Cold Spite, page 5
part #1 of Cold Justice® - Most Wanted Series
The lump of grief wedged in her throat was so big it threatened to suffocate her.
“David?” she croaked.
She crept into the foyer, listening to the sixth sense that told her something was wrong.
She eased through the hallway and headed left toward the living room where David liked to relax and eat dinner in front of whatever sport was playing on TV.
A hockey game was muted on the screen, but David wasn’t anywhere to be seen. She went to the kitchen. A pint glass like the ones she’d had in her home sat beside the sink. A wineglass beside it. She glanced out of the window at the incredible backyard that was lit with pool lights.
The feeling of unease increased. Where was he?
She walked over to the French doors, and her eyes widened in shock.
David lay face down, unmoving on the flagstones. She ran outside to his unmoving form. A pool of blood soaked the slabs beneath his head. She didn’t want to move him, so she slipped her fingers into the collar of his shirt and searched for a pulse in his neck. His skin was warm but there was no pulse beneath his skin. No breath being drawn in and out of his lungs.
He was dead.
He’d been dead for a while.
It didn’t make sense.
Another wave of grief slammed into her.
She sat back on her heels as her brain tried to compute the events of the evening. What on earth was going on?
Was this an attack on the FBI? Did she need to warn her fellow agents? She fumbled for her phone then spotted a Glock lying on the pool deck.
David’s service weapon?
She went over and squatted beside it.
A Glock 23.
She frowned.
David carried a Glock 22 as his service weapon.
She noticed a familiar scratch on the barrel. Her blood stalled inside her veins, and the world started to spin.
That was her service weapon.
She placed her hands on the ground to combat the dizziness.
Absolutely nothing made sense.
Until it did.
Cold washed over her.
She stared at poor, beautiful David whose life had been stolen from him. Her friend. Her colleague.
Someone had used her service weapon—a weapon that had been in her home when she’d left for her run—to murder her colleague and then left it here for the authorities to find. Presumably, that same someone had also set fire to her apartment? Had they murdered Valerie thinking she was Delilah? She flashed back to her friend wearing her FBI ball cap. They had similar hair and features and were enough of a similar size to raid each other’s closets. Her living room had been in darkness except for the TV.
Her stomach churned, but she dared not puke.
Oh, God.
Had someone—Joseph Scanlon immediately sprang to mind—created some sort of murder-suicide scenario in an attempt to get away with killing her? Disgracing her—the way he’d disgraced himself and his uniform?
Assuming the killer had come straight here from her place after killing Valerie and setting the fire, it would be difficult for a Medical Examiner to distinguish whether Valerie or David had died first.
Bile rose up her throat at the thought of these two beautiful souls being murdered. No way this was a coincidence—not when she tied them together so neatly. She forced the nausea away and breathed deeply.
The terrible beauty of this plan was that once authorities figured out the body at her place was Valerie and not Delilah, investigators would likely believe she was involved with a double homicide.
Had she seen anyone who could alibi her in the last few hours? The firefighter? Maybe she’d luck out and be spotted running on someone’s doorbell camera. Unfortunately, nothing said she couldn’t have murdered Valerie before setting the fire and going for a run, then come over here to shoot David dead.
She’d even texted him her intention for goodness’ sake.
Scanlon.
It had to be Scanlon.
No one else she’d put away would be this coldly vindictive. Or this dangerous.
The question was, what did she do about it?
Did she go to Ridgeway?
He was strictly by the book and would suspend her from duty until an investigation was completed, which would take months if not years. And it wouldn’t take Scanlon long to discover she wasn’t really dead, which would put a giant bullseye on her back.
She had no doubt he had an alibi all lined up for tonight.
She glanced at the gun. Scanlon wouldn’t be sloppy enough to leave his own DNA or prints on the weapon. And, despite what they showed on TV, the chance of the lab being able to match what was left of the slug that had killed David back to her gun with any degree of certainty, was remote at best.
David deserved justice.
So did Valerie.
Delilah made a decision, one that would probably cost her her career. But no way would she leave the incriminating evidence behind and make herself the target of an investigation that would sideline her indefinitely when she knew she was innocent. She ran into the kitchen and used a dish cloth to open the drawer where she knew David kept his freezer bags. Pulled out two and hip-checked the drawer closed again. She froze as she noticed the dirty glass beside the sink again. It had an eagle carrying a barrel—from her favorite brewery.
It was hers.
She knew it was hers.
The son of a bitch had taken the used glass from her apartment after murdering her best friend, presumably mistaking Valerie for Delilah.
She put the glass in the sink and ran the water until it became hot. Used the dish towel to grab the detergent and squirted a big dollop of soap inside the glass. She washed it thoroughly then rinsed it inside and out with the searingly hot water.
That should get rid of any trace of her DNA and prints.
She left the glass in the sink.
Next, she went back outside to David. Wished she could go back in time and save him. But wishes were pointless and did neither of them any good.
The most effective way to hunt Scanlon would be to pretend she was dead. She’d make some calls as soon as she got somewhere safe.
She had connections.
They’d help her.
She scooped up her service weapon using the large Ziplock bag. She checked the chamber and the magazine. Looked like one bullet had been fired. One was enough when it hit the right place.
Presumably, the killer had used a suppressor and had taken that with him. How had he murdered Val?
She flinched away from even thinking about it.
Hopefully, Val had died quickly. Scanlon was a former sniper and Navy SEAL. He knew a thousand ways to kill someone.
She crouched and looked around for the bullet casing.
Didn’t see it.
Where would Scanlon have shot from?
She glanced at the house.
The shadows—where else?
She scooted toward the side of the house and, after a brief search, spotted the gleam of brass along the narrow pathway that edged the south side of the building.
She put the bagged weapon and the bullet casing into her large inside jacket pocket and then retraced her steps, wiping down anything she might have touched.
On a small, recessed, kitchen counter that David used to stash his mail, she spotted his old cell phone and forty dollars in cash. He’d dropped the cell a couple of weeks ago, and the screen had cracked, but she knew it still worked because she’d teased him about his need to have the best of everything.
The lump in her throat kept growing.
Why shouldn’t he have the best?
He deserved it.
A tear dripped down her face, and she wiped her cheek impatiently on her arm. She took the money with the vow to pay it back, then slipped the cell into her pocket along with a charger. Then she powered down her work cell and popped the SIM card. Slid the phone into her pocket and the SIM into her wallet beside the hundred and forty dollars, which was all she had on her person.
Then she went back to her car, keeping her head down as she climbed inside, killing the dome light.
There was no reason now for the FBI to be chasing her in response to David’s murder—unless she’d missed something else Scanlon had planted, but she doubted it. A murder weapon and a used glass were more than enough physical evidence to tie her to the crime scene—especially combined with the fire at her place.
Her fingers gripped the steering wheel as she tried not to panic. Maybe she was acting crazy. Maybe talking to Ridgeway was the most sensible move?
She realized she was physically shaking. If she went to Ridgeway, she’d be looking over her shoulder for the rest of her life even if he believed her. The former Navy SEAL was a talented marksman, and there were a million ways he could get to her without her even spotting him.
She refused to live like that.
There was no proof it even was Scanlon, not yet anyway.
She wouldn’t let him get away with what he’d done. Even if it cost her the only job she’d ever wanted, she wouldn’t let the killer walk calmly away and not face the consequences.
She drew in a deep breath. David would have applauded this plan. She knew he would.
Another tear tracked down her left cheek. She scrubbed it away.
It would be a couple of days before Valerie’s body was formally identified, which gave Delilah time to make a solid game plan.
Grief hit her all over again that these two brilliant, vibrant human beings had been murdered. The fact it had been because of their association with her made the guilt pile high, but also increased her determination to find their killer while she held the upper hand. It wouldn’t last for long.
She forced herself to move. To reverse her SUV and drive calmly away even though it went against everything she’d been trained for, everything she believed in.
It felt like a disservice to Valerie and to the friends, colleagues, and family members who would mourn both Delilah Quinn and David Gonzales. But by going off the grid, she could track down Scanlon before he realized anyone was onto him. Find their killer. And then she’d take great pleasure in taking him down and putting him away. Again.
Unfortunately, she couldn’t do it alone, and she was going to have to ask for help from the one man she’d hoped never to talk to again. Her personal feelings had nothing to do with this anymore. He needed to know about the danger. And he had resources she wanted access to.
Plus, he owed her, even if he would never fully understand the depth of how much he’d hurt her. He owed her.
He might be a rat bastard, but he was an honorable rat bastard.
Chapter Seven
Mon., 10:00 p.m. Local Bar
Cas Demarco nursed his Dance of Days pale ale and glanced up at the hockey game on the TV screen in the corner of the bar. He had no skin in the game and found his attention wandering.
Gold Team had returned to Quantico from Boston on a commercial flight yesterday afternoon, and they’d spent today cleaning and checking their equipment.
Despite the successful outcome to the last mission, a thin pall of misery hung over the squad. The memorial service for the former team leader who’d lost his life in an air crash last month was being held the day after tomorrow, and Cas knew he wasn’t the only one who wasn’t yet ready to say goodbye. He wished to hell someone had a few answers as to why the plane had gone down.
Using the mirror behind the bar, he watched Jordan Krychek, who sat at a table by himself, nursing a beer. Krychek had been in Africa with Kurt Montana on a secret mission but had left the day before Montana—officially making him the luckiest bastard on the planet. He didn’t look like he felt lucky though. He looked miserable.
Krychek had been closed-lipped since his return but was clearly suffering from survivor’s guilt, which Cas understood all too well. He had the feeling there was more to this story. Classified stuff. He wanted to know everything, but he’d resigned himself to having to wait. For now.
He’d learned patience.
Slowly.
Torturously.
Beaten into him by Firearms Instructors who, combined, knew more about the fine art of sniping than he could ever hope to learn.
Patience was essential in his line of work—hunting people who didn’t want to be found without them ever suspecting. Ironically, he’d never imagined he’d become a sniper when he’d joined HRT; he’d assumed he’d be knocking down doors. Not that the snipers weren’t capable of knocking down doors when occasion required. And the assaulters could shoot their asses off too. But the emphasis on training and practice was key.
Marksmanship was a degradable skill.
It was not unusual for any member of HRT to shoot more than a thousand rounds in a week. Even today, he’d spent an hour in the Thunder Dome with his favorite Heckler & Koch MSG90 punching 7.62x51mm NATO rounds into a blacked-out silhouette.
He’d come a long way from the unwanted and unloved boy growing up in a foster home—and from his Navy SEAL and FBI undercover days.
Although sniping wasn’t that different to working undercover. Snipers saw things others never noticed. They performed complex calculations in a split second, taking in everything from windage to the curvature of the earth’s surface before making a shot. The same way an undercover agent judged facial expressions, voice tone, and every aspect of their surroundings to make sure they weren’t blown. Snipers remained hidden and camouflaged from view, even when lying in plain sight. Same could be said of being embedded with killers and cartel members—they looked right at you and never saw who you truly were until it was too late.
If they penetrated the veil, you were dead.
He’d enjoyed it for a little while, the cat and mouse, shutting down bad guys who trafficked misery in all its various guises. But seeing the number of innocents who got caught up in the life, who became entangled whether they liked it or not…that had taken a toll.
It could have so easily have been him.
One flip.
Heads or tails.
Heaven or Hell.
One bad decision could have led him down a different path. He’d enlisted on his eighteenth birthday, a week after one of his friends had overdosed on opioids.
The idea that he, a pathetic, unwanted scrap of a human being could make it as far as he had was living proof that the American Dream was alive and well. He was one of the lucky ones—and if someone had said that to his bitter, sullen, eighteen-year-old self, he’d have spit in their eye.
He took a drink as the brown-eyed gaze of a woman who’d always seen straight to the heart of him flashed into his brain.
Delilah Quinn.
The smartest person he’d ever met. And the sexiest. And the most impetuous. That was saying something, given he’d been a SEAL and some of those guys were batshit.
Where was she now?
Still in San Diego last he’d heard. Probably married to some highflyer.
Moisture evaporated from his mouth, and he took another sip of beer to ease the dryness.
Regret was never far behind thoughts of Delilah. The sounds she’d made, the look of betrayal on her face when he’d told her it was over…it haunted him still.
In the end, she’d let him go without another word.
What had he expected?
That she’d ignore his callous words and shitty behavior and get herself reassigned to this side of the country so they would have some sort of chance together? That she’d beg for scraps? From an asshole like him?
Not Delilah.
After what he’d said to her, he was lucky she hadn’t shot him. She was not the sort of woman to beg, or to follow a man at the cost of her own career.
Why should she?
He’d avoided her at trial. It had been easy. His identity had been protected—although he figured he probably shouldn’t vacation in Mexico or Colombia any time soon.
Delilah though, she’d gotten up on that stand and testified like a badass, then headed back to work the next day, nothing but her gold shield and service weapon for protection.
She terrified him.
On every level.
Thankfully, the cartel tended to avoid direct confrontations with US Government officials—with the notable exception of last month’s escapade in Arizona. But that had been a byproduct of one man’s evil and another man’s desperation, rather than company policy.
The cartel had come off worse during that exchange which would hopefully prove a further deterrent to others thinking about attacking US citizens. But nothing would really change. The void would be filled, and he could only pray the successors were less bloodthirsty than the Santiagos.
The bar door opened, and ten pairs of eyes swiveled to check out the potential danger.
A sweet-looking blonde with Shirley Temple curls came inside and looked around. She hit the bar, showed her driver’s license, and ordered a beer. She stood nervously tapping her painted nails on the counter while the barkeep fulfilled her order.
She checked her phone, and for about five seconds, Cas contemplated saying something, but he was too damned tired. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ford Cadell eyeing the pretty, young woman with interest. Cadell was a good-looking motherfucker. Thankfully, their other leading Lothario, Ryan Sullivan, was playing pool in the back room.
It was late.
He should go home because they had to be up early tomorrow, and he should make sure he had a clean, pressed shirt ready for Wednesday.
The blonde paid for her beer and looked around for somewhere to sit. Cas watched her via the mirror as she chose the seat at a table next to Krychek. She tried to strike up a conversation with the taciturn operator.
Good luck with that.
Cas shared an amused look with Cadell. Cadell grinned and finished his drink, leaving the glass on the counter. He nodded to Cas and headed out the door.
Cas tipped his glass back, about to do the same as a news story on the TV caught his eye. The footage was of a house fire, but it was the ticker tape that grabbed his attention.
An FBI agent from the San Diego Field Office was missing, feared dead, following a fierce blaze.
