Heston (In the Company of Snipers #25)

Chapter Seventeen

It took two hours to get Bates back to London’s camper, where, lo and behold, an armed Tom Landry stood guard over Ryan Malloy. London laughed at herself. That balls-in-the-bag trick must’ve been Asher’s way of either impressing her or, as it turned out, frightening the shit out of Bates. Legendary sniper Malloy looked pathetic, hogtied on his belly like he was, squirming with his ruddy face in the wet chipped-cedar bark at the rear of her camper.

“You asshole!” Bates screamed when Malloy came into view. Lurching forward, he stuck one water-logged boot out in a vain effort to kick Malloy. “This is all your fault!”

Heston jerked Bates away. “Shut it, or I’ll hog-tie you next to Malloy and let you two roll around in the mud awhile. Then we’ll see who kills who.”

The threat silenced Bates. Heston leaned him against the nearest tree and ordered him to, “Sit. Make a move and I’ll shoot your head off.” To prove it, he unholstered a pistol, but kept it pointed down.

London crouched to one knee for a closer look at the alleged world’s greatest sniper. Malloy wasn’t bad looking. He was blond, had a manly, square jaw with reddish-blond scruff that almost made him handsome. She guesstimated him at around a hundred seventy pounds, six foot two inches tall, maybe three. Which made him underweight for his frame.

But there was something wrong with him, something she didn’t expect in a sniper, least of all in the world’s best. Malloy’s skin had a yellowish tint, his eyelids were puffy, and the whites of his eyeballs were scarlet, the irises nearly non- existent. His pupils were blown, dilated so wide only black showed. Flat-black. No sparkle. No nothing. It was like looking into emptiness. He didn’t look up at her, much less give any indication he recognized the trouble he was in. There was no sense talking to him. The lights weren’t on and nobody was home.

“What’s he on?” she asked her camping neighbor.

“My guess is meth,” Tom answered, crouched protectively beside her with the tip of his boot under Malloy’s chin. Which she was beginning to understand was what good men did for their female counterparts—protect them. Not because they disrespected women, but because they really were bigger-boned, heavier set, and didn’t think twice about using their larger bodies to shield those they’d been trained from childhood to protect and serve. Made her girly parts tingle remembering how hard it had been for Heston to stand down when she’d talked with Tom. She was beginning to understand honorable men, and how much she’d hurt Hes when she’d walked away. How much he’d truly cared for her. How much he still cared.

“And before you ask,” Asher cut in. “You’re right, London. There’s no way Malloy would’ve been able to shoot accurately in the condition he’s in. I suspect he’s been a long-time user and he very well could be the man who pulled the trigger the day Kelsey went down. But the second I came face to face with him, I knew he wasn’t capable of killing anything except maybe a beer. Ever hear of precision-guided munitions?”

Asher glanced over his shoulder at what looked like an assault rifle on steroids lying on its side on her site’s picnic table. “That’s most likely the same weapon he used the day he shot Kelsey and Alex. Looks like a stand-alone rifle, but it isn’t. It’s part of a highly technical system.”

She nodded, still trying to figure out what made a good-looking man destroy himself with drugs. PTSD maybe? The competition that came with being ‘the best of the best,’ as Bates said? Which made Malloy sound more like one of those silly military guys in the sci-fi movie, “Men in Black.” ‘Best of the best of the best,’ nothing. Malloy was the worst of the worst.

“The system works like this, London,” Heston said. “A shooter laser-paints the exact location he intends to hit, in this case, Alex’s shoulder or Kelsey’s head. Just the tip of her left ear would’ve been enough, especially since that’s closest to where she was grazed. The next time, Malloy only had to point the rifle in her direction and squeeze the trigger. The system would’ve done everything else. The smart bullet followed its programming, homed in on the laser designation, clipped Kelsey’s skull, and made Alex believe he’d seen red mist, when all he’d seen was skin, tissue, and the small amount of blood splatter caused when the round grazed her skull.”

“And yes, Agent Contreras” —Tom looked up at Heston— “that same rifle is one of the hundred ‘fire and forget’ proto-types stolen from McCormack Industries out of Rosslyn, Virginia, last year. I expect you know the place I mean.”

Heston blew out a huff. “I do. Jed McCormack’s a good friend to Alex, helped him start his business. I agree with your conclusion. A killer with this technology only has to get close to hit his mark.”

“And anyone else could have laser painted Kelsey’s head or her ear. Someone with a steadier hand,” Tom said.

“Works like horseshoes and hand grenades,” Asher added. “Close is good enough. No wonder Alex couldn’t determine direction or source.”

“Oh, my,” London breathed. “Smart bullets can adapt their flight path? They can change trajectories?” Sounded like science fiction. “What if Obermeyer’s plan is to kill the president? What if someone already laser-painted President Adams?”

“Jed already thought of that.” Heston tapped his temple. “As soon as McCormack realized what he’d created, he built a failsafe into the program that distorts any signal aimed toward the President, making one of his smart bullets just another dumb round that’ll fall to earth once it’s spent.”

“Deck’s on his way,” Asher informed Heston. “Not sure we should send Bates with him, though. You know how loyal Deck is to Alex and Kelsey.”

“Not worried,” Heston clipped, his gaze hard on Bates. “Accidents happen.”

“He’s gonna throw me out of that chopper, ain’t he? Once he gets high enough.” Bates kicked one water-logged boot out like a kid throwing a temper tantrum. “I ain’t going! You can’t make me. You can’t do that! I have rights!”

“Said the man who planned to torture and drown my woman,” Heston growled.

My woman? “Shut up, Devon,” London snapped, secretly pleased Heston had publicly claimed her. “Decker isn’t anything like you. He’s a Vietnam vet, not a chicken-shit, gambling addict. Shit! Here I’m trying to make you feel better, when I should be the one throwing you out of that helo.” This guy was getting on her last nerve.

“N-Not… k-kill… Prez… Not… Adams,” the meth-head on the ground sputtered in a sing-songy voice. “Wrong, bitches. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.”

London turned toward Malloy as Heston took a knee beside their suddenly talkative prisoner. The girlish giggle coming out of Malloy’s throat was creepy.

“Can I get you to loosen his ropes?” Heston asked her.

“You bet.” She scrambled to obey, but before she could, Tom reached one long arm past her and snapped the tie between Malloy’s hands and feet loose that kept him on his belly. All tension went out of his restraints.

“Thanks,” she told Tom. “Guess those knots weren’t very tight, huh?”

“Just your basic slip knot, ma’am.”

Well, damn. These guys knew a few things she didn’t. Mental note to self: Learn how to tie all kinds of knots.

Malloy wiggled over onto his butt, stretched his arms, legs, and fingers. Then crossed his legs, stared at Heston, and started singing a disjointed version of the theme from some cop show in that same weird girly voice.

“Alex got a call from your boss earlier today,” Heston interrupted the nonsensical crap. “He wants Alex to accept President Adams’ offer to take the VP position. Said that’s the only way Alex will be able to keep Kelsey safe, by doing what he’s told from now on. Sound familiar? Will your boss be good for his word if Alex signs on with President Adams as your boss’s snitch?”

London knelt there transfixed and silent, recalling Heston’s conversation with Mark in the camper. ‘ Alex will never do that. Not after what they did to Kelsey. Hell to the no.’ This had to be what they’d been talking about. But what on Earth did Obermeyer want Alex to do if he agreed to become VP? Or was Hes talking about the as-yet unnamed Irishman who’d threatened to kill Kelsey? Who exactly was the boss?

Malloy blinked as if he’d finally noticed Heston. “Yup.” He popped that damned P like killing Kelsey was a joke. “Boss wants Stewart to be the next VP so he can bust the Senate’s hold on the arms race. A couple other things, too. Heh, heh, heh.”

“What arms race?” Heston asked patiently, his tone mostly neutral, just a titch inquisitive.

“You know. The. Arms. Rac-c-c-c-ce.” Malloy dragged the last word into a hiss.

“What the fuck?” Asher roared.

“ ‘The Vice President of the United States shall be President of the Senate, but shall have no Vote, unless they be equally divided,’ ” Heston replied evenly. “United States Constitution Article 1, Section 3, clause 4. Look it up.”

“Your boss wants Alex to throw a congressional vote? On what, Malloy? Which House Resolution?” Tom asked, his voice as calmly calculating as Heston’s. Him using Malloy’s name was a smart move.

Malloy shrugged. “All I know is arms race and some bill that needs signing and some committee to… hmm…” He cupped his chin in one palm and rested that elbow on his knee as if he needed help holding his bobbing head still. “Something about the Taliban... Yada, yada… err… something about the Shah of Iran and... all the shit they wanna do over there... No. That’s not right. Geez. I get mixed up.” He shook his head then shrugged. “My head’s killing me. Thinking is hard, man. I don’t know, all right?”

Asher turned his back on the group and cursed, “You’ve got to be kidding me. This guy’s the world’s best sniper?”

London knew exactly how he felt.

“House Resolution thirty-seven,” Heston said quietly, “concerns Michael Keane’s nomination to become the next ambassador to Ireland. The vote’s divided. The Senate won’t approve him until the FBI completes their investigation. The House claims the GOP’s spreading propaganda and lies about an innocent man. Fact: Keane is accused of complicity with the current terrorist insurgency in northern Burkina Faso, West Africa. FBI believes he’s behind the uptick in gunrunners channeling stolen US Army weaponry through Ghana to Ansar ul Islam, the terrorist group behind the worst violence. If Alex accepts Adams’ offer, he’ll be the one casting the deciding vote on that resolution. Which makes Keane ambassador, but gets Kelsey killed if Alex doesn’t vote how Keane wants.”

“Where do you keep all this information?” Asher asked. “Sounds like you’re quoting straight out of an encyclopedia. You got a brain chip or something in your head I don’t know about?”

Heston tapped his temple again. “OCD, remember?”

“Not OCD, Agent Contreras,” Tom stated. “You have an eidetic memory. You can recall verbatim, images or written pages you’ve only seen once, right?”

Heston nodded.

“Impressive.”

“You guys are so screwed,” Malloy interrupted, sing-songing again, his hands clasped around his ankles, rocking back and forth like a kid on a sugar high. “Bitches, all of you. Americans are bitches. Ah ha, ha, ha!” He tipped his head back and grinned at the branches overhead. “Told ya so. Told ya so!”

“This is getting us nowhere,” Asher grouched.

Heston pushed to his feet. “On the contrary. We need to get this intel to Alex so he’s prepared for whatever the Irishman demands of him next time he calls. H.R. 37 won’t become public law until the stalemate in Congress is resolved. If Alex has to vote—”

“He’ll never side with that stinkin’ Irishman,” Asher declared.

“Mr. Stewart’s no Benedict Arnold,” Tom agreed staunchly. “He might be the orneriest son of a bitch I’ve ever worked with, but he’ll die before he betrays his country.”

“He is that,” Heston agreed.

“What’d you say your boss’s name is, Ryan?” London snuck that question in as innocently as she could.

Malloy grunted. “Nope. Sorry, sugar pie, but nope, nope, nope. Not gonna tell you. Not gonna tell anyone. Ober… Ober-What’s-His-Name’ll kill me. Nope. Not telling you nuthin’ so stop winking at me. You ain’t that cute.”

London sat back on her butt and crossed her legs Indian-style. “Just like Bates said. Michael Obermeyer. The Secretary of State is the man who ordered Kelsey’s murder.”

“I never said that!” Malloy bellowed. “You’re lying! I never told nobody it was him. You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

“Is he Irish?” Heston asked.

London stilled at that question. The name Obermeyer didn’t sound Irish, and if Heston was thinking Obermeyer was the Irishman, she doubted Obermeyer would’ve traveled across country from the East Coast just to give Alex a burner phone. For now, the Irishman was still an unknown quantity, but he needed to go down as much as Bates, Keane, Malloy, and now Obermeyer did. Talk about a conspiracy.

Malloy huffed. “Are you daft? Not everyone’s lucky enough to be Irish, you eedjit.”

Asher turned and growled, “Let’s shut the fuckers down. All of them. Now. Today. Come on, guys. The sooner we get this done, the better.”

He wasn’t wrong. “Not necessarily,” London said, mostly to herself.

Heston cocked his head and grinned at her. Tom was already staring at her.

She shrugged both shoulders. “I’ve read about Secretary of State Obermeyer. He’s a powerful man, Ash, and there’s rumors about mysterious deaths and missing bodies on his way to becoming Secretary of State. Can Alex Stewart take down this big of a politician? Is he powerful enough to overcome Obermeyer and his paid assassins? Look around us, guys.” She waved a hand at Bates and Malloy. “He’s got a network, not just a couple friends in high places. Look what he did to me. Alex doesn’t need to be as powerful. He needs to be more powerful. Is he?”

Asher winced.

Tom crossed his arms over his chest and spread his boots. “Understand what you’re saying, London. And you’re right. Alex needs to get ahead of Obermeyer—somehow. I have no idea how he’ll do it, but he’s dealt with crooked politicians before. All you guys need to do is get these two jerks back to Alex before they end up dead, too.”

London watched Heston tug his cell phone up from one of his many pockets and thumb-dial a number. “Mark, Heston here,” he said, then paused. “Yeah. Soon as Deck shows, we’re on our way. Bringing a couple guests.” He nodded at her and paused again. “Yup, we’ll bring them in the back door as usual. Understood. Look for us at eight, but expect us at midnight. Also…” He went on to tell Mark about H.R. 37, the stalemate in Congress, Obermeyer’s backing Keane, and the death threat to London.

How she wished she could hear the other side of that conversation. She’d met Mark and his wife briefly at the hospital. They were an adorable couple. And to think he was as lethal a sniper as Heston, and his wife was a physician. Mind boggling.

Heston ended the call with, “Copy that.” He winked at London and announced, “We’re Oscar Mike, people. Get these two jokers ready to fly.”

Bates, who’d been quiet during the discussion, whined, “Uh-uh. I ain’t going nowhere.”

London couldn’t believe he’d take Bates and Malloy into the same hospital that housed Kelsey. It didn’t make sense, but instead of questioning him and making him explain, she threw her support behind him. “What Heston said goes, Devon. Tied to a helo skid or belted inside, your choice. But you’re going wherever Heston says.”

“You always were a bitch,” he sneered.

She stepped into his space, stuck a finger in his chest, and declared, “Yeah, well, I’m a live bitch. So move your ass!”