Heston (In the Company of Snipers #25)

Chapter Thirty

Alex cocked his head at the sound of dead air in his earpiece. Zack wasn’t answering. Not unusual for a man when he went dark.

“That’s the problem with this younger generation,” Alex told the man straining against the expertly knotted red silk tie binding his too-soft-to-have-ever-worked-a-day-in-his-life hands, over the thick branch of this ancient oak. “They don’t think they need to keep in touch with their elders.”

Straining and kicking wouldn’t help Lancaster Wirth. He wasn’t going anywhere, not with his bare feet barely touching planet Earth and a gag in his mouth. Which was exactly how he’d treated London inside container three.

The best payback involved giving pricks like Lancaster a taste of what they’d brazenly dished out to others. He got off on beating, demeaning, and raping women? Now it was his turn in the barrel, so to speak. Alex had to admit, the idea had merit, stuffing this bloated ego into a steel drum, soldering the lid shut, leaving the screaming gunrunner, drug lord, murderer, and flesh peddler in the dark for the rest of time and eternity. But…

Alex shook off all the morbidly creative ways this day could end. He hadn’t brought a barrel with him, damn it. Maybe next time. Because there would always be a next time in this messed-up world.

At the moment, Tucker Chase had three agents from his psychic team combing through the forensic evidence in Keane’s containers. They’d collected plenty of DNA evidence. It was everywhere, more proof that those slick bastards thoroughly believed they were untouchable. But, since DNA took months to process, Tucker also sent his star investigator, Eden Stark Winchester, into container three to work her psychic magic.

All she’d had to do was simply touch the floor that London had bled on, that her poor toes had slipped and slid over while she’d been beaten. With her sensitive fingertips, Eden had seen the ghastly minute-by-minute replay of what London endured. Eden had already proven that Lancaster had restrained London in container three and how. She knew Obermeyer, Keane, and Lancaster were joint owners in their illicit business. But with her psychic skills, Eden had seen Lancaster deliberately hang an unconscious London by her wrists to those overhead pipes. She’d watched him joke and chat with Obermeyer and Keane while he’d tied a thick, dense hood over London’s head. She’d watched him turn on the hose that Keane had so obediently provided. Lancaster was the bastard who’d waterboarded London, and he’d damned near drowned her.

Eden heard Obermeyer and Keane ask London multiple times where Alex was.

What Alex hadn’t known, until Tucker relayed Eden’s findings, was that, somehow, Lancaster, Obermeyer, and Keane had known Kelsey was no longer in Washington, that they couldn’t use her to get to him. Alex stiffened as he recalled how many times London had begged them to stop hurting her. How over and over, she’d told Lancaster, “I don’t know where h-h-he is.”

Which was true. But instead of inventing a plausible lie to forestall more pain, she’d simply taken the hits and endured to the end. Foolish? Yes, but also damned brave.

Cocking his neck, Alex lifted one shoulder to squelch the tension radiating up his neck. London, God bless her, shouldn’t have protected him, shouldn’t have bled a single drop of blood for him. She should’ve given him up. That would’ve been smart. But he had to respect a fellow warrior who’d given all, who’d stared into the face of Death and spat in its eye, if only to prove that she could. Which made her USMC material in his book.

All Wirth and Obermeyer’d had to do was ask. Alex would’ve told them precisely where to find him. Of course, he would’ve killed them when they’d arrived, that was a given. Overall, it would’ve saved everyone this troublesome day, and London wouldn’t be suffering like she was. But they hadn’t asked. Instead, they’d tortured the courageous young woman Alex owed his wife’s life to. Big fuckin’ mistake.

Eventually, the coroner and the DNA would corroborate Eden’s intel. Too bad that wouldn’t happen fast enough to save Lancaster or his son, the infamous, chicken-shit that Alex had erroneously dubbed ‘the Irishman.’

Irish, nothing. The Wirths might’ve come from Irish stock, but they were lowlifes. Certainly nothing like Patrick Bradley Stewart, Alex’s paternal grandfather, a true Irishman who’d fought bravely at Iwo Jima in World War Two, who’d come home injured, then taken in Alex and his mom. That after Mel, Gramp’s son, also Alex’s deadbeat father, had deserted his wife and only child to run off and play bigshot with Pops Delaney, the kingpin of the Irish Mafia in Boston. Delaney, who Alex now knew had been his gawddamned uncle. The ungrateful son who’d changed his name from Stewart to Delaney. The child Gramps had never talked about, not even once.

Talk about a rude awakening, to find yourself in line to inherit a ‘family business’ you never knew existed. Which was why those thousands of dollars of alleged ‘insurance’ money from the Irish mob had rained down on Alex, since Jameson had righteously ended Delaney’s daughter in Boston. Lancaster must’ve been the one sending it. He’d honestly thought Alex could be bought?

Hell, no. That money was blood money and Alex made sure the local police charity received every last tainted penny. Alex didn’t want it. Would’ve sent it back if he’d known Lancaster Wirth was behind it.

After container three, Eden investigated the other containers and revealed the names of the women and children Keane had kidnapped and kept in those containers until he could transport them overseas. Like cargo, the bastard. Like get-rich-easy merchandise. With Keane now on a slab at the county morgue, Alex would make damned sure London was the last woman Lancaster ever touched again. Alex couldn’t destroy every pedophile and flesh peddler in the world, but he could end this one. And he would.

Karma was a sneaky bitch. She’d provided the perfect branch of the perfect tree at the perfect height for this perfect meeting. Alex had used it before, that time to hang a six-point buck he’d shot during a long-ago deer season. Coincidentally, this branch was every bit as sturdy as those metal pipes in container three, the ones where Obermeyer, Keane, and Lancaster Wirth had hung London Wilde. Where they’d taken turns battering her. Asking her stupid questions.

All by itself, this branch was just a nice piece of oak. Fairly round. Bare of bark. Strong as steel. Hard. It hadn’t bowed when it accepted Lancaster’s full, dead weight. Well, not exactly, dead. Not then, and not yet. Alex had only knocked Lancaster out once he’d caught up with him in this dark, primeval, Virginia forest. But he was wide awake now.

The saliva in Alex’s mouth dried at the nightmare Heston’s poor woman had lived through. Especially now that, thanks to Mother, he knew everything there was to know about Obermeyer’s elite ‘hunting club’ for the rich and famous perverts he’d called friends. Alex knew about the missing women up and down the Eastern Seaboard who’d been kidnapped, hunted like wild animals, raped for sport, then murdered in these same woods. He knew about the families who would never find the closure they needed to heal, who’d never know what happened here. Which made Obermeyer’s and his lackeys’ crimes all the more reprehensible. There’d be no funerals. No last rites. No comfort. Those poor families would live in hell wondering and worrying about what happened to their sisters, daughters, girlfriends—their wives—for the rest of their lives.

Alex had a list of other names to go along with the crimes against those murdered women now. Two US senators, one from New York, the other from California. Several successful tech giants, one in Texas, the other in California. A Canadian billionaire. A prime minister. Three princes, none of them from Europe and none in line for any throne. A son of a bitchin’ priest. A recently wedded movie star. Numerous others who wouldn’t live long enough to so much as wish they’d never partied with the powerful, generous Secretary of State Tristan Obermeyer.

Alex tipped his aching head damned near to his shoulder to control the grip of tension on those stubborn neck muscles. He used to enjoy hunting. Man against beast was an honorable contest, when the kill was necessary to live and high-powered scopes weren’t used. But today? He was nothing but a garbage man.

As silent as a wraith, Zack stepped out of the thickening gloom brought on by the early sunset in any forest. Shadows had grown longer and darker as the day drew to a close. Without a lick of regard to his unwilling passenger, Zack jerked the dangling body off his shoulder and tossed Lancaster’s son Miles to the ground at his father’s feet. “Found your fuckwit son.”

The senior Wirth thrashed, grunted, and whined, no doubt begging for his son’s life.

Yeah, that wasn’t going to happen.

A wicked, animalistic growl from Zack silenced him. The bastard thought he had a dog in this fight? Hardly.

The son certainly hadn’t been cut out to follow in his father’s footsteps. Tsk, tsk. But Miles had aided and abetted the attempt on Kelsey’s life, the cold-blooded murder of Tandy Lockwood, and most likely, what happened to every last one of the missing women. He had delivered the burner phone to Alex on Mount Rainier. He’d known damned well then what his old man had planned for Kelsey. Miles had, in fact, contracted the hitman, Malloy, to shoot-to-miss her. The Wirths hadn’t wanted her dead. They’d only wanted Alex in their pocket, frightened enough to willingly do anything to save his wife, enough to sway congressional votes their way.

So here Alex was. Frightened? Of these bastards? Never. Not even breathing hard. Certainly not in either of their pockets. They thought they could scare him? That he’d ever betray his country? That he wouldn’t hunt down any man or woman who ever—EVER—threatened his wife? Fools. All they’d done was piss him off. If they’d done their research, they’d have known not to challenge a United States Marine. Ever.

The fact that Miles had been in these woods playing hide-and-seek with his father, proved the younger Wirth’s complicity in all London had endured. True, she hadn’t officially signed onto The TEAM, but inadvertently, she had protected Alex and Kelsey, and she was Heston’s woman. And no one—NO ONE—fucked with Alex’s family.

Rolling his head back, he let his lungs fill with the pleasant scents of the approaching cool weather. Maybe snow. Autumn for sure. Crisp evergreens, cedars, and fallen leaves, absolutely. The rich loamy scent of decay that spoke eloquently of September’s demise and winter’s approach. At last. It was time. The stage was set. Alex was done playing.

He stepped into where Lancaster was hanging and looked up at the man. The bastard glared down at him from between his stretched arms as if he could hurt Alex. Not hardly. Lancaster had worked up a good sweat, though. The pits of his fancy shirt were stained, as was the front, where spit from the soaking wet gag in his mouth trickled over his chin and down his neck.

“So…” Alex breathed, braced for what was to come. “You think you can order a hit on my wife , hunt my TEAM , invade the privacy of my family , threaten and rape defenseless women? You think you can beat London Wilde? And what? I’d just roll over and cower in fear—of you? What are you, Lancaster? The dumbest fuck on the planet?”

The senior Wirth whined and kicked at the ground his feet couldn’t quite reach.

Poetic justice, that. Alex couldn’t help the evil smile twitching the corners of his lips. Turn-about was fair play after all.

Lancaster was now feeling the same fear London felt. Like her, he wasn’t up against an equal. Not by a long shot… No pun intended.

Ironically, Wirth writhed against the strength of his own pretty, red tie. Silk. Spun by worms a world away. Just like the oak branch, strong and durable. Bet he never guessed he was sealing his fate with that early morning decision of his to look—dapper.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Alex said conversationally. “I’ll let you live long enough to watch Zack skin Junior alive. He’ll start slow with your kid’s face, then his neck and chest. You know, the way you guys beat London Wilde. You worked her face over pretty good. She’s got a concussion for sure. Her neck’s bruised as fuck. Why? Because you thought choking her would make her climax? That you could get her off before you killed her? Who broke her ribs? You?”

Wirth shook his head for all it was— worth.

Not much.

Alex kept going. “She’s probably bleeding internally. Must’ve been hard, punching a small woman’s belly, a little thing who couldn’t fight back. Three against one, you like those odds? Maybe that’s what I’ll do. I’ll give you three-to-one odds Junior here won’t live long enough to wake up and cry for his daddy. You like the odds you gave London Wilde now?”

Wirth moaned and squirmed like a whore at a biker convention.

“No?” Alex asked as if he were surprised. Which he wasn’t. Men like the Wirths were cowards first, dishonest, dirty businessmen second. “Guess we’ll see. But by the time we’re done with your baby boy, we’ll have carved every square inch of hide off his body. If he’s stronger than he looks, if he isn’t dead by then, I’ll personally cut off his limp dick, stuff it down your throat, and let you choke on it. How do you like the odds you gave London Wilde now?”

Wirth screamed, moaned, and bellowed into his gag. Already dark and frayed, it was only getting darker. He lifted his knees and kicked both feet out, aiming to strike Alex. But missing. He pitched his head back. The veins on his forehead and in his neck looked like they were ready to pop. He huffed and puffed and he cried. He might’ve been pleading. Alex couldn’t tell. Didn’t care. He’d never learned to translate chicken shit.

By now, Wirth also knew he’d lost everything he should’ve valued more than the blood money he’d spent his life squandering.

With a chin nod, Alex signaled Zack to get to work.

Zack bent over the younger Wirth, bullied him over his shoulder, walked over to the nearby Loblolly pine, and dropped Miles into the hole beneath the tree. Alex had dug the grave after he’d stepped off The TEAM helo’s skids earlier. Digging graves was easy when a guy used small charges.

The tree itself had to be at least sixty feet tall. Most of its remaining branches were higher up its trunk, leaving the lower trunk bare. Loblollies grew like that in forests packed with other pines. They dropped their lowest branches while reaching for the sun. That left a lot of room for graves at their feet. A country boy from Virginia knew things like that.

Lancaster should’ve done his homework.

What no one else in America and the world knew, except President Adams, was that Alex and Zack were two of the ten deadliest assassins to come out of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. Back in the day, before Alex lost Sara and Abby, they’d been part of a top-secret black ops team, and President Adams had been their commanding officer. They’d taken out higher value targets than those named on the infamous Most Wanted deck of playing cards. Also unknown to Americans, not all those HVTs had been in Iraq. Some were taken down deep inside Turkey, Egypt, Russia, China, and Ukraine. Bosnia. Segovia. Canada. France. Even in America. Another thing most Americans didn’t care to know or understand: America’s enemies were everywhere.

“Finish him,” Alex ordered without venom. Another form of torture was to make the victim believe that their suffering had no effect on you.

Zack dropped into the hole, straddled Miles’ prone body, flicked his hunting knife high over his head, and commenced slicing. Which was all for show. Also in that hole was a plastic bag full of cloth strips soaked in red dye that, in low light, resembled flayed strips of human skin.

When the first ‘bloody’ ribbon flew over Zack’s shoulder, Lancaster screamed into his gag. He kicked harder. He cried. Sobbed. Sweated. Writhed as if he were the one being sliced. Which was precisely the result Alex wanted: the father to believe the son suffered for the sins the father had inflicted on Kelsey and London. On every single woman and child whose lives he’d destroyed. On their families.

Alex and Zack hadn’t gotten this far in the covert surveillance business by being stupid. They both knew the worst torture took place in the mind. Miles wasn’t being skinned, wasn’t being touched by that shiny blade. But Lancaster thought he was. Fear was the abso-fuckin’-lutely perfect torture for a bastard who sold human flesh, raped, and beat women. Mental torture. Imagination at its best and its worst. That was what produced the loveliest, most gruesome horror—the mind.

Lancaster was right then choking. If he kept that up, he’d stroke out and suffocate before the first round bell rang. All while Miles lay napping inside that nice cool hole. Completely unaware of how close he was to his father. To death.

Tsk, tsk. Can’t have that.

Zack grunted and sawed his arm, as if he’d gotten to a particularly tough piece of meat. If Lancaster had a lick of sense, he’d realize this was a set-up. Miles wasn’t screaming or fighting back. That should’ve been Lancaster’s first clue. A smart person would’ve come to at the first slice of Zack’s blade. But fear, not logic, ruled Lancaster now. Precisely what Alex wanted.

Making it look believable, Zack slapped both bloody, gloved hands to the sides of the grave and pulled himself out of the hole. With a show of bravado, he tossed a handful of bloody ‘skin’ at Lancaster’s squirming feet and bragged to Alex, “Cut the bastard’s dick off so you don’t have to get your hands dirty. He’s all yours.”

Those bloody, loosely knotted strings looked nothing like skin or a guy’s dick, but Wirth was deep into believing. More grunting. More whining. Wordless begging. More thrashing hysterics that wouldn’t make a lick of difference in the end.

Enough was enough. How many women had Lancaster made bleed and cry? What’d he do then? Laugh in their face, while they curled up and died? Walk away like they were nothing? Alex honestly didn’t want to know.

“Shut the fuck up!” he bellowed. “You started this shitshow, Lancaster Wirth. I’m ending it.” Alex pulled the SIG from the holster cup under his left arm and shot Lancaster Wirth in his high and mighty forehead. Twice. Playtime was over.

The man’s body went slack. At the same time, Zack ended Miles Wirth with a double tap. Alex retrieved his blade and cut Lancaster down, then dragged his body to the grave where his son lay.

“We didn’t used to bury them,” Zack commented drily.

“This time’s different.” Lifting one knee, Alex booted Lancaster over the edge. Kelsey’s would-be murderer landed face-down on his dead son’s body.

“Shoulda buried them alive, both in the same grave,” Zack muttered. “Made them stare at each other until Hell swallowed them.”

“Yeah, I thought of that. But this bastard needed the same kind of Hell he condemned his victims’ families to. His last thought was that his son was being butchered. That you were torturing the baby boy he might’ve loved at least once in his life. Let him rot in Hell believing that.”

“You’re getting soft.”

“Nope. Just better. Let’s bury this shit.” Alex handed Zack one of the two folding shovels he’d brought with him, while he used the other. “Heston took care of Obermeyer?”

“Sure did. You might want to talk to him about what he did in the Army, though. Got a feeling he’s more like us than we thought.”

“Already talked with Adams, and you’re right. Contreras was black ops, too. Who’s left?”

“No one. Tucker Chase took out the ones I didn’t. It’s over. Let’s finish burying these two and get you back to the pretty saint you married.”

Alex nodded in the dark. He had married a pretty saint, and he’d done a lot of hard thinking these past few troublesome days about all Kelsey meant to him. About who mattered most. About the kind of man he was and the person he wanted to be. About The TEAM and the men and women he served with. About President Adams’ upcoming nomination for Alex to be his vice president.

A dozen years ago, Alex never thought he’d be the successful businessman he was today. He’d been a has-been back then, a morally bankrupt assassin, starting a business of like-minded mercenaries, all in the name of service to their country. Call it what you will, The TEAM was just that, a team of assassins. Yes, he’d hired only honorable, decent people who cared about this fucked-up land called America. He’d made a few blunders, but he’d more than made up for those missteps. His reputation for getting the impossible jobs done made him who he was today. He had more business than he needed. More money than he could ever spend.

It was time to call a spade a spade. Kelsey and the kids were more important than any amount of money and he didn’t give a flying rat’s ass about his reputation or being VP. It was over. Finally. He’d done all he could. He’d given enough to his country. Kelsey had too.

“Let’s go home,” he told the steadfast man at his side.

Alex got the answer he expected. “Copy that, Boss.”