Heston (In the Company of Snipers #25)

Chapter Sixteen

London could barely believe what she was doing. Threatening to kill Bates? Torture him? Was Heston serious? Could she go through with any of it if he were?

Yeah, she’d like to see Bates pee himself, but the knife in her hand was only for show. Yes, she’d used it on him, but that was when he meant to kill her. She’d acted in self-defense. He was unarmed now, and even though it sure looked like he’d meant to kill her, that he’d planned it, she knew from her FBI training that intent was not the same as the actual crime. People could plan to terrorize or torment others all they wanted. Ex-husbands did it all the time. But unless their intended victim was the President of the United States, nothing would ever happen until the ex actually carried out his plan. Any police officer would tell you that. Which was why abused women often didn’t stand a chance. Restraining orders were merely official recordings that a woman feared for her life from a specific individual. They didn’t come with police protection, bodyguards, or safe houses. No, a woman afraid for her life had to pay for protection herself. Or end up dead.

London wasn’t a killer. Was she? She’d been trained by Quantico’s best, sure. She knew how to shoot, could hit body mass nearly a mile away, could handle herself in most hand-to-hand fights, unless someone smacked her head, that is. And yes, she’d passed the torture lessons exacted on her and her fellow class members in the hidden forests of Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune a couple years back.

She’d been proud of how long she’d lasted under extreme duress. But damn, those were was the hardest drills she’d ever been subjected to. She’d come out of the exercise bloody, sweaty, her face tear-stained, and with every bit of her reserves spent. Hell, demolished. Despite the fact that they were the ones who’d broken her, the Marines who’d worked her over, all gave her shitty grins and knuckle-bruising fist bumps for being the only female who’d endured. Now she knew what waterboarding, electrical shock, and psychological mind games were about. Bad. Really, really bad.

Swallowing hard, she kept up with Heston’s stern march to the center of the lake. He’d changed in the course of this hike. At first, he’d been easy going. Now he’d turned scary. His jaw was rigid and sharp and his dark brows were clashed into a stern V over his nose. Even his nose had turned knife thin. He wasn’t hiking, as much as speed-walking, and his eyes were so dark, she couldn’t see any brown in his irises. He was angrier than she’d ever seen him. Angry enough to kill.

She wanted to stop and ask him what he meant to do to Bates once they got to that hole, but she was afraid he’d turn her question back on her, for her to decide, who, if anyone, should kill Bates. She didn’t want to show weakness or disrespect, didn’t even want to chat in front of Bates. So she approached the hole and—

One look at that twenty-pound boat anchor sitting on its side next to the hole…

One glance at the metal handcuffs…

At the leg irons…

At the slick black hood sticking out of a forest green USFS canvas bag. A hood like those sickos used on sicker sickos in those stupid BDSM games ,where people paid to get whipped and suffocated and...

“You bastard!” exploded out of her.

She’d been worried about frightening Bates? The man she’d once enjoyed working with. Had spent time talking to. Hours even! Sharing ambitions and dreams and—and stuff!

In seconds, Heston had Bates’ wrists fastened behind his back with those cuffs, had his knees bent, and his butt at the edge of the hole, which was frozen over. With one savage kick, Heston broke the ice, then dragged the heel of his boot around the edge and widened the hole back to its original foot-and-a-half width. He sized Bates up and went back to kicking the edges until he made the hole as wide as Bates’ shoulders.

London couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Stupid her, she dropped to her knees to take a better look at the icy hole that would’ve been her grave. The water was frothy and black as death. Full of broken shards of ice. Fresh ice had already reformed at the edges.

“I was just gonna play with you,” Bates murmured, his voice trembling, and his whole body spasming with fear. “A little. Not too much and not for long.”

“You bastard! Stop lying! You were going to put me down that hole and under the ice!” she shrieked, pointing at the damned thing as if he didn’t know it was there. “In freezing ice water! In handcuffs! With a hood over my face so I couldn’t breathe!”

She grabbed the hood. Damned thing was elastic or spandex or something stretchy, with Velcro straps in the back that had very little give. There were no holes in the front of it for a person’s mouth or eyes, just two tiny slits for a nose. The stupid thing had a shiny silver buckle under its chin and a loop, like for a dog collar. Shit!

“How about we try this crap over your big head, Devon! Let’s see if you like it?” London’s gut pitched acid up the back of her throat at the thought of anyone volunteering to be suffocated like that, of anyone putting it over someone else’s head and face for—for fun! Stifling black spots swarmed her vision. She had to lean back on her haunches to keep from face-planting. It was hard to breathe imagining that hood over her head. It was a struggle to suck in enough air. Everything in her screamed bloody murder. But she refused to embarrass herself in front of this jackhole. What the hell?!!

“And then what, Captain Bates?” Heston asked darkly, twisting this jerk’s rank, making it sound like an insult instead of the honor it should’ve been. London leaned closer to better hear him. It would sure be nice if he’d lean her way and wrap one of his strong, protective arms around her. She had never been so close to falling apart. And okay, he was right. She did want him to protect her and keep her safe. Now. Here. How could anyone hate her so much they wanted her dead? To die so horribly? In a dark, frozen lake, kicking and crying and fighting for air. Fighting to live!

“Nothing,” Bates murmured. “Honest. I wasn’t gonna drown her, just—”

Heston’s fist shot out of nowhere and plowed into the side of Bates’ head, knocking him to his side away from the hole. “Honest? You don’t get to even think that word. You’re a disgrace to the Forest Service. To your fellow rangers. To America! Just what did you intend to do to LT Wilde?” He was on his knees now, his chest heaving, both fists clenched, his knuckles white, and spitting mad. “ Almost drown her! Almost suffocate her! Almost let her slip under the surface of this frozen lake and almost freeze to death? Almost scare the fuck out of her? Almost let her body not be found until next spring! Just what were you going to do to her, you son of a gawddamned bitch!”

“Nothing! I wasn’t supposed to kill her. Just shut her up. She knows too damned much!”

London fell back on her ass, speechless. I know too damned much? Like what? What do I know?

Heston didn’t ask. He was long past playing games. Like a pro—because he was one—he twisted Bates’ ass around until the guy had both boots stuck in freezing water. The chicken shit hissed as his boots filled. Good. Because that was just the beginning. The rule was to make sure black op assassinations looked like accidents, and therein lay a problem. Not the problem, just a problem. Truth was that ice fishermen died all the time if they were unprepared. If they were idiots. If they didn’t heed the signs of hypothermia. If they were overweight and broke through thin ice. If they drilled their fishing holes along crack lines. The reasons were endless. But ending this asshole while London watched? That was the real dilemma.

Heston looked across the hole at the woman he adored. London’s eyes were no longer their usual pretty turquoise green. They’d turned dark blue. Even her hair seemed darker. Colder. Nothing like the cozy warm tropical hues when she was happy. He pursed his lips and let loose a plume of overheated angst. Make that outright rage. If anyone deserved to die beneath this ice, it was Devon Bates, bastard extraordinaire. And London should decide his fate.

“What do you want to do with him?” Heston asked, dialing his rage back enough to offer her the calm respect she deserved, to let her know this particular decision was hers. She was the intended murder victim here. Bates hadn’t brought that anchor just to ‘play.’ Heston jerked the canvas bag that had held that extreme bondage mask, pissed at the sickening fad sweeping the nation. If he lived to be a hundred, he’d never understand the thrill a man got out of beating a woman. Not after what he’d seen done to women and girls in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Iran. India. China. Thailand. Fuckin’ Hollywood USA. The bag needed to sink with Bates.

Shit! There was something beneath the mask. A Nikon camera.

London gasped like she’d been shot. Her hands went to her throat, and everything went from bad to worse. Without warning, she shoved Bates into the hole. The man sank. Bubbles sputtered over where he’d disappeared.

Panicked that she’d over-reacted, that she’d eventually regret killing Bates, Heston stuck his arm into the cold water, up to his armpit, until his cheek was flat against the ice. He spread his fingers and made contact with Bates’ short as shit haircut. Like it or not, Heston extended his arm down deep, grabbed Bates by his ear, and pulled him to the surface. Up came the bastard. Once he surfaced, Heston got a better hold on his neck and jerked him out of the hole.

Bates sat at the edge, crying like the chicken-shit he was. “I had no choice! He made me do it! You gotta understand!” Sputter. Choke. Whine. Bitch. Whine some more.

This time Heston growled at London instead of Bates, needing her to understand the consequences of what she did there today. “I appreciate you want to kill this creep, but be sure you understand that if you drown him, some hiker or fisherman, maybe a little kid, will find him next spring, and it won’t be pretty. But if that’s how you roll, say the word and I’ll push him back in. Hell, I’ll load his boots with rocks to make sure he sinks. Doesn’t matter to me. They’re already as heavy as the anchor he would’ve used on you. He’ll go straight to the bottom. He’s weak from blood loss. Won’t last long. Is that what you want?”

Tiny crystal tears clung to the tips of her lashes. “I never did anything but support and encourage him,” she replied. Her voice was so damned small and lost, it was all Heston could do to keep his hands to himself and not pull her into his arms. “I thought he was my friend, Hes. We shared shitty canned meals together and worked twelve-hour shifts and” —she swiped a hand over her eyes— “stuff. Like… like friends.”

“I do know,” Heston agreed. But he also knew this was the precise moment she’d reached the pinnacle of all that independence she’d been chasing. And here she was, immersed in a man’s dirty world, faced with the ugliness soldiers abroad carried out in hopes their loved ones back home wouldn’t have to. “Kelsey didn’t deserve getting shot, either,” Heston reminded her as kindly as he could.

“I didn’t do that!” Bates bellowed. “Uh-uh, that’s not on me!”

“Then talk,” Heston ordered. “Who shot Kelsey and Alex Stewart?”

“You’ll let me live?”

“You think you can bargain? With what? The hairy balls Asher has no doubt already cut off your sniper friend?” Heston gave Bates a rough shake that had him leaning face first over his watery grave again. “No deals. I want names and I want them now.”

“Drop him,” London said, her voice oddly flat. “He’s lying. Everything he’s ever said was a lie. Just do it, Hes. Push him back in, now. Before anyone sees us.”

Heston stared her down, caught her sly wink at the same moment Asher walked up behind her. “You sure?” Heston asked, playing along with whatever was going to happen next.

London’s head bobbed, making her turquoise hair shiver and ripple like waves in a tropical lagoon. Heston put a hard hand in the middle of Bates’ broad back and—

“Former Sergeant Ryan Malloy of Defense Forces Ireland!” Bates screamed like he’d been electrocuted. “He paid me to shut her up. Said she’s too damned nosey, doesn’t listen to her superiors like the bitch should. That she needed to learn a lesson, once and for all. He’s the best of the best! You can’t kill him!”

“Already did,” Asher said matter-of-factly from behind London. As if to prove it, he tossed a bloody bag over her shoulder. The way the bag bounced before it rolled alongside Bates sure looked like it held two balls instead of a head.

Bates tipped onto his hip away from the trophy. “No, no, no! Fuck! He’ll kill me for sure now!”

Ah, so Ryan Malloy wasn’t the mastermind behind the scheme to end Alex and Kelsey.

“Malloy can’t kill you. He’s already dead, right, Agent Downey?” Heston asked.

Asher smirked. “Yup. Caught him sighting-in on my good buddy, London, with that fancy computerized rifle of his. Never saw me coming. Sliced a big smile under his chin, neat as a whistle. Chucked his fat ass out of the tree he was hiding in. Sure ain’t smiling now.”

Bates’ groan was almost comical.

“Who’ll kill you now that Malloy’s dead?” Heston snapped. “Tell me and I’ll keep you safe.”

“He can do that, you know, Devon.” London was back in control. But Heston couldn’t help wondering where her knife was. Sure wasn’t in her hand.

“I can’t, I just c-c-can’t,” Bates whined. “You guys don’t understand how these things work.”

“Then don’t tell us,” London replied easily, almost kindly. “It’s okay. We understand. You’ve had a really hard day, Devon. I bet you’re tired. Why don’t you lean back and—” She whipped an arm around Bates’ neck and, in a heartbeat, her blade was under his chin and against his bouncing Adam’s apple.

“No need to worry, good buddy. I’ll take good care of you,” she soothed wickedly. “Either you tell Heston what he wants to know, or I end you right here and now. You won’t have to worry about Malloy’s boss killing you. Think about it. Won’t be much left of you next spring once the trout in this lake feed on you all winter long. I’ll bet they’re real hungry this time of year. Ravenous. They’re carnivorous, you know, and they like bacon. Uncooked. With a lot of fat left on it. Fat, Bates. Just. Like. You.”

Made cutthroat trout sound—well, cutthroat. London also had Bates eating out of her hand. She’d tucked the blade’s dull side against his throat. Her knife wasn’t hurting him as much as it was helping Kelsey and Alex. Heston pursed his lips and blew her a kiss and a wink. She winked back. The lady was damned good at PsyOps mind games.

“Tristan O-O-Obermeyer,” Bates muttered.

“Secretary of State Tristan Obermeyer?” Heston asked in disbelief. “That Obermeyer?”

“Yeah, yeah, him. He’s tight with the guy running to be the next US ambassador to Ireland. Michael Keane. Guess Wilde saw Malloy with them in DC last month. Obermeyer was pissed. Said Wilde recognized him. Even said hi to him and Keane. Said she had to go before she blows his cover and ruins everything. Told Malloy to finish the Stewarts, then asked me to, you know…” Bates blinked down into the frigid hole where his water-filled boots still dangled. “Malloy sub-contracted me to take her out because… Shit. Because I owe him for… for…”

“Spill,” London whispered. “I remember that trip to Washington DC, and yes, I saw Secretary of State Obermeyer with Keane. They were talking outside Estadio’s on Fourteenth Street, Northwest. Didn’t know Malloy was there with them, though. Why do you owe him?”

Bates’ chest puffed before he wheezed, “I gamble, all right? Got in a little over my head the last time I was in New Jersey. Malloy put in a good word for me and—”

“And now you owe some shark who works for Keane. How much?” Heston asked.

“Fifty thousand. Doubles in forty-eight hours if I don’t pay up. You gotta understand, I didn’t have a choice!” Interestingly, Bates didn’t correct Heston saying ‘now you owe some shark who works for Keane.’ Was Michael Keane the new Irish Mafia boss? Or had he always been the top dog in charge of drug and gun running, prostitution, extortion, and a dozen other illegal enterprises in Boston? Which begged another question: Did Alex know?

London chuckled. “What body part you gonna lose?”

“I’ll lose my wife!” Bates made it sound like his betting on the wrong banker was London’s fault. “He’s got my wife!”

“Don’t blame London for the choices you made,” Heston corrected. “You’re a lousy gambler and a shittier husband. You’ve got no choice. You’re stuck between a rock and a hard place. Where’s Malloy holding your wife? What’s her name? We might be able to save her .”

“Kitten. Kitten Bates,” Bates replied, his gaze gone flat but still on that hole.

Well, wasn’t that just precious? Heston huffed in disgust. Wanna bet Kitten was the alias a clever call girl used to lure idiots like Bates into crooked card games run by sharks? Who in turn maintained an unbelievable profit margin—for the Irish mafia?

“Kitten?” Asher asked, surprised. “As in ‘here kitty, kitty?’ Or as in the slam, bam, thank you, ma’am, kind of kitty?”

“She’s a cocktail waitress, you son of a bitch! A good one.”

Heston grunted. I’ll bet. Things kept going from bad to worse for Bates. Yes, Heston would ask Mark to check out the dubious Mrs. Bates, but he suspected Kitty worked for Keane, and Keane wouldn’t hurt the girl who brought in suckers like Bates.

“I say let’s take him back to Alex, Hes and Ash,” London said, her voice firm, her decision made, and Heston’s way forward as clear as the light dancing in her tropical blue eyes again. “Alex will know what to do with him. He might even let him live.”

Finally, she was at peace with herself. And she should be. London had done damned good today. And if she was happy, Heston was going to make sure she stayed that way.