Heston (In the Company of Snipers #25)

Chapter Fifteen

London let him in! She’d trusted him! Like a fool, she’d opened her door after checking the peephole. Imagine her surprise seeing Devon Bates standing there in his USFS uniform, staring up at her door like he didn’t know if she’d answer or not. She had hesitated. His being there at the same time Heston and Asher were out hunting the guy who’d shot Kelsey was an odd coincidence. But Devon had looked so sincere. Almost like the friendly guy he’d been before his promotion went to his head. Then he’d said he was proud of her for sticking to her guns and finding the Stewarts, that she should get a medal, at least a commendation for that.

And like a sucker fresh out of high school, she’d believed him.

Lies! All lies!

The second she’d unlocked her camper door, he’d shoved his way in, slapped her hard across her face, then punched her belly and disarmed her. Now there she was, draped over his shoulder, trying to catch her breath, on her way to who knew where. And mad as hell!

Bates had taken her pistol. Who was the idiot now? She’d assumed he was a decent human being—her mistake. But he’d assumed she only carried one weapon. Stupid, stupid man.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked, framing the question within weak, feminine, I-am-so-so-helpless bimbo-speak. If she’d been upright, she would’ve fanned her face and fluttered her eyelashes.

“Where you belong. Where a know-it-all like you will never be found.” He slapped her backside and spat, “Bitch!”

Strike two, Bates. Maybe strikes three and four, also.

Her parka was still on, her now empty holster beneath it. He knew she carried, but she’d never told him about the stiletto tucked into the thinnest sheath strapped to the inside of her right forearm. Why would she? Most guys focused on the obvious. Most criminals did, too. Pretty women all had to be brainless. Especially the ones smart enough to master careers and outperform men. Not that all men were shallow, opinionated, or as egotistical as Bates. But guys like him usually overcame those weaker than them by brute force. They name-called and belittled their employees, in this case—her—his soon-to-be victim.

And lastly, but bestly— gosh, is that even a word?— they overestimated themselves. Just by the things dangling between their legs, they thought they were better, smarter, and stronger than women, right?

Wrong. Big mistake. She’d practiced hours with that still hidden blade. Throwing it, hitting her paper targets. Trying over and over to hit them just right every time. Slicing and dicing, chipping and stabbing. Parries and thrusts in close quarters. She’d taken a private class taught by a tough old Army major who’d been in the first Desert Storm. Best self-defense class ever. Not even the FBI had taught her what she knew now. To stand up for herself when it counted. To surprise her opponent, not by sheer force, but by cunning. By waiting. By delivering the unseen, unexpected strike. What she didn’t have in weight or muscles, she made up for with speed and brains.

Going for a dramatic, girly effect, she let herself go limp. Dangled her arms and let her hands flop against the back of his thighs. She needed him complacent, over-confident, and sure of himself. Bates wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t have been promoted if he were. But he was a guy, and she was ‘just’ a woman. A woman who planned to use that opinionated weakness against him soon. Really soon. Just. Not. Yet…

Heston ran back to London’s camper, saw the door swinging open, and froze in his tracks. He quartered the scene behind her rig. Most campsites were empty. The weather was too cold for most to stay. There were no campers in sight. His heart pounded in his ears. Where was she? Who the hell took her? Had Malloy? Was the sniper hide just a decoy? A distraction?

Rolling his neck, Heston measured the facts against his assumptions—and went with his gut. Whoever’d taken London was part of the plan to end the Stewarts. Had to be. The sniper who’d nicked the side of Kelsey’s head was in the damned tree that, even now, Asher was targeting. Heston could almost see Asher climbing the pine, hand by hand, toehold by toehold, his knife in his teeth as he dodged those sturdy boughs. Asher preferred wet work. Well, good. Let him carve that Irish bastard to the bone.

Heston inhaled a slow breath through his pursed lips and decided to follow the river. He ran faster. Quieter. Lined with dense undergrowth like it was, no one would notice a body dressed in black winter gear tossing within the rapids. If that was where London had been taken, she’d vanish among the foam and shadows within seconds. It made sense to dispose of a body there. There’d been no shot. Nothing after that single scream.

Which meant hurry, damn it. Get there now! Save her. He meant to approach quietly, but quiet be damned. He had to reach her before she died! Before whoever had her killed her! Faster, Hes! Pump those damned glutes, quads, hamstrings, and calf muscles. Hurry!

By the time he was at the water’s edge, he was sweating, but his senses were wide open, flared to detect her fierce Amazonian spirit and the stink of her chicken shit assailant. Protect and serve, London, he whispered. By God, I know you won’t like me protecting you because you think you can handle anything. I know you’re a damned strong woman, but there are things you don’t know and have never done. I can’t live without you!

There. Farther down the bank. A hefty male. Long stride. Determined stride. Marching away from Heston’s position like he was on a mission. A limp body in black slung over his shoulder. Bates! With London! He was headed for Owyhigh Lakes (pronounced O-Y-high). The bastard meant to drown her in one of those two lakes. Which were frozen. Want to bet he’d already cut a hole in the ice?

Heston beelined for the bastard. It was clear London was badly hurt, maybe worse. Her arms slapped helplessly against the back of his legs. The ass! He closed in on the pair, pissed and ready to kill, when inexplicably, London’s right arm lifted behind her shoulder. Oh, my hell. She had a small knife. A thin blade and—

Relief puffed out of Heston in a cloud of vapor. He stopped worrying and watched her work some pretty fast magic. With one wicked slash, she stabbed Bates’ hamstring. An explosive roar bellowed out of him. Side-stepping and off-balance, he threw her to the ground, grabbed the bloody back of his thigh, and screamed, “You gawddamned bitch! You cut me!”

London landed on her butt, but scrambled quickly to her feet, one palm on the ground, her knife in the other, poised magnificently for battle. Heston couldn’t hear her speak, wasn’t sure she said anything. Looked more like an Old West stand-off between his silent but bold and beautiful lioness, and the howling hyena thrashing at her feet. Bates might’ve gotten a few licks in, but she’d drawn first blood, and Heston was proud of his woman.

He cocked his head, not sure if he should assist London in this very personal battle or not. She had everything under control. Damn, look at her. Powerful. Beautiful. Armed and, yeah, dangerous. Also kind of scary that the sweet woman he’d once made love with, the one who giggled and moaned when she’d come all over his fingers and mouth, was now poised like an avenging angel with a blood-stained sword of justice twitching at her fingertips.

Heston walked quietly to her side. She lowered her head and shot him a sideways wink through her jewel-toned locks, the tease. She was enjoying this victory, this moment of comeuppance. And man, did Bates have it coming.

Another highly-pitched, male scream pierced the forest behind Heston, but he didn’t turn around, didn’t wonder. Guess Asher’d breached the sniper hide and whoever he’d caught by surprise was now being taken care of. Asher promised Alex a trophy. Heston hoped Asher brought a bag for that.

“We need him alive,” Heston told London conversationally.

“I know,” she agreed easily. “That’s why I didn’t stab his kidneys. Too messy. I didn’t want that shit-heel’s blood in my hair.”

Made Heston smile. He shrugged at her like what happened with Bates was no big deal. Which it wasn’t. This was her kill. A fellow soldier respected that. “None of my business then. Let me know when you’re done playing. I’ll be—”

“You’re not leaving me alone with this bitch!” Bates yelled. “She’ll kill me.”

“She should,” Hes said as he crouched onto the mossy ground, dropped his hands between his knees, and prepared to wait on London’s decision. “You started this when you took her from her rig. What’d you do, knock like a gentleman, then slap her around once she was kind enough to let you inside?”

“Something like that,” Bates grumbled.

“Punched, Hes. This asshole punched me, damned near knocked my teeth out.” She spat to the side, then licked a circle around her pink, wet lips. “He took my pistol!”

Heston wanted to lick those lips. Along with her other just-as-luscious body parts.

“Then take it back. Why’d you let him in?” he asked, again keeping his tone neutral. Supportive. Not judgmental. Not to the woman who deserved every bit of his respect.

London pointed her knife at Bates’ crotch as she reclaimed her weapon from his jacket and stowed it in her rear waistband. Next, she pulled his pistol from the holster on his hip and tossed it aside. “My mistake, Hes. He lied, said he was proud of me. That I deserved a medal for locating Alex and Kelsey. Guess he’s not so proud now.” She giggled like the minx she could be.

“I’m bleeding, you bitch! Can’t you show a little mercy?” Bates whined, his fingers red with blood.

“So? You’re bleeding. Big deal,” London replied. “Where were you taking me, Devon? What were you going to do with me, huh? Give me a party?”

“I was keeping you safe!” he shot back at her. “You don’t know who you’re messing with. These guys are dangerous.”

“Says the man who slaps a woman half his size,” Heston murmured as he unchambered the round from Bates’ pistol, ejected its magazine, and secured the weapon inside his own inner jacket pocket.

Another piercing scream shivered over the trees. For the first time, Bates glanced in the direction of the sniper hide. Looked like he was having a hard time swallowing.

Heston ran his fingers over his chin, then dropped his hands between his knees again. “Where were you taking London?”

“Umm—”

“Show us,” London commanded.

“I can’t walk,” Bates hissed. “You cut me, you lousy c—”

“You won’t finish that word if you want to live,” Heston snarled. “Enough with the name-calling. Grow a pair. Be a man for once in your worthless life.”

“Tracks, Hes.” London nodded toward the size-eleven boot prints in the fresh snow, leading to her camper from the river trail. “Let’s see where he was before he paid me a visit.”

“Then let’s go,” Heston agreed easily. He pushed to his feet, strode over to where Bates lay panting, took hold of the back of the guy’s jacket collar, looked over his shoulder, and told London, “Get your butt in gear, babe. Times a-wasting.”

Then, as if they were just taking a walk with a large, unruly child, Heston dragged Bates backward on his butt, flailing his hands and complaining all the way through the trees. Past Shaw Creek drainage and Tamanos Creek Camp, which Heston already knew was closed for the season, all the way to the wide-open meadows surrounding Owyhigh Lakes. The distance they walked was a good three to four miles, but hey. With London skipping along beside him like the happy woman she used to be, Heston was content. It was a singularly beautiful day for a hike.

He paused at the end of the trail. Bates had stopped thrashing by then. Heston let go of his collar. Bates leaned back on his hands, breathing hard, but was still whining plenty. Like anyone cared?

“Will you look at that,” Heston breathed. The view was outstanding. Snow-covered Governors Ridge provided an impressive backdrop to the two shallow, glacier-fed lakes. If it’d been earlier in the year, the meadow would’ve been rich with bluebells, asters, and columbine. Maybe a few deer, mountain jays, chipmunks, and pesky marmots. But the two shallow lakes were both frozen solid. Snow covered everything except the trail of boot prints carved through the five, six inches of white stuff. They led to a hole in the ice some fisherman had drilled in the center of the nearest lake. Judging by the size eleven prints that matched Bates’ boots and the single three-legged, collapsible camp stool parked beside the hole, he hadn’t been worried about London’s safety. Hadn’t intended to teach her to ice fish, either.

Heston pursed his lips. It was one thing to see bodily damage inflicted on your woman when she could fight back. And London had, quite efficiently. But it was another to see the preparations taken to murder her in cold blood.

“That your handiwork, Bates?” he growled, ready to strangle the jerk with his bare hands. The mere thought of what this guy had intended for London, sent every last one of Heston’s good intentions to respect her decision spiraling dangerously close to the red zone.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the bastard whined, panting now, probably exhausted from being dragged. “I can’t see nothing from here. Never been here before.”

Heston bit his tongue. Until now, he’d been okay with London tormenting Bates. It was her show. Her kill. Not. Any. More.

“What were you going to do to me, Devon?” London asked as she sank to one knee beside Bates, that pointy blade still in her hand. “Huh? Teach me to fish? Give me a nature lesson? Or put me in that hole? Drown me? Sit there and watch me die?”

Bates said nothing, just lay there huffing, puffing, and bleeding.

Heston crouched at Bates’ other side, then trailed the back of his index finger down the man’s bristly jaw, to his neck and on down to his collarbone, digging his fingertip into the loose flesh there like a hook. Hmmm. That was an idea. “Ever been tortured?”

Bates shook his already bobbing head. “Never been military, you asshat. Told you that. Can’t you soldiers remember a gawddamned thing?” He was scared now. Finally. Damned well should be after what he’d intended for London.

“No? Then you’re in for a treat.” Heston’s face cracked with a sinister smile he didn’t let reach his eyes. His index fingertip dug deep into the hollow of the guy’s sweaty neck. With one vicious stab, he could end Bates. Punch his fingertip through the man’s trachea. Watch him choke. Let him suffocate until his gasps produced bloody drool, and no matter how hard he flailed and groaned and cried, nothing would save him.

But that wasn’t what this little exercise in physical prowess was about. The threat of torture was enough to get most men and women answering questions. Didn’t matter if the questions concerned national security, classified intelligence, or personal info, most people broke long before blood, tears, or violence entered the picture. Fear was the key, not propane torches, pliers, or the scalpels Hollywood portrayed. Those psycho props were about making a buck off audience ear and horror, not Humint. Human Intelligence. This come-to-Jesus meeting was about giving Bates what he deserved, true, but more, it was the purest form of information gathering. Let Bates figure that out by himself. It was time to up the game. If he cried like a baby after a little rough play, too damned bad.

Heston shoved to his feet and dragged Bates to the fishing hole.