Cold Spite (Cold Justice: Most Wanted #5)

Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Mon., 10:00 p.m. Local Bar

C as Demarco nursed his Dance of Days pale ale and glanced up at the hockey game on the TV screen in the corner of the bar. He had no skin in the game and found his attention wandering.

Gold Team had returned to Quantico from Boston on a commercial flight yesterday afternoon, and they’d spent today cleaning and checking their equipment.

Despite the successful outcome to the last mission, a thin pall of misery hung over the squad. The memorial service for the former team leader who’d lost his life in an air crash last month was being held the day after tomorrow, and Cas knew he wasn’t the only one who wasn’t yet ready to say goodbye. He wished to hell someone had a few answers as to why the plane had gone down.

Using the mirror behind the bar, he watched Jordan Krychek, who sat at a table by himself, nursing a beer. Krychek had been in Africa with Kurt Montana on a secret mission but had left the day before Montana—officially making him the luckiest bastard on the planet. He didn’t look like he felt lucky though. He looked miserable.

Krychek had been closed-lipped since his return but was clearly suffering from survivor’s guilt, which Cas understood all too well. He had the feeling there was more to this story. Classified stuff. He wanted to know everything, but he’d resigned himself to having to wait. For now.

He’d learned patience.

Slowly.

Torturously.

Beaten into him by Firearms Instructors who, combined, knew more about the fine art of sniping than he could ever hope to learn.

Patience was essential in his line of work—hunting people who didn’t want to be found without them ever suspecting. Ironically, he’d never imagined he’d become a sniper when he’d joined HRT; he’d assumed he’d be knocking down doors. Not that the snipers weren’t capable of knocking down doors when occasion required. And the assaulters could shoot their asses off too. But the emphasis on training and practice was key.

Marksmanship was a degradable skill.

It was not unusual for any member of HRT to shoot more than a thousand rounds in a week. Even today, he’d spent an hour in the Thunder Dome with his favorite Heckler & Koch MSG90 punching 7.62x51mm NATO rounds into a blacked-out silhouette.

He’d come a long way from the unwanted and unloved boy growing up in a foster home—and from his Navy SEAL and FBI undercover days.

Although sniping wasn’t that different to working undercover. Snipers saw things others never noticed. They performed complex calculations in a split second, taking in everything from windage to the curvature of the earth’s surface before making a shot. The same way an undercover agent judged facial expressions, voice tone, and every aspect of their surroundings to make sure they weren’t blown. Snipers remained hidden and camouflaged from view, even when lying in plain sight. Same could be said of being embedded with killers and cartel members—they looked right at you and never saw who you truly were until it was too late.

If they penetrated the veil, you were dead.

He’d enjoyed it for a little while, the cat and mouse, shutting down bad guys who trafficked misery in all its various guises. But seeing the number of innocents who got caught up in the life, who became entangled whether they liked it or not…that had taken a toll.

It could have so easily have been him.

One flip.

Heads or tails.

Heaven or Hell.

One bad decision could have led him down a different path. He’d enlisted on his eighteenth birthday, a week after one of his friends had overdosed on opioids.

The idea that he, a pathetic, unwanted scrap of a human being could make it as far as he had was living proof that the American Dream was alive and well. He was one of the lucky ones—and if someone had said that to his bitter, sullen, eighteen-year-old self, he’d have spit in their eye.

He took a drink as the brown-eyed gaze of a woman who’d always seen straight to the heart of him flashed into his brain.

Delilah Quinn.

The smartest person he’d ever met. And the sexiest. And the most impetuous. That was saying something, given he’d been a SEAL and some of those guys were batshit.

Where was she now?

Still in San Diego last he’d heard. Probably married to some highflyer.

Moisture evaporated from his mouth, and he took another sip of beer to ease the dryness.

Regret was never far behind thoughts of Delilah. The sounds she’d made, the look of betrayal on her face when he’d told her it was over…it haunted him still .

In the end, she’d let him go without another word.

What had he expected?

That she’d ignore his callous words and shitty behavior and get herself reassigned to this side of the country so they would have some sort of chance together? That she’d beg for scraps? From an asshole like him?

Not Delilah.

After what he’d said to her, he was lucky she hadn’t shot him. She was not the sort of woman to beg, or to follow a man at the cost of her own career.

Why should she?

He’d avoided her at trial. It had been easy. His identity had been protected—although he figured he probably shouldn’t vacation in Mexico or Colombia any time soon.

Delilah though, she’d gotten up on that stand and testified like a badass, then headed back to work the next day, nothing but her gold shield and service weapon for protection.

She terrified him.

On every level.

Thankfully, the cartel tended to avoid direct confrontations with US Government officials—with the notable exception of last month’s escapade in Arizona. But that had been a byproduct of one man’s evil and another man’s desperation, rather than company policy.

The cartel had come off worse during that exchange which would hopefully prove a further deterrent to others thinking about attacking US citizens. But nothing would really change. The void would be filled, and he could only pray the successors were less bloodthirsty than the Santiagos.

The bar door opened, and ten pairs of eyes swiveled to check out the potential danger.

A sweet-looking blonde with Shirley Temple curls came inside and looked around. She hit the bar, showed her driver’s license, and ordered a beer. She stood nervously tapping her painted nails on the counter while the barkeep fulfilled her order .

She checked her phone, and for about five seconds, Cas contemplated saying something, but he was too damned tired. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ford Cadell eyeing the pretty, young woman with interest. Cadell was a good-looking motherfucker. Thankfully, their other leading Lothario, Ryan Sullivan, was playing pool in the back room.

It was late.

He should go home because they had to be up early tomorrow, and he should make sure he had a clean, pressed shirt ready for Wednesday.

The blonde paid for her beer and looked around for somewhere to sit. Cas watched her via the mirror as she chose the seat at a table next to Krychek. She tried to strike up a conversation with the taciturn operator.

Good luck with that.

Cas shared an amused look with Cadell. Cadell grinned and finished his drink, leaving the glass on the counter. He nodded to Cas and headed out the door.

Cas tipped his glass back, about to do the same as a news story on the TV caught his eye. The footage was of a house fire, but it was the ticker tape that grabbed his attention.

An FBI agent from the San Diego Field Office was missing, feared dead, following a fierce blaze.

His fingers started to tremble as he placed the empty glass back on the bar.

Cas recognized the townhouse complex. He’d gone there the day he’d walked away from Delilah, leaving the best part of himself in California. His heart started to pound, and he felt as if someone had ripped the stool from beneath him and he was free-falling.

It must be someone else.

Delilah couldn’t be dead.

A fire?

No way .

The vision of her burning to death rushed at him in all its merciless, vicious glory.

He found his feet and knocked the glass over, which rolled across the bar and smashed on the other side of the counter. He stumbled, bumping into one of his sniper teammates, Sebastian Black, who’d also been playing pool. The operator grabbed his shoulders.

“Whoa, man. You okay?”

Blood drained from his head, and a wave of ice ran over his scalp. He shook off the other man and bolted outside, running halfway along the building to stand against the wall, hands braced wide as he heaved what little he’d had in his stomach into the dirt.

Footsteps followed him but the roaring in his ears drowned out everything, even his sense of self preservation.

The thought of Delilah being dead made him realize what a massive mistake he’d made five years ago. Made him realize the magnitude of everything he’d thrown away. So what if her father hated him? So what if he’d threatened to hinder Cas’s attempts to get into HRT? From what he knew now, the management wouldn’t have taken directions from an Assistant Director without solid evidence Cas wasn’t right for the teams. They’d have made their own assessment.

And even though he loved this job, he missed her.

So much.

So fucking much.

They could have tried to make a long-distance relationship work. They could have figured out a way. But she’d deserved so much better than what he could offer her. Her father had been right about that.

He’d been nothing.

Nobody.

Suited to working with the dregs of society because that was where he’d fitted in best—or so he’d thought at the time.

Delilah was a damned good agent. Best he’d ever known. And he could still see the devastation in her eyes when he’d dumped her.

A decision he’d regretted every day since.

She’d deserved better than him, but he was the one she’d wanted. He should have held on to her like a limpet clinging to an exposed rock during a storm—but he’d been too damned scared.

Scared her father was right.

Scared she’d come to her senses and dump him, and he’d once again be left with nothing. So he’d left her first and told himself it was her father’s fault.

Coward.

“Are you sick or did you have too many beers?” Sebastian Black watched him from a short distance away.

Sweat coated Cas’s forehead. Grief welled up through his pores like poison.

“Not alcohol.” He forced the words out, his voice gruff. “I received some bad news. A…friend…died.”

“Shit. I’m sorry, man. You look like a ghost. Want me to drive you home?”

Cas closed his eyes and leaned his face against the rough wall. “No. I can drive. Thanks.” He pushed away, walked slowly to his truck, head down, feet scuffing the gravel of the parking lot. The sea breeze felt chilled against his skin, but he needed it to combat the sweaty, clammy feeling that made him want to throw up again.

Had anyone told her parents yet?

Of course they had. The FBI would be all over that shit. Stephen Quinn was still a legend in the Bureau even though he’d retired. The FBI Director herself would probably deliver the news. Despite his personal resentment, Cas’s mouth went dry at the pain this would cause them. Delilah had loved them deeply. And they her.

No one would think to inform him…

He got to find out from a freaking news report.

Because their relationship had been a secret, and it had been over for five years. Of course, no one would think to tell him. He’d been a speck in her life. A temporary blip. And yet he felt as if he was being stabbed to death with regret and remorse.

Because she meant nothing to me. Because she’d been a good fuck but not to confuse that with more despite the words I gave her.

Ha.

The joke was on him.

He felt as if he was dying.

Sebastian shadowed him to his vehicle. “You sure you’re okay?”

Cas turned. “I appreciate the concern. I need some space, okay?”

Sebastian held his gaze as if assessing his soberness and then nodded. Stepped away. “Call me if you need anything.”

Cas somehow hauled himself into the driver’s seat and sat there breathing heavily as Sebastian walked back into the bar. Tears filled his eyes at the thought of someone as incredible as Delilah being taken from this world.

All the mistakes he’d made bombarded him. The worst? That he’d hurt her. Because he was a coward, he’d hurt a woman who meant more to him than life itself. And now she was dead.

He wanted to fix it, but it was too late. And wasn’t that just like him? Too-little-too-late. Should be his middle name.

Fuck!

He wasn’t sure how much more loss he could take. First, two team members who’d been like family. And now Delilah…

Who’d been his moon and stars.

He hadn’t seen her in nearly five years, but the loss felt like a gaping wound leaking his life’s blood into the dirt.

Maybe life had been easier as a pathetic orphan with no connections and no one who gave a shit, but it wasn’t the life he wanted. Not now he’d tasted more.

A sob burst out and he tried to smother it with both hands.

His personal cell rang and he fished it out of his pocket. He didn’t recognize the number, so he declined the call. The phone rang again, and fury rose up inside him. He answered, effervescent from rage at the silence on the other end.

“If this is a spam call, you need to know I have the capability to track you down and kill you from a thousand yards. You’ll never see me coming. You’ll never know I’m watching you until there are two extra holes in your skull and the closest wall is wearing your brain. Think long and hard the next time you call someone with the intent of scamming them to steal their hard-earned cash because you’re too stupid or lazy to earn your own.”

“Well,” came a husky voice from his best and most terrifying memories, “am I ever glad I’m not a scammer.”