Crossfire (8 page)

As Cait was on her way out of the building with the uniformed cop who’d offered to run her by her house, Valentine Snow and Brendan O’Neill were coming in.

‘‘Just the woman I wanted to see,’’ Valentine said.

‘‘Aw, jeez,’’ Cait said. ‘‘Look, I’d love to get rid of another damn cat, and I’m sure you’d be a crackerjack kitty mommy, but right now I just don’t have the time—’’

‘‘I think you’d best be making the time, Caitlin,’’ Brendan said, his tone more serious than she’d ever heard it.

‘‘It’s important.’’ Val seconded his quiet comment. ‘‘I think your sniper left me a letter.’’

Well, that certainly got her attention. And although she’d been feeling like a wrung-out dishrag only a moment earlier, a jolt of adrenaline came crashing through her system, bringing with it a second wind.

‘‘I’m afraid I touched the cards,’’ Val apologized as she, Brendan, Manning, who hadn’t yet escaped, and Cait sat at his desk in the homicide bullpen. ‘‘But we left the note for you.’’

‘‘Good thinking.’’ Cait snapped on the latex gloves that the detective took from the box in his bottom drawer.

Next she took the tweezers he handed her and pulled out the note, which, dammit, had been printed on ordinary white copy paper.

‘‘ ‘Dear Valentine Snow,’ ’’ she read aloud. ‘‘ ‘I’ve been a big fan of yours since you first appeared on network TV. You were—and still are—the perfect combination of beauty and brains, and I cannot understand why those idiots at the network would want to get rid of you and put that blond bimbo who couldn’t find a news story if it bit her on her skinny, nonexistent ass in your place.’ ’’

Looking up at Val, Cait said, ‘‘That would be Meredith Fuller.’’

‘‘I suppose so,’’ Val murmured. ‘‘Though she’s no bimbo. And actually the decision to leave was mine.’’

‘‘So I heard.’’

Cait had also read in People magazine, while waiting to get her teeth cleaned, that the network brass had ponied up another million to add to Valentine’s current six-million-dollar-a-year salary if she would only agree to take over the anchor desk on the nightly news. Which, according to the article, she’d turned down flat.

‘‘He does have one thing right,’’ Brendan offered. ‘‘Your ass is decidedly finer.’’

His voice had turned as rich as cream over Irish whiskey.

Valentine flushed prettily.

Cait, who didn’t need her detective skills to figure out that something was going on between the owner of the pub and television’s former six-million-dollar woman, could practically see the birds and little hearts circling around Val’s head.

The thing was, from the vibes she was getting, they hadn’t figured it out yet, or acted on it.

She cleared her throat before everyone in the bullpen ended up getting pheromone poisoning.

‘‘Getting back to the subject at hand.’’ She returned to reading. ‘‘ ‘As your most faithful fan, I decided to do something to help you get your old job back. Trust me, Valentine, this is going to be the story of the year. Decade. Hell, it may even win you a Pulitzer.’ ’’

‘‘A Peabody,’’ Val murmured.

Cait looked up.

‘‘Pulitzers are for print, photography, and music. Peabodys are pretty much the equivalent, given in television and radio.’’

‘‘Which you’ve already won,’’ Brendan said. ‘‘For your Desert Storm reporting.’’

Val looked surprised by that. And more than a little pleased. ‘‘I’m amazed you know that.’’

‘‘It was well deserved,’’ he said. ‘‘I was still living in Ireland at the time, but the series ran on RTÉ. That’s Irish national television,’’ he informed Cait.

‘‘I wasn’t aware it went international,’’ Val said.

‘‘Aye, it did. In fact, when I started considering places to live in America, I kept thinking about Somersett, because of that interview you did with Michael Gannon, in the surgery.’’

‘‘That was when he was a captain,’’ she remembered. ‘‘And a doctor.’’

‘‘He’s lived a complex life, to be sure,’’ Brendan agreed. ‘‘At the time, everyone in The Rose, which would be the pub I was running at the time, was glued to the set every night for a week. You even preempted a rugby match between Connacht and Munster.’’

‘‘That’s probably why you remembered,’’ she demurred.

‘‘Not at all,’’ he said.

Jeez, Cait thought. Why didn’t the two of them just get a room?

‘‘That’s very impressive,’’ Cait said through set teeth. ‘‘But it’s not to our point.’’

‘‘It’s still a clue,’’ Manning said.

‘‘Because whoever sent the note isn’t up on broadcasting,’’ Cait agreed.

‘‘Obviously not,’’ Val agreed, slipping from starry-eyed-teenager-hoping-to-be-asked-to-the-prom foolishness back into business newswoman mode.

‘‘ ‘You did have one thing wrong,’ ’’ the printed note continued. ‘‘ ‘When you suggested the sniper might be someone with a grudge against the academy.’ ’’

Cait looked up again. ‘‘You said that? On the air?’’

Val crossed her arms against the coral suit that was still amazingly free of wrinkles, making Cait wonder if she sprayed herself with Teflon every morning before leaving her apartment.

‘‘Well, if you’d given me an interview, I just might have been able to share more actual facts with my viewers,’’ Val said. A bit huffily, Cait thought.

‘‘I happened to be a bit busy. What with the homicidal president of your fan club deciding to help your career out by killing people.’’

Cait went back to reading the note. ‘‘ ‘Thus David overcame the Philistine with sling and stone; he struck the Philistine and he did it mortally without a sword. One shot. One kill.

‘‘ ‘The next target will definitely be a civilian. Stay tuned, as they say in the news biz.’ ’’

‘‘Christ.’’ Dispensing with the on-air calm that had made her the go-to girl whenever tragedy struck anywhere in the country, the newscaster dragged a hand through her sleek dark hair. ‘‘This is a nightmare.’’

‘‘I’m not going to argue that,’’ Cait said. The maniac with the sledgehammer was now exploding grenades inside her head. ‘‘There’s more: ‘P.S. You probably don’t recall, but we’ve met. You were even hotter in person than you appear on the air and it’s a moment I’ll never, as long as I live, forget. Love and kisses, your Best Fan Forever.’ ’’

Cait carefully laid the note on the top of the desk. ‘‘I’m going to go out on a limb here and guess you don’t remember meeting a guy who looked like Rambo.’’

‘‘No.’’ Val shook her head. ‘‘I’m sorry, but I’m thirty-nine years old, Cait, and I got into this business right out of college. Do you have any idea how many people I’ve met over the past eighteen years?’’

‘‘Well, maybe something will come to you,’’ Cait said, not really believing it, but you never knew. Crazier things had happened. Like the Son of Sam getting caught on an outstanding parking warrant.

She studied the two cards. Although Val had already touched them, there was no point in risking smudging any latent prints with her own. Though she had a sinking feeling the shooter had been more careful than to touch them with his bare hands.

‘‘This is the death card, right?’’

‘‘Right,’’ Manning, who’d remained silent while Cait had been reading the note, said. Then his eyes widened. ‘‘Oh, shit,’’ he said, his gaze colliding with Cait’s as the thought struck them both at the same time. ‘‘It’s just like in that book.’’

‘‘Kill Zone,’’ Cait said flatly. The idea had already occurred to her. After all, hadn’t Quinn’s book kept her up all night turning pages?

‘‘That’s right,’’ Brendan said. ‘‘The shooter left it on the bodies of his targets.’’

‘‘You don’t think McKade—’’

‘‘He couldn’t be our shooter.’’ Cait cut Manning off. ‘‘The bullet that took out Davis nearly hit him.’’

Besides, as much as other things about him annoyed her, unless they were talking about the mother of all PTSD, Cait would bet her shield that Quinn McKade wasn’t capable of cold-blooded murder.

‘‘Guess you’d better go have a chat with McKade,’’ Manning suggested.

As she left the station with the fresh-faced cop who’d waited to take her to her house, where she could pick up her own car, Cait decided that chatting with Quinn would come in at the very bottom of her to-do list.

Right below naked alligator wrestling.

The sun had come up bloodred and was moving across the sky as Quinn hunkered down with Zach and Lucas Chaffee a few yards from the downed copter. Their excuse, as they’d left the bunker, had been that they were going to retrieve some ammunition and equipment from the Chinook.

Which was partly true.

But the real reason was they needed to come up with a plan.

‘‘Okay,’’ Zach said. ‘‘If we hang around here, we’re sitting ducks for any reinforcements those dead tangos might’ve called in.’’

‘‘Roger that,’’ Quinn said. ‘‘But won’t we be risking Garrett dying of hypothermia if we take him out of the bunker into what’s becoming a freaking blizzard?’’ he asked the medic.

‘‘That’s a distinct possibility,’’ Lucas Chaffee allowed. ‘‘But here’s the thing . . . I’ve done my best, conditions being what they are, but I’m not a surgeon.’’

‘‘You saying his leg’s gotta go?’’ Quinn asked, even as he dreaded the answer.

‘‘I’m saying it’s a possibility,’’ Lucas sounded as grim as Quinn felt. ‘‘An even stronger possibility that if we don’t get him to someone with more medical skills than mine, he might not make it until tonight.’’

‘‘Shit.’’ Quinn dragged a hand down the black balaclava covering his face. The needles of ice were stingingthe skin around his eyes. He’d taken his goggles off, since unfortunately whoever had invented them hadn’t thought to add wipers to clear off packed snow.

He exchanged a look with Zach, who shook his head, revealing his shared frustration with their situation.

‘‘Why don’t we just call 911,’’ Quinn suggested. ‘‘Maybe the trauma center will send out an ambulance.’’

Frustrated, he glared at the CIA guy who’d left the bunker and was trudging through the deep snow toward them. Probably going to whine about conditions.

From what Quinn had witnessed over the years, spooks were more comfortable hanging around hotel bars and eavesdropping on drunken conversations than they were in actual battlefield conditions. He’d always figured if their asses were on the line more often, they might be more careful about getting their intel right.

‘‘The pilot’s in bad shape,’’ the CIA guy announced, insinuating himself into their confab without an invitation.

‘‘Now there’s a news flash,’’ Zach, who’d never been all that fond of the intelligence community himself, shot back. ‘‘Any other pertinent information you’ve picked up with your super-duper spook skills?’’

‘‘Actually, I do have some information that might prove helpful.’’ The SEAL chief’s sarcasm seemed to roll right off the guy’s back. ‘‘There’s a hospital we may be able to reach in time to keep your friend from dying.’’

‘‘Sure,’’ Lucas said. ‘‘And next you’re going to tell us it’s staffed with perky teenage candy stripers who’ll kiss Garrett’s boo-boo and make the hurt go away.’’

‘‘There’s no damn hospital in this region,’’ Quinn said.

He might not have been in charge of this fucked-up mission, but since snipers were always looking for an edge, he’d gone over every square inch of the topo maps. A sniper’s mind was packed with permutations, calculations, scraps of knowledge. Because you just never knew what you were going to need to know.

Or when you’d need to know it.

‘‘There wasn’t until last week,’’ the spook said. ‘‘But the quake caused a lot of injuries and thousands of Afghanis and Pakistanis lost their homes. So various international relief agencies set up a camp—along with a reasonably staffed field medical unit—to treat the refugees.’’

‘‘How far?’’ Zach asked.

He named a small village on the Pakistan side of the border.

‘‘Shit. Even under perfect conditions, that’d be four and a half, maybe five hours,’’ Zach said.

‘‘Better than the eight plus you’re looking at now, if we sit on our asses waiting for an evac copter,’’ the CIA guy pointed out.

Quinn and Zach exchanged another look.

Quinn knew they were both thinking the same thing. If they took the Night Stalker pilot to the refugee camp, by crossing the border they’d be breaking not only their rules of engagement but international law.

‘‘Odds are against keeping this secret.’’ Lucas pointed out what they were all thinking. ‘‘If we do it, it’s going to have to go into the report.’’

‘‘Couldn’t keep it out,’’ Quinn agreed grimly. Can you say headlines, congressional hearings, and courtmartials, boys and girls?

There was also the very real risk from al-Qaeda and Taliban who were holed up all over these mountains and weren’t all that hospitable to strangers. Especially ones wearing the uniform of the U.S. military. By trying to save the life of the man who’d saved theirs with that un-fucking-believable landing, they could end up getting him—along with the rest of the survivors, including themselves—beheaded on Arab television.

And speaking of mountains, the goddamn village in question just happened to be straight up.

‘‘The only easy day was yesterday,’’ Zach said, quoting the BUD/S training slogan.

‘‘Roger that,’’ Lucas and Quinn agreed.

The spook didn’t argue, which wasn’t surprising, since it’d been his idea. Besides, the last time Quinn looked, the CIA guys didn’t exactly play by anyone’s book but their own.

So, with that it was settled.

They’d just returned to the bunker when what they’d been worried about all along happened.

The Chinook, which had been leaking fuel and smoldering since the crash, finally blew.

The earth rocked beneath Quinn’s feet.

Rolling columns of blinding red and orange rose out of the wrecked metal.

The ammunition they hadn’t yet had time to get off the copter—given that they’d been a little preoccupied with a firefight—exploded like fireworks.

‘‘Damn it all to hell,’’ Shane Garrett muttered, glaring up at the black smoke billowing into the sky. ‘‘I loved that bird.’’

His eyes, though laced with pain, hardened to brown flint. ‘‘Now those bastards are really going to have to pay.’’

Quinn hit SAVE, then leaned back in the desk chair and scrubbed at his face as he breathed in the acrid scent of aircraft fuel and smoke. Although the explosion had occurred eight months ago and more than six thousand miles away, while he’d been writing the scene he’d been right back there, reliving that never-ending day in the Hindu Kush.

He knew that most people, not just civilians but those in the military as well, thought of snipers as being coldhearted killers who’d been trained not to let emotion get in the way of their jobs. He suspected there were even those who didn’t think they even had human emotions.

But they did. They just didn’t show them to anyone.

The thing was, on the battlefield, you needed to be coolheaded and coldhearted, and you had to be able to control yourself, no matter what was going on. But, dammit, you were still human. If you didn’t hang on to those feelings, you could step over the line and become some crazed, homicidal maniac, like whoever the hell had shot those victims today.

It wasn’t an easy balancing act. Which was why his team had always been important. Quinn had never allowed anyone inside his head while he was shooting, but sometimes a guy had to let his guard down. And that was where Zach and Shane had come in. They’d never judged him, which had allowed him to expose his personal feelings, which—in turn, he’d always thought—had kept him human.

Eight months ago, Quinn’s power had come out of the barrel of the gun. Now, having sold the novel he’d written while still in the SEALs, it came from his computer keys. He didn’t expect the novel he was currently writing based on his experiences to change the world. But just maybe it might help some people understand that war wasn’t something you watched on TV or in movies. Or even read about in books, like his.

It was all too real. Which he was discovering all over again. He’d originally planned this book as a novel, believing that sometimes more truth could be told as fiction. But the words that kept showing up on his computer monitor weren’t merely reality-based products of his imagination. They were a blow-by-blow account of those long, cold, deadly hours that had changed all their lives.

The doorbell rang. Glancing down at his watch, he realized that more than two hours had passed since he’d sat down at the computer to write that scene, which would forever be burned onto his memory.

Emotions still raw, he got up to answer the door. Quinn had stopped being surprised by life a very long time ago. But when he saw Cait Cavanaugh standing on his porch, he felt as if he’d been hit in the solar plexus with a Louisville slugger.

One thing for sure—life had been easier, and definitely less complex, back when Quinn’s view had been narrowed to what he could see through his sniper’s scope.