Heston (In the Company of Snipers #25)

Chapter Nine

Three days later.

Kelsey Stewart had taken an awful beating by the White River. She was in Intensive Care, with a broken hip, wrist, two ribs, one clavicle, and three fingers. As well as pneumonia and a severe concussion that Heston was afraid might end in irreparable brain injury. The neurosurgeon Alex had flown in from the East Coast had already removed a piece of her skull to reduce brain swelling. From what Mark said, Kelsey’s condition improved after that, but from head to toe she’d been bruised, battered, and broken. How she’d survived and who’d pulled her from the river remained the mysteries of the day. As did the identity of who’d shot her, the guy Alex called ‘that gawddamned Irishman!’

He’d turned into a raging bull when she’d finally come out of the ten-hour surgery. By then, the bullet hole high on his chest, not the graze he’d vehemently claimed it was, had been treated. So had the burns on the back of his head and neck he’d gotten when the trailer exploded. For a few hours—thank God!—he’d slept due to whatever pain meds he’d been given. Which gave everyone a short reprieve.

But once he’d come to, Alex had showered, dressed in the clean clothes Murphy had brought, then had demanded—and gotten—the Cadillac of hospital beds for Kelsey and a simple cot for him so he could stay at her side. He’d flown most TEAM members to Washington. Everywhere Heston looked, he saw agents and their wives, as well as enough high-tech medical equipment to outfit an entire hospital ward. Maybe two. While the hospital’s staff handled her meds and stats, TEAM physicians Libby Houston and McKenna Villanueva, as well as Harley’s wife, Judy, attended to Kelsey’s personal needs. Things like washing her hair, talking and reading to her, reminding her that she was surrounded by family and friends. That everyone was praying for her recovery.

The same day Alex and Kelsey arrived in this hospital, London was ordered to a Forest Service disciplinary hearing, where, Heston had no idea. He hadn’t gotten any time alone with her after they’d landed, hadn’t asked the questions he needed answered, hadn’t had a chance to tell her goodbye. She’d walked away, just like last time. Without saying goodbye, I love you, or go to hell. Heston couldn’t blame her, not since he’d rejected her first.

But watching the way she’d worked so hard to save Kelsey and how she’d expertly handled Alex up on that mountain, knowing she’d willingly put her career on the line by helping Heston and Asher find the Stewarts, had been damned insightful. Told Heston he’d been wrong all those years ago. He’d been stupid. Arrogant for sure.

Because London was stronger than he’d thought. She had known what she was doing then, and she’d proved it now. She’d been leading them to that suspicious trailer before it exploded. Alex had London to thank for Kelsey’s rescue. London was efficient and skilled. She was brave. Damned brave. She’d trusted her gut up there on that mountain, had known something was odd with the trailer, and she’d stood up to Bates. Outright defied the son of a bitch when she’d gone with Heston and Asher to keep searching.

Heston ducked into the family conference room across the hall from Kelsey’s hospital room for a break. He needed a shower and shave, had been on high alert since he’d gotten the assignment to locate Alex and Kelsey. More than that a shower, he needed sleep. A short combat nap was in order.

He pulled two chairs together, one for his butt, the other for his boots. Tipping his head back, he stretched his legs and stared at the ceiling. Then closed his eyes. But all he saw was London’s pretty face. Her light turquoise hair. Her jewel-toned eyes. The quirky smile she used to get before she kissed him. The way she’d breathed life back into him, just by being on the same mountain.

Problem was, once London dug her heels in, there was no reasoning with her. Which on Mount Rainier had been a good thing. Not so much in Killeen, Texas, the night they broke up. Her dream of working for the FBI, whether he’d liked it or not, was what ended them. Not because he doubted she could do it. Heston knew damned well London could do anything she set her mind to do. But because she’d left him, just walked out of their apartment and didn’t look back. Hadn’t called to tell him she’d made it safely to the East Coast. Hadn’t answered any of the dozens of letters he’d written.

Correction: Her dream of working for the FBI wasn’t the root of their breakup. He’d made his share of mistakes that night, too. Heston knew he’d pushed her too hard and too far the night they’d fought. He’d been stationed at Fort Hood then. She’d just finished her degree in criminal justice. Probably would’ve helped if he hadn’t put his foot down like a moron and asked ‘why can’t you stay home like other wives?’ He cringed recalling how nasty he’d been—nasty enough she’d primly reminded him she wasn’t anybody’s wife. Which was true. He hadn’t asked to marry him yet. Sure as hell should have.

She’d been so offended at his lack of empathy that she called him a hairy ape with a brain the size of a pea, and she’d walked out on him. Which was just plain bad timing. He’d thought she’d taken off on one of her cooling-off runs, so he’d showered and fixed dinner. But when she hadn’t returned, he’d gone looking for her, even ran her usual route thinking he’d spot her and tell her he was sorry. When he didn’t find her, he’d panicked. Called her girlfriends. Called her parents, which brought him a shit-ton more disrespect from her father. But not an ounce of real concern. They weren’t happy with her ‘shacking up with some Hispanic’ to begin with. Their words, not his.

Truly worried, Heston had called the police department then. Another waste of time. London had only been gone hours and she was an adult. Not endangered. Entitled to make her own decisions. He hung up and waited for her to come home. But she didn’t.

She could be stubborn. Like the night she’d proudly told her parents that she loved Heston with all her heart, and she didn’t care what anyone, including them, thought. They’d made love all night once they’d gotten home. Good times. One of their best. How he’d admired her then.

But how he’d worried the next morning when he’d locked his apartment and had no choice but to board the Air Force C-130 and deploy to Somalia without saying goodbye. Without kissing her. Without knowing where she went or if she was hurt. If she’d been kidnapped.

His gaze dropped to the carpet between the size-twelves he’d stuffed into his big mouth the night of their fight. Which was why she’d walked out. He didn’t find out where she’d gone until days later, but he should’ve known. After enough digging, he’d discovered she’d taken the red-eye out of Austin that night and was in Quantico, Virginia, by the time he left the States. That was what she’d tried to tell him, her good news, that she’d been accepted by the Bureau. One of only a hundred applicants across the nation. That’s she’d achieved her dream. She’d been so excited. Bubbly. Effervescent. That was London. Stubborn, but usually happy until—

She wasn’t.

He wished he could wind the clock backward and re-do that night. Do it right. Their problem started out simple. London’s fantastic news had collided with Heston’s butt-ugly day. He should’ve handled it better. Not been so touchy. So damned rude.

He had been an ass, but only because he’d witnessed an accident with fatalities at Fort Hood, during an exercise that afternoon, and the memory was still fresh. Two privates had destroyed their M1162 Growler, the US Army’s light utility, light-strike, and fast-attack vehicle. They’d been off-road, reckless, driving too fast. Weren’t wearing seatbelts. Hit a rut. Probably never knew their front left tire had been blown off its rim. Things happened too fast after that. The Growler cartwheeled. The soldier behind the wheel died instantly. The other was ejected and hit a tree. Shattered the front of his skull. It took him a little while, but Heston was with him when he died.

He wiped his hand over his face, as the memories crushed the breath out of him again. There was no getting over it. No forgetting. He swallowed hard, forging ahead like always. He and his LT had been following the Growler. Saw the whole thing. Stayed with those poor guys until the ambulance arrived and took their bodies away. Then he’d gone straight home, thinking only of being in London’s arms, of seeking comfort. Of drowning in a bottle of Jack, preferably in bed with her sweet body wrapped around his.

Instead, the moment he’d opened his front door, Heston had been hit by a tsunami of overwhelming enthusiasm. London had been so damned excited. He’d known she’d applied with the FBI. Just hadn’t thought all that her acceptance would mean to her. Or to him. He should’ve realized that, too.

But like some alpha dickhead, instead of listening and offering sincere congratulations to the woman he truly loved, he’d rained shit all over her parade for being selfish and narrow-minded. Had called her a dreamer. A loser. Just that fast, his future changed. She’d wanted—and had gotten—her dream career. He should’ve been supportive. At least, willing to hear her out. But he’d still been thinking of those two dead privates, their parents and friends. He’d just wanted to spend the night holding her and loving her. Not dealing with one more separation.

She probably thought he hadn’t cared at all.

‘Wonder why?’ Heston thought morosely. Because he had been an ass. Because London was still the same generous, kind, vibrant, and insightful woman she’d been then. Only now…

She wasn’t his. She didn’t need or want him. There was no ‘ you complete me’ bullshit to their relationship, like in that Tom Cruise movie. Heston knew it now. London had been complete before they’d ever met.

He couldn’t explain the voracious need to protect her that came over him sometimes, like that night in Killeen or up on the mountain. The moment she’d disappeared around the burning trailer and he’d lost sight of her, he’d panicked. Which was what he’d done in Killeen. She could’ve been in that M1162 Growler. She could’ve been the one who died. Those two men were the same age as London. And honestly, all he’d ever wanted was to keep her safe and protect her and stand beside her and...

Shit. The thought of losing her had choked the life out of him the night they fought. Didn’t she know FBI agents were always in the line of fire? Didn’t she understand she could be sent into war-torn countries where women were treated no better than cattle? That because she’d be a federal asset, he might never be told the truth of how or where she died? That he might never even be told she had died in the line of duty?

You trust Asher. Mark. Izza Maher. Mother. Why not London?

Because London’s different. I love her. I just work with them. They’re friends. She’s my… everything.

Heston had no qualms working with Asher. Had never worried Asher couldn’t do his job. Had no problems trusting his co-workers. So why couldn’t he treat London with the same respect and professionalism? The same trust? He’d never been attracted to clingy women who didn’t know what they wanted and were afraid to define boundaries or demand respect. London was strong enough for him, and…and every bit as capable and trained as Asher. She was good at her job and she’d proved it.

So why can’t you let her be all she can be?

Because the thought of anything happening to London turned Heston into a chest-thumping, testosterone overloaded—what’d she call him? Oh, yeah, a hairy ape with a pea brain. That about summed him up. Heston had no idea why she was the only woman who brought his inner caveman roaring to the surface. Spanish machismo? Possibly. His dad was a Marine. Carter Contreras could be an ass, especially with his sons. Was he that much like his dad?

BLAM! The door behind him slammed open and in came Alex, instantly taking control of the room like a category ten hurricane takes charge of Florida. Had to be a Cat 10 because hurricane ratings only went to five, and Alex’s rage was way beyond the requisite 157 mph windspeed for a Cat 5.

“You!” Alex snarled, sticking a long, angry finger in Heston’s face. “You and Asher! Get your son of a bitchin’ gear. I’ve got a job for you.”

Murphy, Mark, and Asher hustled in on Alex’s heels. “Now hold up, Alex,” Murphy argued.

Alex whirled on him. “No! You hold up. I want that son of a bitch dead!”

The phrase son of a bitch would forever remind Heston of his boss. He looked to Murphy for calmer explanations. “Where am I going and why?”

“Because you work for me and I said so!” Alex roared, pacing around the chairs and tables scattered throughout the room.

Heston inhaled slowly and refused to retaliate. Alex was hurting. That was all this tantrum was about. When he hurt, he took it out on everyone around him. God knew how long he’d be a nightmare to deal with, but deal Heston would. For as long as it took Kelsey to recover. Longer if necessary. If London’s best quality was stubbornness, Heston’s was loyalty.

“The Irishman has contacted Alex,” Mark, instead of Murphy, explained quietly. Mark had grown up somewhere in the Midwest, tossing hay bales, wrestling beef and hogs, and working sunup to sundown on his family’s farm. He was wider and thicker muscled than Alex. But Alex was the alpha, and right then Heston could almost see hackles—make that stegosaurus plates—sticking straight up off his pissed-off boss’s back.

“That son of a bitch threatened my wife!” Alex spat. “Again!”

Mark said, “He called on the hospital phone in—”

“Because I threw the son of a bitch’s burner in the gawddamned White River!”

Deep breath. Count to ten. Let Alex rant and curse all he needed. Wait on Mark.

“He called on the phone in Kelsey’s room,” Mark continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted by the ogre Alex had become. “He told Alex he obviously hadn’t learned his lesson. That he could get to Alex or Kelsey anytime he wanted. That he knew which room she was in and next time—”

“He’ll shoot to kill!” Alex roared. “Her! My Kelsey! That bastard’s threatened her for the last son of a bitchin’ time!”

“What the fuck?” Heston asked, equally offended at the balls this Irish moron thought he had. “Who is this bastard, and what do you want me to do to him when I find him? Because I will find him, Boss.” Heston leveled that promise at Alex.

“Damned straight,” Asher added from the doorway where he still stood, his arms raised over his head, his hands gripping the overhead jamb. “Heston and me’ll hunt the fucker down, Boss. You want him alive or can we just bring back his head on a spike? Or his balls? You’d mount them on your wall, wouldn’t you?”

Oddly, Alex calmed at that grisly pronouncement of loyalty. He was shaking. His nostrils flared as if there wasn’t enough air in the room. His chest heaved like a blacksmith’s bellows. Pursing his lips, he let some of that hot air go. The laser blue ice in his eyes melted the tiniest bit. His Adam’s apple ratcheted up, then down. With a hard-won swallow, he finally said, “I want them dead, Heston, Asher. There’s at least two of them. The guy who gave me the burner wasn’t the shooter. Couldn’t’ve been. He’s too weak of a chicken shit to be the only one behind this.”

Alex’s chest heaved with another deep breath. “Other than that, I’ve got nothing. No brass left behind to pin those shots to any specific weapon or caliber. Don’t know precisely where they fired from anyway. Don’t know who the hell they are. Don’t even know where to look or who to ask. It happened so fast I couldn’t determine trajectory. No fingerprints on Kelsey when I found her, and the fire destroyed all evidence in the trailer, if there even was any. Weather destroyed footprints. I’ve got nothing!”

Heston watched the man he’d follow into Hell return to a semi-normal version of himself. Still agitated, but calm enough he was breathing better. Hopefully thinking better, too.

“Mother’s tracking all cell towers near Mount Rainier, but so far she’s found nothing,” Murphy added.

“Ember, Beau, and Jameson are running various scenarios with the FBI,” Mark said. “The Bureau suspects the Irish Mafia’s behind this, but they’re not ruling out the Russian or Sicilians.”

“No shit,” Alex bit out. “If my old man’s—”

“Whoa,” Heston interrupted, his palms forward for Alex to stop and explain. “Your dad? What’s that about?”

Alex turned to Mark and growled, “Tell him.”

A pained expression shadowed Mark’s face. “Alex recently discovered that his father might’ve played a part in the Irish Mafia’s business out of Boston. But I’ve investigated every word of Mel Stewart’s bragging. He’s not a reliable source, but he did run small jobs for Pops Delaney, whose birth name was” —Mark clapped a hand to his mouth and coughed— “Killian Stewart. Pops Delaney, aka Killian Stewart, was Mel’s older brother, which makes him Alex’s uncle. DNA confirms the lineage. That’s the only link I can find, but I haven’t found anything that proves Delaney exploited it.”

“Don’t waste time looking. My dad’s a gawddamned liar,” Alex said grimly.

“Understood, but Mel and Pops were brothers, and maybe Pops didn’t want Mel involved.”

Alex snorted. “Wouldn’t be surprised. Nobody trusted Mel. Not Mom or Gramps. Sure as hell not me.”

Heston’s lips pursed at what had to have been a magnitude 9.0 shock when a hard-driven patriot like Alex learned he was related to an Irish crime boss. “How recently did this come to light?”

“Last year,” Alex spat. “The bastard showed up the day my son was born. Just walked into Kelsey’s hospital room like he owned the place.”

“Doesn’t your old man have dementia or something?” Asher asked.

“Alzheimer’s and a helluva lot of nerve.” Alex hadn’t stopped pacing the small family conference room where Heston had settled for a few minutes of peace and quiet. Kiss that goodbye.

Someone’s cell phone rang. Everyone in the room checked their pockets. Surprisingly, it was Heston’s. He palmed it out of his jeans pocket, put it up to his ear, and answered, “Agent Contreras.”

“Heston? Oh, good. Hi. London here. I’ve got something you need to see. Might be the break we’re looking for. How long will it take you guys to get back up here?”

We’re looking for? “You’re back on the mountain? At White River Campground? But I thought—”

“Yup, still working our case, investigating. Watched a couple guys. Took pictures of things and them and, you know, stuff.”

“You’re still doing your job?” He knew about her disciplinary hearing. Just hadn’t expected she’d go back to working the Stewarts’ case while she waited on the outcome of that hearing. Wow. London had brass balls, and he wanted to see them.

“Somebody’s got to. Bates knew Alex and Kelsey Stewart were missing before you and Asher showed up. He just didn’t care. But I did. Still do.”

The words were out of his big mouth before he could think. “Don’t do anything reckless.”

Just that quickly, he lost what little ground he’d made.

“Knock it off, Hes,” she snapped. “I’m not your fuck buddy anymore.”

He turned and faced the wall. “You never were… that. Honest. You know what we had was—”

“Over. Done. Whatever.”

Great. She’d turned surly and it was his fault. Why couldn’t he overcome the damned protective instinct that kidnapped his brain and turned him into a Neanderthal over everything that concerned London? The caveman inside of him was ruining everything.

“Copy that, Ranger Wilde,” Heston replied more respectfully. “Message received. I’ll see what I can do to assist you.”

“Ah, yeah. About that. I’m, umm, not Ranger Wilde anymore. You might as well know. They canned me for insubordination. Not like that’s a first.” She huffed. “Guess the USFS higher-ups don’t appreciate it when you make your boss look like an ass because he is one. Meet me south of the footbridge on the other side of the White from where we found the Stewarts. Dress warm. Wind’s kicking up and it’s bitchin’ cold up here.”

He looked straight at Alex. “We can be there inside two hours.”

“You sure?” London asked. “I’ll wait if you mean it.”

“I mean it, yes, ma’am.” Damn it. Just yes. God, the effect she had on him was embarrassing. “Hold on a sec. Boss? I’ve got Ranger Wilde on the phone. She’s found a solid lead.” Heston was willing to extend that bold assumption to redress the way he’d minimized her by telling her not to be reckless. “She needs me and Asher back at the campground.”

Alex’s answer was sharp. “Good. Go. Find me something I can use to end these bastards.”

“We’ll be back before dark.”

Alex nodded. “I owe you, Hes. You saved Kelsey’s life.”

“No, Boss, all I did was step on you. London’s who led me and Asher to you and Kels. She knew something was going on with that trailer.”

“She’s a smart woman.”

Heston couldn’t argue. “She is. We’ll find out what else is going on. Promise. And if I catch the rat bastard behind this, I’ll kill him.”

You could almost hear the angst hiss out of Alex at that bold promise. He licked his lips, like a parched athlete who’d just run the longest marathon of his life. “Make him suffer, Heston. Make it hurt.”

“Copy that,” was all Heston could answer back. He stuck his chin at Asher. “You ready?”

“I was born ready.”

Good enough. He told London, “We’re on our way. See you soon...” He almost said ‘see you soon, babe.’ Instead, he breathed, “Let’s roll, Ash.”

“Copy that, Hes. Be safe,” she answered before the connection went dead.

Heston shook the image of her out of his mind. Safe had nothing to do with London. He wanted her. Just could never have her. Didn’t matter. Nothing else mattered but killing the Irishman and his sniper buddy.