Grissom (In the Company of Snipers #26)

Chapter Thirty-Two

Grissom drove like an ass and… He. Did. Not. Care. Barreling eastward in the TEAM SUV Alex had arrived at his house in, he and his boss were on the tail of some guy from New York City. Sal Moreno, an associate of a Mafia don who thought he ruled the world. Guess again, asshole. You take my woman, and you’re going to die. All of you.

“Slow down,” Alex interrupted Grissom’s inner rant.

“Why? You know something I don’t? Where is she? Is she hurt? Where’s Moreno taking her? Why the hell did he take her? What’s he got to do with Pam?”

“Maverick’s been tailing Moreno’s sedan since he pulled away from that frontage road.”

“And yet he let Moreno take Tuesday?” Grissom bellowed, growing more enraged by the second. “He didn’t do anything to save her from that asshat?”

“Son of a bitch, give it a rest, will you? Maverick never had a clear shot, and Moreno’s our only lead. Right now, Howie’s grilling your ex to establish the connection between them. We’ll get Tuesday back today. You’ll see.”

Grissom pressed the phone icon on his steering wheel and ordered, “Call my boss.” Which got an exasperated huff from Alex. Also got the cell phone Kelsey had answered ten minutes earlier. She and a few TEAM wives were sitting with Luke. He’d been moved out of the ICU to a quarantined room on the same floor, within reach of Doctor Pratt’s team of specialists. His stats were good, and he’d come to, asking for his dad. Which had damned near ripped Grissom’s heart out of his chest when he’d heard that, him not being there for his little boy. His baby! Again.

But he’d had to choose. Stay with Luke like the over-protective bear he was and trust Maverick to find Tuesday. Or trust his baby boy’s care to Kelsey and her band of TEAM wives, and hunt down the bastard who’d taken Tuesday himself. Hardest decision of his life, but Grissom knew he’d made the right choice.

“Hi, Grissom,” Kelsey answered quietly, cheerful despite the circumstances. “Luke’s still asleep, but Doctor Pratt just popped in. He couldn’t wait until you called back so…”

Grissom heard muffled giggling in the background.

“…but he said to tell you things are looking up. Of course, we didn’t know you’d be calling so soon.”

More giggling.

“Are you ladies laughing at me?”

Alex huffed, “You think? You called less than five minutes ago.”

“Oh, heavens no,” sweet Kelsey replied. “We’re just talking and reliving some of the traumatic events us girls survived. You know, like getting shot and falling into the White River on Mount Rainier. But you don’t remember that, do you?”

“No, sorry. Sure don’t. I think I was there…” Somewhere. If only he could remember.

“You were there the day we took Michael Keane down,” Alex cut in gruffly. “In those repurposed shipping containers east of the Jefferson Memorial, remember?”

“I… I don’t. I’m sorry, ma’am, err, boss, but… fuck. I don’t.” Grissom could feel Alex’s eyes drilling into the side of his head, but the truth was out. His memory was shot. His one and only source of income, working on The TEAM, might be, too.

“Don’t use that word with my wife.”

“Oh, sorry, shit. I mean—”

“Shut. Up.” Alex bit out with venom. “She’s my wife, a lady.”

“I know, Boss, I just—”

“It’s okay. Honest, I’ve heard it all before. We both understand what you meant, Grissom, don’t we, Alex?” she asked.

Alex, on the other hand, had turned into a pissed-off bear. “Don’t use that language around my wife ever again. Understood?”

“Copy that, but Boss—”

“But what!”

“Tell me, please, what else I can’t remember.”

“Good idea, Alex. Talking to Grissom might help both of you. Bye now.” With that cheery sendoff, Kelsey disconnected.

While Grissom concentrated on traffic, Alex stared at the dash. It took a minute before he finally turned toward Grissom. For the rest of the drive to the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport, Grissom learned how Kelsey had been targeted by a sniper during the Stewarts’ vacation in the Northwest last fall. How she’d been shot and had fallen into a raging river, then been quickly rescued by a ruthless cabal run by the now deceased Secretary of State Tristan Obermeyer. As well as Michael Keane, also deceased, the man Obermeyer had promised the US ambassadorship to Ireland, and the still-missing Wirths, old man Lancaster and his son Miles, both connected with the Irish Mafia in Boston. According to the press, neither had been seen since the FBI took out Obermeyer and Keane. Judging by Alex’s tone when he mentioned the Wirths, Grissom knew there was more to the story.

The more Alex explained, the more ragged Grissom’s emotions grew, until he blurted, “Why’d I crash my bike? Were you there that night, too? Was I drunk? Because I don’t, can’t remember shit.”

“You were roofied,” Alex said bluntly. “Your counselor thinks it’d be better if you remembered things on your own. But I don’t give a shit, and you need to know, damn it. Everything. They found scopolamine in your system that night. The bitch you married tried to kill you. I know because that’s the same night she trashed your house, took your sons, and fled to Central America with Estes.”

Scopolamine? Shit.

A mighty thunderclap rocked the SUV as Grissom’s brain blinked off-line. Scopolamine was known on the streets as the zombie drug. While it had sound medicinal value when used as an anesthetic, others used it for its mind-altering, hallucinogenic properties. Scopolamine rendered an unwilling victim susceptible to total mind-control, followed by a rock-solid case of amnesia, that made it impossible for law enforcement to catch the real villain. A man under its influence became a tool to commit murder, rape, even suicide. All it took was a couple drops in a guy’s drink and he became a zombie. Hookers in big cities across the world, New York City, Paris, and Rio de Janero, used scopolamine to divest foolish businessmen of their wallets, cash, credit cards, and identification. It was a damned dangerous drug, known to cause respiratory failure, hallucinations, and heart attacks when the victim was overdosed.

Pam had meant for him to die that night. He’d married a gawddamned cold-blooded killer. She’d abused and tormented Tanner. Might’ve killed Luke, the son she’d claimed to love. And now she was behind Tuesday’s disappearance. His brain couldn’t take anymore. Knowing this was all his fault sent the SUV swerving to the shoulder, kicking up a cloud of dust and spraying gravel.

With mere seconds to spare, his muddled brain came storming back online with a vehement, No! More! Pam had failed. Tanner and Luke were safe. Grissom had survived, and he was pissed as fuck!

He righted the SUV in the nick of time, avoiding bouncing into the field beside the highway. Damned if Alex wasn’t staring at him like a son of a bitch when the joyride ended. Those blue eyes of his were sharp as daggers, cutting through Grissom. Seeing everything. For once, he didn’t mind Alex’s razor-sharp scrutiny. He had nothing to hide.

“We good now?” Alex clipped sarcastically.

“I remember,” Grissom admitted, quietly processing everything he’d just recalled. Not only the horrific things that had happened to Kelsey, but the anguish Heston Contreras had endured when he’d thought he’d lost London, his soon-to-be wife, to that asshat Obermeyer and his gang of rapists. How Obermeyer had used London and several other women, for target practice. Grissom’s fists clenched as he recalled the rage boiling out of Alex when Kelsey’d gone missing in that glacier-fed river. Then was found—by Alex—but not expected to live. Then was drugged by some woman working for the Wirths in the hospital’s intensive care unit. She’d been in damned rough shape.

Grissom remembered the desperate hunt for London. He’d been inside one of Keane’s repurposed shipping containers. Grissom knew precisely what happened to the bastards who’d dared target London. He also knew what had happened to Obermeyer, Keane, and the Wirths. He knew where a couple of them were buried. Only wished he’d been the one who’d taken them out.

“I remember everything, Boss,” he semi-repeated. “Including the drink Pam poured me the night I rear-ended that truck. She’d acted all sorts of coy, and honestly? I thought it was beer. Thought she was being nice. But it was apple juice. I almost tossed it in the sink. Should have, but I was dumb. Thought maybe she’d changed. Nope. I do remember her asking me to run to the market for… something. Don’t recall what, but she… She knew damned well that I’d take my bike. Hell, she might’ve told me to crash it for all I know, Boss.”

Alex had his cell phone in one hand, his other hand cupped over his ear, while talking into his headset and thumb-dialing a number. “Thanks, Maverick. We’re a mile or two out,” He turned back to Grissom. “’Course she tried to kill you. That’s what Doc Windhall believes, too. Moreno’s in the Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport parking terrace.”

He brought his phone to his other ear. “Shut down whatever plane Sal Moreno’s boarding, Mother. Do it now. He’s most likely bound for New York City.” Alex paused a second. His jaw tightened. “You don’t have to tell me. I know most private jets fly out of Leesburg, but Maverick followed him to Reagan. Son of a bitch! Stop arguing with me and keep Moreno on the ground! Stop every outgoing flight if you have to. That son of a bitch has Tuesday Smart!”

“Yes, Boss,” Mother snapped through their common frequency. “I’ll let you know where to intercept Maverick. Tuesday needs us, and she damned well needs Grissom.”

“And I need her,” Grissom admitted to everyone listening, “and I’m going to marry her.” They might as well all know.

Grissom and Alex had just squealed rubber on the eastbound loop feeding Ronald Reagan National Airport when Maverick’s growl came over their earpieces. “He’s in parking lot two.” Which meant Moreno had booked a flight to New York City on American, Alaska, Delta, JetBlue, or United Airlines.

“That doesn’t make sense,” Alex hissed “How’s he think he’ll get Tuesday on board flying commercial?”

“He drugged her,” Grissom hissed. “That’s the only way to control her, by doping her with something that’ll still let her walk and talk and… Fuck! Want to bet Moreno used scopolamine!”

Grissom couldn’t bear to think what else the bastard might’ve forced her to do.

Maverick must’ve been right on Morena’s ass as quick as he yelled, “Let her go, Moreno! Drop the weapon!”

Moreno’s reply came back garbled and hollow.

Grissom kicked the SUV to its limit.

“Faster!” Alex gripped the suicide strap overhead.

“I said let her go!” Maverick barked again. “She’s been shot. She’s bleeding, and she needs medical attention. Do what I said! Do it now!”

She’s hurt? Shot? Grissom hadn’t thought Pam had hit anything with that wild assed shot. Surely not Tuesday, not as brilliantly as she’d fought Pam after that weapon fired. Tuesday hadn’t faltered in her well-handled offense, not once. She’d all but pushed Grissom out of her way to knock Pam down. That head butt of hers was a stellar tactical move. But she’d been hit?

“You do, you son of a bitch, and you’ll die!” Maverick bellowed.

Grissom recognized the steel in Cowboy’s tone. Things in the parking garage were escalating. Jesus, he hoped his teammate was as good a shot as everyone said.

Maverick had no more than promised retribution when gunfire erupted over the connection. Grissom slammed the brakes to the floor. The SUV drifted sideways, blocking the north entrance to the garage before it stopped rolling. Grissom was out the door, both pistols from his double holster drawn, and ready to kill. He and Alex sprinted onto the ground-level floor. It took seconds to scan the place. No Maverick, tail lights, or signs of police action.

“Where’s the fuckin’ stairs?” Grissom yelled.

Alex nodded to the nearest corner where red-on-black Elevator and Exit signs blinked over a steel fire door. Several people exited quickly, running past him and Alex.

“Where are they?” Alex asked the harried group.

“In the northwest corner,” an older woman replied, pointing towards the north wall of the garage. “Two men and a woman. Hurry. She’s bleeding, and the creep says he’s gonna kill her if that other guy won’t let him go!”

“Like hell!” Grissom answered.

Alex grabbed the doorknob to the stairway, but instead of throwing it open, he forced Grissom to a dead stop. “We do this right. I’ll take the shooter, you go to Tuesday. She needs you, so you be there for her, understand? Go straight to Tuesday, no one else. Comfort her. Keep her safe until this is over. Just her, understand?”

Another gunshot boomed from upstairs. “Shit, Boss, I know. I know! Let’s go!”

“Grissom.” Alex had a ton of steel in his tone.

“Okay, yeah, yes, I heard you. You’ll take Moreno. I’ll take Tuesday. Got it, now move!” Grissom was dead on his boss’s ass all the way up to the next level’s steel fire door.

Leaning a hefty shoulder into the heavy metal, Alex eased the door open just wide enough for him to look into the parking lot. Damn it. When Alex was sure the way was clear, it was his nine-millimeter SIG leading Grissom out of the stairwell and into rows of parked vehicles.

An incoming Metro train rumbled on the tracks overhead as Grissom burst into the lot. Metro PD sirens screamed close by. The heavier whine of fire engine sirens signaled they were close, too. Just not there yet. Rounding one of many concrete support columns running east to west under a low concrete ceiling, he finally caught sight of Maverick’s broad back a couple dozen cars down. He was in a standoff with a dusky-skinned male in a black leather bomber jacket. Cowboy’s stance was taut, his shoulders wide. Both arms were extended and his boots were positioned to fire.

Sal Moreno was no match, his only ace-in-the-hole the dazed human shield in front of him. Fuckin’ chicken shit.

Grissom dodged left, keeping Moreno in sight, drawing the kidnapper’s attention while keeping Alex in sight at his right. His boss had become a shadow among the pillars, slinking from one to the next. Always advancing. Closing in on Maverick without being seen. How a man as big as Alex could pull off sneaky subterfuge like that was a spectacular asset in Tuesday’s favor. With every foot closer he drew to the showdown, Grissom kept walking, drawing Moreno’s attention, keeping the asshat’s focus on him.

Maverick bellowed again. “Don’t make me shoot you. Let her go.”

Grissom’s world narrowed down to just Tuesday and Moreno’s weapon, a stubby, break-open, thirty-eight special stuck upward in the soft hollow under her jaw. Rosewood grip. Stainless metal finish. Two-and-a-half-inch barrel. Held by a jackass who wasn’t going to live much longer. One discharge from that stubby pistol would send either a thirty-eight special or a three-fifty-seven magnum caliber round, upward through Tuesday’s throat, tongue, soft palate, and sinuses, into her brain. She’d be dead before her body hit the ground.

Moreno had a handful of her hair wrapped around his fist, keeping her head tipped back and her chin up. She had to be drugged as spacey as she looked. Her green eyes were fixed on nothing but dead air over her head. He’d flex-cuffed her hands behind her back. She was no longer the gutsy woman Grissom had, just hours earlier, worked with to keep his wife from killing his youngest son. This Tuesday was either too weak to fight back or she’d given up.

“Tuesday,” Grissom called out, needing her eyes on him. Needing her to know he was there. That she wasn’t alone. “I’m here, love. I’ve come to take you home.”

Moreno snarled something, but Grissom only had eyes and ears for the woman he adored.

She didn’t respond, damn it. Didn’t even blink that she’d heard him.

Panic whispered, “Loser.”

“What the fuck did you give her?” Grissom shrieked, his patience unraveling, despite Alex’s stern warning minutes earlier.

“Why should I tell you?” Moreno bellowed. “You guys aren’t cops. There’s no way I’m leaving without this bitch, so get outta the way. Frederick Lamb’s widow’s my ticket outta here, and yous guys are gonna get her killed if you don’t let me pass. You think I won’t end her?”

“No way that’ll happen,” Maverick declared from behind Grissom.

Grissom hadn’t realized he’d bypassed his teammate and gotten as close to Moreno as he was. His pistols were still up, both trained on Sal’s ugly face, but the jerk kept dodging behind Tuesday, making a solid headshot impossible. There’d be no chance of a body shot either, not with Moreno jerking her back and forth like he was. Where the hell is Alex?

“Tuesday. Love. Look at me.” Grissom tried again, desperate to get through to her. “Luke’s in the hospital, sweetheart. Kelsey, Judy, China, and Persia are watching over him until you get back. He’s going to be okay, so is Tanner. He’s with Rory and Ember at their house, with Tyler. My boys need you, Tuesday. Everyone’s waiting for you to come home.”

Not even a blink, damn it.

“What’d you do to her?” Grissom bellowed. “If you hurt her, I’ll—!”

“I ain’t the one who shot her!” Moreno bellowed back, shaking Tuesday like a limp ragdoll again. “That crazy ex-wife of yours did! She wanted this bitch dead, but all I want is what’s mine, the money Lamb owes me. We had a deal, him and me, but he went and got himself killed. I’m supposed to be a billionaire, not chasing that wife of yours.”

“Pam McCoy hired you?” Maverick asked.

Grissom knew what he was doing, asking pertinent questions, unraveling the mysteries behind this disastrous day, and gathering intel while he could. Before Alex ended Moreno. Giving Alex time to get in position.

“Your ex-wife? Hire me?” Disbelief contorted Moreno’s ugly face. “I wish! I coulda used the cash, but that bitch said she was dead-assed broke, sos I been tracking this one” —he jerked Tuesday’s head back farther still— “since she got back from Costa Rica. Mrs. Lamb here’s the one with cash. Almost lost her when she went to the Hamptons. Don’t know how she got away from me, but that’s when I seen your wife casing Jeff Lamb’s place like I was. Figured maybe she knew something I didn’t sos I bought her a couple drinks and—”

“You and Pam McCoy decided to kidnap Miss Smart and force her to marry you?” Maverick barked. “Why? So you two could live happily ever after you killed her?”

Moreno’s shoulder lifted inside his bulky jacket. “We was going to let her live. Honest. All I want’s what’s coming to me, and to get that, this bitch has to marry me, soon as yous guys—”

Tuesday’s head fell back on her shoulders, and— CRACK ! Her sneak attack happened so fast and was so unexpected, Grissom nearly blinked and missed the back of her skull smashing Moreno’s ugly face.

“You bitching whore!” he shrieked, blood gushing down his chin and neck. Both hands went for his nose. Big mistake. That was all the world’s top sniper needed to—

BOOM!

One shot.

Came out of nowhere.

Echoed like a cannon under the low ceiling.

Moreno’s beady eyes blinked at the sudden impact of the nine-millimeter round Alex had just sent through his cranium. Blood, bone shards, and brain matter whooshed into the air behind him. His fingers stiffened. His body jerked. Rivulets of red streamed out of his mouth. More trickled from the hole between his eyes. His revolver clattered to the floor and he dropped to the ground.

Without Moreno holding her upright, Tuesday’s knees buckled. Grissom dived for her, catching her before she landed on Moreno. Hurriedly, Grissom holstered his pistols, then tipped her forward and sliced the flex-cuffs with the blade from his boot sheath.

Maverick stepped between Grissom and Moreno, securing the dead man’s revolver.

Alex had a finger in his ear, cursing at some poor soul to send a “son-of-a-bitchin’ ambulance!”

Grissom’s need to hug Tuesday was squelched the moment she fell limp against his chest. Tiny beads of sweat dotted her forehead. Her arms were clammy, and her coloring was pale. Too pale. Her poor feet were bare and bloody. Worse, the dark red stain on her hip.

He tipped her into the crook of his arm to get a better look, desperately searching beneath her shirt for that wound. Too quickly, his fingertips connected with a sodden streak above her hip bone. Moreno hadn’t done anything to stop the bleeding. Not so much as a fuckin’ Band-Aid.

“Grissom?” she asked breathily, her eyes glazed, not focused, still not seeing him. Her pupils were so big, the black squeezing out the green. She was going into shock.

“I’m here, right here,” he answered. Ripping his t-shirt over his head, he used it to cushion her head before he laid her flat on the concrete.

“I’ve got her,” Maverick cut in. His trusty blow-out kit, first-aid for combat trauma in a molle bag, was already open, its insides spread across Tuesday’s abdomen.

“Thanks, sure, yeah,” Grissom answered automatically, his brain spinning with all the terrible ways this damned day might still end.

Lifting her shirt, Maverick tipped forward on his knees and applied a healthy dose of powdered Quik-Clot to that ugly wound, then followed up with a thick layer of hemostatic dressing. “Keep her talking,” he ordered, pressing his big hand firmly over her wound, “while I get her stable. Medics are nearly here. Give her something to live for until they show.”

Sick to death that he was breathing the scent of her into his heart for the last time, Grissom lowered his lips to Tuesday’s ear and said, “Tanner and Luke love you, and right now they’re scared you’re going to leave them. It’s Christmas Day, and you’re the best present they’ve ever had. You’re their mother, damn it. You can’t leave them, you can’t!”

“Easy,” Maverick murmured.

“You don’t understand,” Grissom bit out. “I can’t lose her.”

“Then tell her that, man. Be honest but gentle. Wake up and smell the roses before it’s too late.” Whatever that meant. Grissom didn’t know Cowboy’s story, only knew those stormy blue eyes of his were earnest as fuck.

Alex squatted beside them, his cell still in his hand. “She needs you, Griss. Tell her that for starters.”

But does she? Could a woman of the world, one so damned beautiful that it hurt to look at her sometimes—especially when she’d smiled at him like she thought he hung the moon—truly need a guy like him? He’d believed so until she’d vanished out of his house like she had. Before she’d run away. But now, Grissom wasn’t so sure.

Nonetheless, he pressed his lips to her forehead and commanded her to, “Breathe, Tuesday. Breathe for Tanner and Luke, and for the lost little girl who’s been running away from life ever since she lost her mom and dad. Yes, life’s hard as fuck sometimes, but you damned well better breathe for me, too, because I am not letting you go. Hear me? Not ever. Man up, girlfriend. Marry me and decide who you—just you—want to be for a change. Stop doing what you’re told. Stop taking the easy way out. Stop hiding and breathe, damn it!”

Maverick might’ve been the one who growled, but it was hard to tell since both apex predators at his side did a lot of growling. All Grissom had eyes for was Tuesday’s chest lifting with her first full inhale since Moreno let her fall. “That’s my girl. Breathe, just breathe,” Grissom purred, so damned proud of her for being brave enough to try. “That’s all you’ve got to do. Just breathe and let me take care of everything else. Just breathe.”