Heston (In the Company of Snipers #25)

Chapter Fourteen

Heston stood there in London’s camper with her phone in his hand, mad, and not sure where to look or who to look at. She’d done it again, broken his heart when he’d thought he’d stood a chance of getting her back into his life. He flat wasn’t going to answer her. Not this time. What Mark told him was TEAM business. Not London’s.

Heston wasn’t just butt-hurt, but stinging from the teasing that always ended in rejection. Over-exerting himself back at the bridge didn’t help his disposition. Every muscle burned and he refused to dig into his bag for his IFAK, to throw back four Motrin in front of London. Neither could he sit around and play house while she dished out lunch. Not with her making future plans to work for Alex. How the hell was that even feasible? Them in the same office, seeing each other during the day, but going home to different houses at night? What if she fell for one of the guys he worked with? His life had turned into one big disaster and his patience was gone. So were his dreams.

“Hes,” London murmured from the counter where their lunch waited. “Talk to me. What’d Mark say?”

“TEAM business. Need to know,” he replied as evenly as he could.

“He offered me a job.”

“I heard.”

“I’d be working for that hardass you told me about. We might get to work together. Might even go on missions together. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Nice? Abso-fuckin’-lutely no! “I guess.”

“Come on. We were friends once. Can’t we be friends again?”

“Is that all we were? Friends? Funny. I thought we were more than that.”

“You know what I meant.”

“Do I, London? Because it sure seems that you’re the one making all the decisions about us. You had enough, you walked out. Hell, you didn’t even walk. You flew across the whole damned country. In the middle of the night! Without telling me where you were going or if you’d be back. Without even saying goodbye. Do you have any idea how unhinged I was the night you left? I looked all over Killeen for you! I called your parents! You decide you can’t do this ” —he gestured at the space between them— “whatever’s going on between us, and boom! You close down, and off you go. It doesn’t matter how hard I chase you, London, you just keep running away. One day you’ll leave and there’ll be no coming back, do you ever consider that? Second chances aren’t guaranteed. You didn’t even call to tell me where you were, that you were safe, or that we were through. I can’t do… THIS ” —he whipped his hand through that empty space again— “anymore.”

Because it really was an empty space. There was nothing between them, and he wondered if there ever had been. Heston stopped to suck in a breath before he continued in a more measured tone. “You want to know why I was upset the night we fought, babe? I’ll tell you. I’d just had the mother of all bad days. The worst day of my life up to that point. But all you did the moment I opened my front door was go on and on about—”

“Enough!” Asher roared as he stomped back into the camper and slammed the door again. “Christ, I can hear you yelling over the gawddamned river. Everyone can. Tell her, damn it. You’ve talked to me about it before, now tell London what happened. Tell her everything. About those two soldiers. About the M1162 Growler. How one of them was thrown into a tree that day, for fuck sakes. Talk to her, Heston. In English. Because if you don’t, I will.”

Heston glared at the man who was supposed to have his back, not skewer him like a pork kabob over a blazing grill while he was trying to make a point.

Asher gave him his chin. “Never thought you were chicken shit, Contreras, but please. By all means, keep doing what you’re doing and you’ll prove me right.” With that, he walked out.

“Err, what’s a Growler? Isn’t it something for beer? Were those two guys… drunk” —London’s voice trailed off— “or something?”

Heston looked at her then, really opened his eyes and looked at the woman standing in front of him. The one biting her bottom lip and asking silly questions. The woman who was audacious enough to dye her hair turquoise, smart enough she’d graduated college with honors, and plucky enough to apply, then train with the FBI. The Federal Bureau of Investigation, for hell’s sake.

Tiny crystal tears spiked her long lashes, making her look more like a little girl. Turquoise hair and all.

Did she really not know what an M1162 Growler was? Then again, why would she? She’d never been military, had never served the Defense Department in any capacity. She was his age, but she hadn’t any of his experiences. Hadn’t seen combat or death or—

Shit. He glared at the floor. Pissed at Asher. The snitch. Just as pissed at himself because Asher was right. Heston hadn’t shared a single detail of his ‘bad day at the office’ with London that night. Had just jumped to conclusions, made an ass of himself, and called the woman he adored names. Which, in turn, made her defensive and determined to prove him wrong.

Which… he was.

Which… was why she’d left. Was everything his fault? Sure feels like it.

He stuck his fists deep into his jacket pockets, struggling for a way forward. Yeah, he had an ego, and he hated being wrong. Which was why he seldom was. He was that annoying over-achiever, the guy who, despite his eidetic memory, still studied all night before exams because he couldn’t accept anything less than perfect grades. He was the sergeant who checked, double-checked, and triple-checked his gear, his squads’ gear, their vehicles, the ROEs—ad nauseam. He was the surgeon with a critically ill patient, one of damned few men in the world who couldn’t afford to make any mistakes. Because of his extreme over-diligence, no more men had died on Heston’s watch. None. Not in any firefight, on any foray or intel gathering mission.

Only those two privates at Fort Hood. That day.

Shit.

He lifted his gaze to London. Thank God, Asher had left.

Heston inhaled a long, deep breath and began again. One more time. Trying to fix what he’d broken. Trying like hell to be the man she deserved, not the asshat he was. “An M1162 Growler is” — another deep breath “…an Army Light Strike Vehicle, a beefed-up version of a Jeep. Seats one driver, three passengers. Two privates in my team went off-road during an exercise that same day. They shouldn’t have, but they were young and inexperienced, and they were going too fast. Hit a rut hard and lost control. I was in the truck behind them. Watched their front right wheel explode. Saw the rubber disintegrate into ribbons and steel cord. Saw the Growler flip end-over-end…” Like a damned piece of junk metal. “Watched them…” Die.

Heston stopped talking. He couldn’t speak the word. Hated remembering what he’d witnessed. His throat had gone bone-dry, and he wished he could—please—forget those two men dying. Hell, they weren’t even old enough to be called men. Certainly weren’t old enough to drink, but were considered old enough to die for their country. And die they had—for nothing.

He had carried the weight of their deaths his entire Army career, and he would carry it until the day he died. He’d been their leader. He should’ve paired each of them with an experienced soldier. But he hadn’t. Studying the floor, he swallowed hard and tried again. London needed to understand his reasoning that night. It had never been about her shortcomings, nor her dream to work for the FBI—though he’d surely made it sound that way. He ran a hand up the back of his sweaty neck. She deserved all good things in her life, she truly did. He’d been devastated, had simply struck out at the first person he’d encountered after a day that had sucked boulders.

Anyway…

“I… I stayed with Private DeAngeles. He was the passenger, the soldier ejected from the vehicle.” And he’d flown through the air like a damned straw-stuffed scarecrow shot from a cannon, his limbs loose and gangly, no helmet. Damned dumb kid. “He hit a t-tree, the only tree in sight for miles and miles…”

Heston’s voice trailed away. Son of a bitchin’ live oak. DeAngeles might have lived if he hadn’t hit it face first. Not like he could’ve missed it. The oak’s trunk was wider than the one still growing at the Alamo, and that son of a bitch was a damned monster.

It happened without notice. Without sound. Suddenly, London’s arms wrapped around Heston’s head. Her hand was at the back of his neck, pulling his face into that warm soft spot between her shoulder and neck. Like an opium addict, at the first hint of her sweet, feminine scent, he wrapped his arms around her and sucked every last atom of that unique fragrance into his heart. He was that drowning man gasping in a belly full of his first breath above water. Shaking. Afraid she might shove him away again.

Until a sob shuddered out of her. “I’m so, so sorry,” she whispered, her tender arms a welcome shackle around his stiff neck. Around his broken heart. “I didn’t know. I didn’t think. I was so excited, but then I was just mad, and I reacted, and… I’m sorry I left you that night, Hes. I never thought about what it would do to you. I was selfish.”

“No, it’s my fault,” he finally admitted. “I never gave you a chance. I was mad the minute I opened our front door. They were just a couple green boys from Tennessee. I took it out on you. I lashed out, and I know I hurt you.”

She sobbed, “I hurt you back, and you’re right. You’re more than just my friend. I said that to be mean. But I don’t want us to go back to the way we were, Hes. I need my dreams, too. I can’t live on just yours.”

“I know, I know,” he breathed, his eyes squeezed tight against the emotions raging inside. Funny how repentance worked. For the first time in years, his body was in tune with his soul. He could see light at the end of the dark tunnel his life had become. All because he’d confessed his weakness to the woman he adored. Hmmpf. If he kept this up, he’d soon be explaining how that inner caveman of his lost control sometimes. How it took over when he’d lost sight of her when the trailer exploded. Hell, his inner caveman took over at the slightest hint she might be in trouble.

Lifting his head, Heston ran his hands up her biceps to her neck, up until he cupped her jaw. His thumbs landed on her teary cheeks. Slowly, he tipped forward and covered her mouth with his. Heaven. Heaven was London, and he was the devil cast out from heaven, the prodigal lover finally returned to the place of light and stars. The taste of her was pure ambrosia. Overcome by their reconciliation, he devoured everything she gave. Her lips, her mouth, the soft, sweet sigh she breathed into his face.

The fire between them ignited into a scorching blaze, creating its own energy. Its own thunder and lightning. Demanding more. He’d waited so long, hoped so hard for this precise reaction from her. Asher had better stay the hell away for a long time.

Until two popping sounds registered for what they were. Gunfire.

“On the floor!” Heston ordered, pushing London to her knees, away from the windows and below the countertop. Which wasn’t much cover for what sounded like a fifty caliber.

The door slammed open. “We gotta go!” Asher bellowed. “One sniper. Maybe two. You with me, Contreras?”

“You bet!” Heston volleyed back. But… “No!” he corrected himself. “I’ve got to stay with—”

“Go!” London barked. “I’m not helpless, you big, hairy ape. I’m—was—a Forest Service LEO, remember? Go get the bastard who’s shooting that cannon before he hurts someone. If it’ll make you feel better, I’ll stay inside and blow the first sucker who opens my door to hell.” She tossed the sat phone at him. “Take this. I’ve got my cell. Call if you need my help.”

Well, okay then. Heston caught the phone and nearly smiled at the belligerent woman staring him down, the one giving him orders. Call her if he ran into trouble? Not likely. But the armed and dangerous version of London was the sexiest thing he’d ever seen. Look at the sturdy black GLOCK 22 in her right hand, a 40 S&W caliber, standard capacity fifteen rounds. That was what the subtle bulge beneath her jacket was. Damned good choice. This woman was packing, and she knew how to use a GLOCK. Correction. His woman . The one with starbursts of green in her pretty, but fierce aqua eyes.

“Yes, ma’am,” he told her gruffly. “I’ll call out my full name when we return so you’ll know it’s me.” Which was Heston Carter Contreras.

“Copy that,” she barked like a damned federal agent. “Now go do what you do best. Protect and serve.”

He planted one last, wet kiss on her bossy mouth, then turned and dropped out of the camper where Asher knelt covering him. “How many?” he asked, keeping Asher in his peripheral at his left as he drew one of his two pistols.

“Two, gawddamnit. Not sure they’re both trained snipers, though.”

“The guy behind that fifty cal is who we want. He’s east of us?”

Asher nodded. “Just watch your southern exposure. Pretty sure that’s where the second shots came from. Jackass can’t shoot for shit. He hit two trees, didn’t come close to the camper. The shot that hit it was all fifty cal.”

“Alex did say the Irishman was chicken shit,” Heston grunted.

“Copy that. Stop Fifty Cal now, nail the Irishman later. Unless you want him taken alive. I wouldn’t mind. I need a little practice with my knife.”

“We’ll see,” Heston replied as he took a cautious step eastward. Taking prisoners in Washington state posed a wealth of jurisdictional problems, but hey. That was why Mark Houston and Murphy Finnegan got paid the big bucks. As for that knife comment, time would tell if Asher got the wet practice he wanted.

“Swing right,” Ash whispered, nodding to the lush undergrowth. “Away from the camper, straight into those bushes. I’ll go left and brush him your way. You take him down.”

“Copy that,” Heston replied, fading into the shade to avoid being spotted by Fifty Cal.

Like every other mission he’d been on, he’d researched the area surrounding Mount Rainier, as well as the White River campground’s layout, while he’d waited for word on Kelsey and Alex. Rainier’s highest peak sat at 14,232 feet above sea level. The 112 individual sites were let on a first-come, first-served basis. Most were obscured from each other, for privacy and scenic value, by the mountain’s abundant, lush, and oftentimes, dripping-wet greenery.

Sites went for twenty dollars a night. Loops A, B, C, and D lay east of the White. Goat Island Mountain lay to the west, on the other side of the White. No RVs or trailers longer than twenty-five feet were allowed. There were no sewer, water, or electrical hookups. The trailer where Alex had found Kelsey had been stashed at the extreme north end of Loop B, east of site twelve, but not in a site. Two footpaths ran through the campground to the east bank of the White. Glacier Basin Trail went west from the footbridge over the White to Glacier Basin. The Wonderland Trail went east a short while before curving southward in a wide arc around Emmons and Fryingpan glaciers before it continued circling Mount Rainier.

From Alex’s description of the events that day, he and Kelsey were up high on the southern bank of the upper White River, just short of Emmons Glacier icefield. He’d been facing downhill. Kelsey had been facing uphill. She’d been standing less than a foot from him when she’d been hit. He’d tried to grab her, but her body had rotated in the direction of the impact, to her left, away from him. Emmons Glacier did the rest. Once she’d collapsed, her unconscious body slid swiftly downhill until the icy glacier dropped her into the White River.

And yet, Alex had completely misdiagnosed the strike that struck her. He’d been adamant he’d seen red mist. Which, in sniper vernacular, meant Kelsey’d suffered a clear and fatal, penetrating brain injury that should’ve ended in her death. Not a finger-length, raw, oozing abrasion that had only scored the left side of her skull. The physics of a fifty caliber round fired from a distance close enough to remove a person’s head dictated instant death, no matter where it struck the skull. It did not ever just injure anyone. The kinetic energy from any sniper rifle was a powerful force to be reckoned with. Ninety percent of all gunshot wounds to the head ended in fatalities, but most of them were caused by much smaller rounds. Most victims succumbed before they made it to the nearest hospital. By all accounts, Kelsey should be dead, and Alex should be planning her funeral.

But she wasn’t. Which meant one of two things. Either the sniper had barely missed his target through some minor miscalculation of temperature or air current, or any one of the many factors a decent sniper accounted for before he fired. Or… the sniper hadn’t missed Kelsey because he’d never intended to kill her, only wound her. Had in fact waited until she’d moved into his predetermined line of sight, and had unwittingly put herself in the center of his bull’s eye. Which brought Heston back full circle to his expert assassin theory. He wanted to meet that guy. Preferably not in a dark alley. And when he did, he’d end the bastard and let Asher decide what body part he wanted to take back as a trophy.

That line of logic led him back to the science behind smart guns and smart munitions. All interesting. All very plausible. But Heston knew of only one man currently working to solve the variables that had made smart guns pipe dreams instead of DoD-approved weaponry carried by United States military members—Jed McCormack of McCormack Industries, Rosslyn, VA.

A smart bullet was simply a miniaturized precision-guided munition fired from a precision-guided firearm. One was not viable without the other, meaning not just any rifle could fire smart bullets. The concept revolved around the three fiber-optic eyes distributed along the circumference of a smart bullet. A laser pointed at the intended victim painted that person as the bullet’s target. Once fired, that pre-painted laser designation activated the bullet. As it traveled toward the victim, its laser ‘eyes’ allowed the bullet to adjust its trajectory as needed to hit the pre-painted target. In theory, the round could be fired well beyond the visual range of the sniper aiming the rifle. Also, in theory, each smart bullet contained a guidance system, powered by a miniature, lightweight, lithium battery.

The farthest distance recorded to date had been well over a mile. In that test performed at the McCormack Industries Lab, the target had been a mass of skin-toned gel molded into a human shape, obscured behind a brick wall, along with three other gel dummies that were not laser painted. The test was designed to prove that a smart bullet would, and could, turn a ninety-degree angle to hit the correct target in the precise, predesignated, laser-painted spot, that being a tiny freckle on the dummy’s left hand. Not on its finger or nose. But right in the middle of its palm.

According to McCormack Industry’s final report, the smart bullet had performed as expected, just as accurately as a shot taken at a much closer range. It hit the freckle, went clean through the dummy’s left hand. Instruments wired inside the gel recorded the precise moment of impact. Nothing mysterious about the science, just a matter of calculating elements any sniper worth his salt was familiar with: bullet weight measured in grains, velocity of bullet at point of impact, and bullet diameter. The biggest problem in developing any smart bullet for today’s military was the cost, the convoluted, biased-as-hell Congressional budget cycle, and politics. Jed was known the world over as the US soldier’s best friend, which, ironically, also made him the enemy of many politicians. Those people only cared about stuffing yearly appropriation bills with pork barrel initiatives to feed their states’ interests. Not national interests. Oftentimes, not even legal interests.

Initially, Heston had guesstimated the sniper’s location to be at the west side of the White River, on the north side of neighboring Goat Island Mountain, which sloped northeast from Emmons Glacier. That the shooter had hidden within all that lush Northwest greenery in a sturdy sniper hide, high in one of the majestic Douglas Firs that populated much of Mount Rainier’s elevations.

Made the most sense. Goat Island Mountain’s altitude of seven thousand plus feet overlooked the precise portion along the White River where Alex and Kelsey had been standing, by more than two thousand feet. If he’d been in any number of trees there with a reasonably decent scope, he would’ve had a clear shot. The distance less than a mile. An expert sniper could’ve easily tapped Kelsey without relying on a smart bullet.

But this guy wasn’t just an expert, and the bizarre hit he’d made supported Heston’s smart bullet theory. The sniper who’d hit Kelsey had made an impossible hit. He’d grazed her skull, not killed her. She’d be dead if he’d wanted her dead, but she wasn’t, which meant he hadn’t wanted to kill her. Which, if he hadn’t used a smart weapon system and there was no smart bullet to be found, put him in a very elite category of sniper. As in he’d be the only one in the category.

Which considerably narrowed down the suspects. One name jumped to the top of the list: Ryan Malloy. Former Irish Ranger, also formerly active duty in Afghanistan as part of the latest failed United Nation’s peacekeeping operation. The third son of the most infamous sniper of the IRA, also known as the Irish Provisional Republican Army: Jack Malloy. Jack had been instrumental in organizing Northern Ireland’s best sharpshooters into the infamous South Armagh Brigade. The South Armagh Brigade had mercilessly targeted British security forces from 1990 to 1997, as part of the conflict in Northern Ireland. The South Armagh Brigade’s weapon of choice? The .50 BMG, the fifty-caliber Browning machine gun, caliber Barrett M82 long-range rifle.

Their motto: One shot, one kill.

Hmmm, Heston wondered. Alex had said Kelsey’d wanted to see the sunrise the last morning of their getaway. Exactly who had she shared that wish with? Who’d overheard? Better question, who’d been listening to her conversations and for how long? Situational awareness was hard to maintain within active-duty Army troops, among the most hardened tacticians. How much harder was it to control inside the homes of TEAM agents with kids?

Noiselessly, Heston pulled the sat phone out of his pocket, thumbed Mark’s number, and rested the phone between his shoulder and his ear.

“Houston,” Mark barked.

“Shit, what’s wrong?” Heston asked quietly. Mark was not given to outbursts. Alex, yes, Mark, never.

“The son of a bitchin’ Irishman just called. He wants a meeting. Tomorrow morning. Here! In Kelsey’s room! He even knew her room number. Alex went ballistic. He’s losing it, Heston.” Sounds like you are, too. “He’s spiraling out of control, and… Christ! I don’t know what more we can do to keep both of them safe.”

Man, that Irish asshat had a lot of nerve. “No worries.” Heston kept his voice low and even, his eyes trained overhead on the bottom boards of what had to be the assassin’s hide. “He won’t be breathing by then.”

“God, I hope you’re right. Please tell me you’re on his trail.”

“I am,” Heston breathed, “but be forewarned. I think we’re dealing with a damned precise sharpshooter who planned to nick Kelsey, not kill her. Who knew right where she and Alex were standing that morning. Who might also have someone inside Stewart’s house gathering intel. Ever heard of Ryan Malloy?”

“You’re kidding. The Irish sharpshooter? You think he’s behind this?”

Heston appreciated the disbelief in Mark’s question. It was an unbelievable conclusion given the many awards Malloy had been given. But it sure felt spot-on. “Makes sense if he’s using a smart weapon system. I gotta go.”

A pursed whistle sounded softly in Heston’s ear. “Quite a theory. I’ll find out who else might’ve known Alex’s plans. Stay safe.”

Heston didn’t reply, just disconnected and put his phone away. Whoever was up top in that sniper hide had just kicked the toes of his black boots over the far edge of the platform facing away from London’s camper. This guy was lying on his belly, getting comfortable, positioning for another shot. Maybe a kill.

Like hell.

Asher, also crouched low, was looking at Heston.

Heston ducked low behind a stand of dripping wet hemlocks and glanced upward. It took a moment of concentrated listening, but between the drip, drip, drips from the saturated pine needles, came the quiet crackle of a plastic wrapper being crushed. Guess this guy felt confident enough to snack while he waited. Guess he also thought he was invincible, hiding in the trees.

The pines were outstandingly beautiful, verdant green and full, but they were as much a cover for a hunter stalking below as for the asshole stalking above. The problem with a hide built high in a tree-packed forest was the loss of intel from sights and noises below. Pines this dense made excellent soundproofing, leaving the only intel coming to the sniper from beside him or overhead.

Heston saw it then, a thin silver wire studded with tiny drips of moisture strung in a wide circle around the base of this tree. Ryan, if it truly was Ryan Malloy up there, thought a single trip wire would stop two former US Army Rangers?

Guess again, boyo. Heston nodded a go-ahead to Asher, who’d also spotted the wire. Took another step beneath the thick pine branches and—

London’s screams from her camper pierced the silence. “Hes, Hes!” And everything went to hell. Should he trust that she could handle herself? Even now? After that terrified scream? Hell, no.

Asher mouthed, ‘Go!’ and Heston went. Let Asher nab Malloy. Hell, let him carve the guy like a Thanksgiving turkey. Hes had a woman to save.