Cold Spite (Cold Justice: Most Wanted #5)

Chapter 34

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

R ear Admiral Lawrence Sagal sat on his porch of his home on the forty-acre property with a large mug of coffee in his hand, watching the sun come up, and wondered what the hell he was going to do with himself after nearly fifty years in the Navy.

His wife was in the kitchen baking something for a dinner party they were hosting tonight. His kids and grandkids were all coming over to celebrate with them, but he honestly felt more like sniveling than throwing a party.

Yesterday he’d cleaned out his office and “enjoyed” an official retirement ceremony where he’d felt like a horse being led to slaughter. Afterwards, he’d spoken with the men on the teams, then shared a few drinks in the mess. Eaten a cake that his aide, Darleen, had ordered which had way too much frosting for his liking. But Darleen had a sweet tooth and didn’t care what he thought about cake anymore. Then his former underlings had carried his boxes out to his vehicle and waved him on his way.

And once he’d passed through those hallowed gates—with what looked like the entire community lining the way, holding parade-worthy salutes—he’d had to fight the desire the slam on the brakes and put his vehicle in reverse.

Goddammit .

He was only 66 years old. Fit as a string quartet. More competent than ten of his junior officers put together.

Ageism was a thing, right? Maybe he’d sue the damned bureaucrats in the government.

And perhaps his hearing was going a little, but he could learn to wear his damned hearing aids, and it wouldn’t be a problem.

He gazed out at the land, most of which was rented to local organic farmers. Rental fees covered the taxes, and the fact they were organic meant they weren’t exposed to God knew what chemicals—his wife’s thinking. As a military man he’d long since stopped worrying about such things but Heather was determined they were going to have a long healthy retirement. The idea sounded like torture right about now, but presumably he’d get used to it.

Presumably.

He and his wife had bought this place four years ago and, as it was only two hours outside San Diego, they’d been able to spend many of their weekends out here. But living here full-time? He wasn’t so sure anymore.

She wanted chickens.

He rolled his eyes and tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. Chickens? Heather was way too soft-hearted to be a farmer.

They still had their place in the city…

No real reason to sell it despite Heather’s rumblings. At least he could see the ocean from there. Feel the wind blowing what little hair he had left.

He stared at his cell phone and wished someone would call him and tell him how the latest naval exercises were going. Or maybe the president would contact him and request another two years’ service.

Well, Mr. President. I was all set to enjoy retirement with my wife and her chickens, but since you asked so nicely…

He’d jump at the chance even though he didn’t agree with the man’s politics.

He sipped his coffee and squinted at the rising sun. There was a trail of dust coming along the road as a car barreled along. Probably someone headed to the horse ranch up on the hill. He was thinking about getting a couple horses. Might be nice to pretend to be a cowboy even though he’d never ridden a day in his life. Nothing said he couldn’t start now.

He coughed a little. Conditions were so dry he worried ’bout the upcoming fire season. Nothing new there. World was going to hell. California was leading the way.

A crashing sound came from inside the house.

“Heather?” He pushed to his feet and hurried inside. Spotted a broken piece of crockery on the kitchen floor. Unbaked quiche filling spread in a thick yellow puddle. “Heather?”

He hurried around the large island and spotted his wife of forty-eight years sprawled on the ground with blood dripping from a gash at the side of her head.

He sank to his knees. Touched her shoulder and realized how frail this powerhouse of a woman suddenly seemed. Did she fall and hit her head? Had she had a stroke or some other medical emergency? Another goddamned reason to wish they were in the city.

“Heather?”

He searched for a pulse in her neck. The relief he felt at that strong beat against his fingers dissolved as someone stepped silently into view holding a gray 1911 pistol.

Larry’s mouth went dry as rage grew. They’d done this to his wife? Hit her with the gun? Cowardly bastards.

His mind spun frantically for options. He’d left his weapon in the bedroom, locked up in case the grandkids found it. There was a shotgun over the backdoor. Cartridges in the credenza.

“What do you want?” he demanded. “You want money? It’s in my wallet in the bedroom. I can get it for you.”

The eyes were pitiless. “I don’t want your money.”

Larry hid his fear.

His wife was bleeding on the floor. She needed medical attention. But he had the horrible feeling this wasn’t going to end well for either of them.

All these years protecting his country, and he’d failed to protect his own home.

“What then? What do you want?”

“I’m righting a wrong, Admiral. Taking back what should never have been stolen.”

Was this about the land? He opened his mouth to argue but saw the attacker’s finger squeeze the trigger and knew it was too late. He launched himself forward desperate to knock the gun out of their hands.

The bullet punched through his chest wall and dropped him like a stone.

He landed across Heather and felt her wince.

At least she was alive.

The assailant walked away, and Larry crawled forward, dragging himself inch by inch across the hard, wooden floor, gripping the edges of the boards with his fingernails. Finally, he was clear of poor Heather.

Christ, he didn’t know how badly she was injured. She’d never hurt anyone. She’d waited patiently all these years, raised their kids pretty much single-handedly. All she wanted was some fucking chickens? How hard was that?

The bullet wound felt like a burning fire through his insides, and every breath felt shallower than the last. He needed to get to a phone and call 911. Get some help out here.

Vibrations rather than noise warned him that the attacker was still in the house and coming back this way. He tried to quiet his breathing but jolted in surprise when strong hands gripped his side and flipped him onto his back.

He blinked, breathing heavily. He didn’t think he was going to have worry about retirement anymore.

The buttons of his shirt scattered as his attacker ripped it open.

Mouth agape in confusion, Larry stared down at his bare chest with its sparse covering of gray hair .

The scumbag held up his Defense Superior Service Medal with its pretty yellow, sky blue, white, and red ribbon.

He still didn’t understand.

They wanted his medals?

The grin was evil. The eyes hard. Larry was straddled, arms locked against his sides as fear finally penetrated.

One by one the motherfucker pinned his medals to his chest, and Larry clenched his jaw in agony. Sweat coated his brow as he fought not to scream. The pain every time the pin went through his flesh was staggering. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes.

His arms felt numb from where knees pressed relentlessly into him just above his elbows. He tried to move his lower arm, perhaps reach the gun tucked in the bastard’s waistband, but he had no strength left.

Pins and needles gradually worked their way up his arms, and dizziness began to overwhelm him. He couldn’t look at the bloody mess of his chest. He cursed the medals he’d once been so proud of.

The weight shifted, and Larry squinted up at his killer. He wanted to rear up. To punch and hit. To reclaim his home. To save his wife.

He couldn’t even lift his head as his assailant held a shiny gold pin in front of his face.

“You see this one? I think I’ll keep this one.”

Larry’s eyes slowly focused on his SEAL trident. He curled his lip. Remembered the effort it had taken to earn that bit of metal. He wasn’t ready to ring the damned bell yet. “You can wear it, but you’ll never be worthy.”

He reached up and caught hold of his attacker’s arms and gripped hard, digging in his fingernails, and gouging the bastard. They’d find this fucker’s DNA. They’d know he fought back. They’d know he hadn’t quit.

The attacker jerked away and ran out of the house.

Larry rolled his head to the side. Heather slowly lifted one terrified eyelid. He reached toward her. “Use your watch. Call 911.”

Her eyes flared as she remembered the fancy smart watch their daughter had bought for her last Christmas. She mainly used it for setting timers.

She raised her wrist over her face and frantically pressed at the buttons. Then she met his gaze. Reached out to hold his hand as they both lay there bleeding onto their pristine kitchen floor.

Larry stared at the wooden ceiling and suddenly realized he should have spent more time enjoying the moment. Enjoying his family. His friends. His wife.

Her fingers tightened on his. He was pretty sure the criminal had left this time.

He risked making noise while he still had the chance. “I love you, Heather. Do me a favor. If you survive, enjoy our retirement for both of us, will you?”

She sobbed and rolled and crawled toward him. She grabbed a towel off the oven and pressed it to his side where the blood still oozed from his veins.

He covered her hand. “You deserved better than a miserable old goat like me.”

She smiled at him. Eyes filled with tears. “I loved you from the day we met, Lawrence Sagal. I wouldn’t change a thing—except maybe this.”

He nodded, feeling himself fading. “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave you.” I don’t want to ring that damned bell.

“Then don’t.” She sniffled. “I waited too damned long to get you all to myself to die now.”

Larry nodded but he was losing what little strength remained. Her cell phone started ringing. But she didn’t respond. Neither of them did.