a time Alex cursed God, and rightfully so. He could’ve saved Sara and their darling daughter, their only child for Christ’s sake. Could’ve had Alex’s six like a true friend back then. Yet He hadn’t been there when Alex needed Him most. No. Years ago, He’d let the two people Alex loved more than life itself, die in a senseless traffic accident. A son-of-a-bitchin’ car wreck. A world away in service to his country, Alex lost everything that had truly mattered. His soul. His breath. And all because God turned a blind eye on him.

  Or so Alex had thought.

  But in a bizarre twist of fate, along came a battered and betrayed woman. Kelsey’s loss then had been tenfold Alex’s. Yes, his had been thoroughly tragic, but the accident that claimed his family was a freak happenstance of nature. His wife and daughter were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It sucked, and it hurt, but accidents happened.

  Kelsey’s loss was so much worse, if one loss could truly be measured against another. She’d lost her two young sons to the man who should’ve fought the hardest to protect them—her first husband and their father—their murderer. She should’ve hated the world as much as Alex did then. She could’ve railed against God every day since. Her sons were just babies when they’d been brutally killed. If anyone should’ve hated God, it was Kelsey.

  But she hadn’t. Not even once. Made of better stuff than most people, she’d found ways to forgive the bastard who’d stolen her children instead of damning him to outer darkness. Not right away, but eventually, she’d understood how his twisted childhood and his psychotic mother had driven him to murder. How day after day, Edith had manipulated and convinced her only child, Nick, to end her grandchildren. Then to murder Kelsey.

  But the jealous bitch was dead now, thanks to that tiny mother bear who kept Alex’s bed warm at night. At first blush, Alex had once thought Kelsey weaker than him. After all, who in their right mind forgave her children’s murderer? But when Kelsey also forgave him, Alex Stewart, for what he’d done to her? For being a damned, obnoxious know-it-all and a prideful ass? For telling her to get out of his life when she was the only thing holding him together? Yeah. Damned humbling.

  Instead of railing against the Man Upstairs, Kelsey was one of those rare individuals who embraced the freedom wrought by forgiveness, a trait Alex was still learning. It sure as Hell didn’t come easy. Yet with that one simple act of forgiveness, she’d taught him to remember the gentle man he’d once been. The father. The loving husband. The gentle warrior.

  Like an innocent lamb leading one pissed-off, cantankerous wolf by the scruff of his stubborn neck, Kelsey’s patience with the world, combined with her love for him had eventually brought Alex back from the brink of self-pity and destruction. Eventually, he forgave God, then forgave himself. But he’d never take credit for the better man he was today. He’d never been that kind of strong. No. That would be the petite brunette who ruled his world and his night times. She was the strong one. He was the pretender.

  Kelsey might’ve needed him those first few days they’d met. Barely alive, she hadn’t the skills to defend herself. But Alex knew the truth. Yes, he’d saved her life when he’d found her nearly dead at his remote cabin in far-off Washington state, but she’d saved his soul. In the process, God had become more than a bitter curse word. Better yet, He’d become a friend, and Alex was going to need Him in the next days and weeks. Possibly months.

  His agents’ recent unauthorized excursion into Cuba hadn’t gone unnoticed, not by the State Department or the SECDEF, Secretary of Defense Arthur Turner. Not that Alex had anything to fear from Art. He’d worked closely with the SECDEF on many clandestine operations, but this one was different. Eric Reynolds, Cassidy Dancer, and Seth McCray, three of Alex’s best, had returned with concrete evidence that Roland Montego, a known and extremely sadistic human trafficker, was dead.

  Cassidy had nearly died on that operation. Captured during an ambush, she’d been taken prisoner by Montego. But before he’d beaten her nearly to death, she’d managed to activate the miniscule camera hidden within the golden threads of The TEAM logo on her shirt. Smart woman. Through the miracle of technology, she’d taken enough evidence in that basement prison on Isla de la Juventud to nail Montego’s ass to the wall. Not that he’d lived long enough to be prosecuted. No. Agent Seth McCray had ended the bastard right there in his own prison.

  Alex shifted his weight, watching the orderly weave of traffic on the street below. Little had Cassidy realized that she’d also filmed a woman from Alex’s past, Roland’s sister, Catalina. Prior to the day of Roland’s death, she’d visited her brother’s lair often, and participated in the atrocities committed against the women and children held prisoner there. Alex rolled his neck at that disquieting fact, never more certain that Catalina had left bodies wherever she’d traveled. Including Virginia.

  Years earlier, prior to his first deployment, he’d been out with a handful of his USMC buddies one evening, throwing back a few beers before they left home and family for a six-month tour. Aaron Pope, Vic Irvinson, and Rodney Barr, all good guys a man trusted.

  They’d just ordered their last round, when a buxom blonde, whom no red-blooded American male could miss, slithered into the Norfolk bar. Six-inch stiletto heels enhanced her long tanned legs as much as the seductive tangles spilling over her shoulders enhanced the depth of her cleavage and the swell of her plump breasts. Wearing painted-on black jeans and a slinky, green sequined tank top, the woman Alex now knew was Cat Montego, had stalked past the lookers sitting at the bar as she aimed for the table in the farthest corner. His table. His men. His friends.

  “Hey, hey, hey, don’t look now, boys, but trouble’s coming our way,” Rodney had murmured. He’d just pinned on Lance Corporal. Thought he was a big man. Also thought he’d get lucky.

  “God have mercy,” Vic hissed as he’d leaned back into his wooden chair, his stubby fingers drumming the tabletop in time to the samba beat of her full hips. “Come to daddy, baby girl. Ah-huh, I got what you want. Keep walking this way and you can have it.”

  That night married men hadn’t shown up on Cat’s radar, so she’d walked past Alex. Good enough. He wasn’t looking for trouble. He had a woman he loved waiting for him. But Aaron had said nothing. He’d just sighed, and that was
the clue Alex missed.

  He remembered thinking then that Cat had more nerve than brains the way she’d come onto Aaron like they were already best friends. Running her fingers through his short, blond hair. Rubbing her hip against his thigh. Whispering in his ear. Kissing him full on the mouth. What kind of woman did that to a stranger? A predator. That’s who.

  Back then, Rod and Vic snickered at the overt attention they’d missed, but Aaron was already lost. Balls deep in lust for the sexy body pressed up against him, his hands moved to places they shouldn’t have. Like a horndog, he’d shared his drink with the sultry vixen. They laughed. They whispered. They kissed.

  The last time Alex saw Aaron, he’d called, “Later, guys!” over his shoulder as he’d led Cat outside. Supposedly to his car, an economical POS that looked like an orange toaster.

  “Don’t stay up all night,” Vic teased, while half the men in the bar grunted like the apes they were. “We’re leaving at oh-five-hundred! You can’t miss it!”

  “Yeah, big guy,” some jerk shouted in a sweet falsetto, while the guy next to him feigned a swoon and squealed, “Oh, you handsome piece of meat. Kiss me now!”

  Raucous laughter erupted. But as Aaron disappeared into the night, a premonition skated over Alex’s shoulders, urging him to call his buddy back. To do something—anything—to make Aaron stay. It was wrong, him leaving like he did. He didn’t know Cat, and he surely shouldn’t have trusted her, not so fast. Yet that was the way of unmarried guys in the service. They took chances on and off duty. Besides, Cat was a tiny thing, barely five feet tall. Surely a six-foot -our basketball rookie who’d forsaken the NBA to serve Uncle Sam, could handle one quick night with her.

  Not a day went by that Alex didn’t wish he’d stopped Aaron from leaving. Because Aaron didn’t make it back to the barracks, he didn’t report for revelry the next morning, and he didn’t deploy with his buddies. Quite simply, he was never seen again. His car was still parked outside the bar when Alex, Vic, and Rodney bailed. To this day, the local authorities hadn’t found a trace of hard evidence that Aaron had met with foul play. Not a fingerprint. Not one solid lead. He’d vanished. His mother and father, his brother and two sisters still waited for him. Still grieved. Still hoped against hope.

  Alex glanced over his shoulder to the phone on the corner of his desk. Beyond that sat the latest portrait of Kelsey and his daughter, Lexie Rose, two brown-haired beauties he’d die for. Always bright-eyed and smiling, Kelsey’s love for him reached out from the simple wooden frame and enfolded him. Warmed him. Reminded him. Told him to do what he believed he needed to do. Promised she’d stand by him no matter what came their way.

  “I love you,” he told her truly, “but I know she killed him, sweetheart. Aaron Pope is dead because of Catalina Montego. I can’t let her get away with it. Not now that I know where she is.”

  ‘And I’m sure she remembers me,’ a disquieting thought Alex wouldn’t share with his adoring wife. She didn’t need to know all the burdens he carried. Kelsey’s primary job in this crazy world was to take care of Lexie. His was to make certain his women stayed safe.

  Walking back to his desk, he pushed his chair aside as he hit the intercom button on his phone. His newest recruit, Benjamin ‘Beau’ Jennings, a former Army Ranger and a crack shot, was about to get his feet wet in the risky world of covert ops.

  Mother intercepted the call before it rang twice. “Sorry, Boss, but Beau hasn’t come in yet.”

  “Why not?”

  “Not sure. Still waiting for his call. You do know I’m still tracking your Cuban friend, Catalina Montego, as you requested, don’t you?”

  Alex’s gut clenched tight with a burst of acid. “And…?”

  “And you were right. She arrived last night at Dulles. From there, she grabbed a taxi and checked into the Marriott in Crystal City.” The Marriott was a five-star hotel with underground access to the District’s Metro, and too damned close to TEAM headquarters for comfort.

  But that saved Alex the trouble of sending Beau to Cuba after her. “And...?”

  “She’s not in her room,” Mother replied softly, an odd tremor in her tone. “I asked Justice to personally check for me. He just called back. There’s no sign she slept there, no suitcase or anything, but she left a message for you. The police are there now.”

  Justice was her live-in companion and soul mate.

  “For me? What message?”

  “She left a man’s bloody finger wrapped in a plastic bag on the bed and a written note that said: ‘I know where you live and work, Alex Stewart. Give me what I want, and you can have the rest of him.’”

  “Him who?” Alex asked though he feared he already knew. But how could she still have Aaron after all these years? What had she done to him?

  “Not sure. The police are running the print now.”

  “Was she alone when she arrived?”

  “Yes, I recorded the footage from Dulles’ surveillance cams if you want—”

  Son-of-a-bitch! Could she somehow be behind Beau’s absence? “Send two agents to Beau’s place. Do it now.”

  “I already sent Mark and Harley. Beau’s not there and his motorcycle’s gone. Hold on, I’m getting another call. Sasha Kennedy, The TEAM. Yes. Say again?”

  Alex’s gut twisted as he waited on Mother. That couldn’t be Aaron’s finger, and it had better not be Beau’s. How could Montego have known who he was or who he worked for?

  “Understood, and thank you for the courtesy call, Detective Oberg. He’ll be right there,” Mother replied evenly.

  “Yes?” Alex asked to hurry her along.

  “Boss.” With that one word, her tone changed from professional to panic. “Get over there right now. God, it’s... it’s Beau’s finger.”

  Chapter Two

  Sweating profusely, Beau strained against the stout wooden table at his back. He needed to be on his feet and gone, but the bloody stump on his left hand where the first two sections of his smallest finger used to be, screamed at him to, ‘Stop moving, asshole!’

  Like hell. Whoever’d committed this atrocity would be back, and he meant to be gone. If only his head would clear. If only he could remember. A drink. He’d just settled his ass at the bar for one damned drink, when... Think, Beau! Think!

  The cold chill of dizzying panic settled in, choking him. A man on his back was a dead man, but a man in cuffs on his back was a damned fool. How the hell’d I get here? Where is here?

  Ducking his head to shake the fright climbing up his spine, he took quick stock of the place he’d woken up in. Just your every day, ordinary rich folk’s dining room. Blinds covered the floor-to-ceiling bay windows at his left, leaving barely a hint of sunshine at the edges. A black granite countertop stood tall at his right. Bright, blinding chandelier lights glared down from overhead, the chandelier itself was wrought iron. Glittery, spackled ceiling beyond that. Brick and plaster walls. No big deal except for the massive worktable he was restrained on, cuffs binding his wrists and feet to the corners, and the industrial-sized meat grinder on that countertop. Wait. Were those drops of blood on the blades?

  “Jesus!” he hissed at the ceiling. “A little help here?”

  Whoever did this had tied off what was left of his finger with a single piece of string. Looked like baling twine. That was the only thing keeping him from bleeding to death, which, as kind as it seemed, was anything but. All staying alive meant was that more torture was headed his way. Shit!

  Taking a deep breath, he willed his body to relax even as his heart hammered in his ears. A frightened man was a frantic man, and Beau didn’t intend to be that guy. Sucking in another slow inhalation, he forced his panic off. These cuffs were nothing to a kid who’d spent plenty of time cuffed in the rear seat of too many police cruisers off the wild Las Vegas Strip.

  “You can do this,” he told himself as the first reality settled into his gut like a rock. Back then, he’d been a skinny teenager out for bi
g thrills in a city that never slept. He’d been tough and reckless, but a kid nonetheless. A skinny, malnourished kid. Now he was—bigger. Wider. Thicker. Hope to Jesus, smarter.

  But damn, his body had filled out. Packing hundred-pound gear bags, ammo, weaponry, and sometimes other men, tended to do that to a guy. Still... it was all in the way most cuffs were designed to work. Too bad they weren’t the zip-ties some cops liked to use. He’d already be gone.

  Voices. His pulse skyrocketed. Shit, someone’s coming! Get it done, Jennings. Move it. Move it. Move it!

  Once again, he stilled his breathing and let his better senses re-engage. That was what it took. Relax. Breathe evenly. Think smart. Twist your wrist. Angle it just right and...

  Nothing happened.

  Swallowing hard and blinking the sweat out of his eyes, he started over. Just one wrist freed was all he needed, but unfortunately, it had to be the one spurting blood every time he flexed. Talk about pain. But he could count on his bleeding to also make that cuff slippery. He tugged, twisted, pulled, and… Jesus H. Christ, this hurts! Until slowly. Gradually. So damned excruciatingly slowly that he wanted to cry, his left wrist slipped free of the bloody metal bracelet.

  There was no time to rest. Reaching across his body to his right wrist, it took less than a few, extremely painful minutes to manipulate the locking mechanism. Yeah, a kid on the streets learned more tricks of the trade in the dead of night than most petty thieves, and these locks were right up Beau’s alley. Put him inside a locked police cruiser, and even with one missing digit, he’d be back on the street in seconds. Time me.

  With his heart jackhammering up his throat and sweat stinging his eyes, Beau was two cuffs down, two to go. Not good. Not good at all!