When a Man Loves a Weapon (20 page)

Goddamned
sonofabitch.

“You’re a dead man, MacGreggor.” This time, he didn’t fucking care who was recording him. “It’s just a matter of time.”

“Ah, but Cormier, me lad, you see, that’s the thing you’d be doin’ wit’out, is time. Of course, you could make it all a damn sight easier on yourself and give me the girl.”

The mother lode of adrenaline raced through Trevor’s veins and he curled Bobbie Faye toward his chest and plastered her against his own body, putting her next to the bar, himself between her and the crowd he steadily scanned in the mirror above the bar, and said, “Go fuck yourself. You’re never getting her. Ever. I don’t care
what
it takes, you’re dead.”

“Ah, but you’d be repeatin’ yourself, and the thing is, you’d be wrong. We’re goin’ to get to a point, us two, where you’ll just hand her over to me sweet as pie.”

Bobbie Faye stiffened in his arms. He knew she was listening as best she could in the crowd—she’d laid her head against his shoulder, appearing to any interested audience that they were a couple where the woman was tired of waiting for her guy to get off the damned phone—but she was catching the gist of it. He hugged her tighter.

He’d waited on his belly for three days for a strike against a tango—a terrorist. He’d lived for months in squalor that made this country’s garbage dumps seem pristine in comparison because that was where he had to be for the mission. He’d slit the throat of a pretty young woman who had a backpack of bombs, all set to destruct as soon as she reached the café in Bagram filled with women and children and soldiers. He’d had to come up behind her fast and silent, no negotiations possible, and end her with a quick move. He’d been the guy who’d had to take out a school, where all of the children were supposed to have been removed by his team. Only they missed one. A little girl who’d hidden, who understandably didn’t trust the men in the scary uniforms and masks, who’d popped up in the window as his laser lit up the building to guide the smart bombs already en route.

He wished his memories of death and destruction weren’t all just a blur. He should still be able to see the details of that little girl’s face in that window, but his memories held too many things. Too many.

He hadn’t realized how numb to the world he’d gotten. He hadn’t realized how much he no longer cared, how he no longer
felt
, ’til he’d met Bobbie Faye. He’d gone through Quantico as a request from much farther up the food chain, and he still hadn’t cared. He’d become a good agent, driven to find the answers, but it was instinct, survival, nothing related to caring. He became exactly what he’d detested about his parents: detached. Though their reasons were much simpler—they had never cared to start with. They were polite, professional, courteous, and both locked in their own worlds, only dimly aware that children orbited around them. It was just the way of it.

Then he’d surveilled Bobbie Faye for months for the op, because they had to know for certain just what, if any, involvement she had with the perp. (Turned out? None.) And the more he’d watched, the more he’d wanted to meet her. Just to see if it was possible that she cared as much—as tenaciously—as it seemed.

She’d cracked him wide open, and she hadn’t even meant to. It was more than he’d expected. He’d felt, too much. It hurt, the wanting, sometimes, but he
felt
. And loved. And laughed. And he wasn’t fucking losing her.

“You seriously underestimate me, MacGreggor,” was all he said.

“Aye, that’s possible,” the man answered. “But you maybe want to ask yourself, if I’ve gone to the trouble to fuck ya around this far, d’you really think I had no plan?”

“I think,” Trevor goaded him, “that you’re nothing more than a bastard who got lucky.” That wasn’t what he thought at all, and it wasn’t in the negotiator’s handbook, that was for hell sure, and even Riles snapped his attention back to Trevor on that one.

“D’you think you can keep a fuckin’ security team on everyone she loves and all your own family, too? You might have a pile of money to keep ’em all protected for a wee while, but I’ve got more.”

Bobbie Faye heard the threat and nearly bolted out of his
arms, she was so angry, wanting to have at MacGreggor, and not having a target.

“My family!” she hissed at him when he held her in place. And then the second half of MacGreggor’s comment registered. “Wait. Sercurity? You put security on them?”

MacGreggor chuckled. “Oh sure, I don’t think she knew about that, did she? There’s a fuckin’ lot we need to tell your lovely fiancée about what you’ve been up to. And I’m sure lookin’ forward to watchin’ her reactions; even in that shirt, she’s a real sight to see. . . .”

Trevor craned around. MacGreggor—or one of his men—had to be nearby.

“You sonofabitch. Why don’t you come after me?”

“You fuckin’ moron, I
am
.”

And the truth slammed home for Trevor: MacGreggor was going to do all he could to hurt Trevor the most, by hurting Bobbie Faye and the people she loved.

“Give me the girl, and you’ll save a lot of lives. That’s your job, right?”

“Over my dead body.”

Bobbie Faye gasped, her arms going around Trevor, and he knew he was shedding control. That’s the last thing you say to a potential hostage-taker.

MacGreggor laughed. “Oh, yeah, boy-o, it may come to that, but not ’til you’ve seen what I’ve done and not ’til I have the girl. If she wants to save your stinkin’ life an’ the lives of people she loves, she’ll walk straight from you in a heartbeat.”

“What is it you really want?” Trevor asked the man, knowing full well MacGreggor wasn’t going to tell him. Not really. But Trevor’s phone had piggybacked a counter-signal when he’d dialed the number Nick had given him, and the Bureau would be working hard and fast to triangulate that signal, and trace Sean’s whereabouts.

He couldn’t be far. He was either in the room or had someone there, but he was close by.

“Always ask, eh?” Sean said. “But I’ve told you.
I want the girl
. Now, I’m not all that interested in blowin’ her up
just yet, but the people around you? I have no problem killin’. You’d best be gettin’ ’em out of there if you expect ’em to live. So it is. You’ve got ten minutes. If you’re lucky.”

MacGreggor severed the call.

Lonan shoved the back door of the ambulance closed, the satisfying
chunk
rattling the quiet night. He radioed Sean that he was in place with two clicks on the talkie, avoiding verbal traffic; they were taking no chances of being overheard. He climbed into the passenger seat of the ambulance’s cab, still seething. He checked the tracking units on his phone: five of the bombs had been delivered that evening. Two more due to go out in the morning. He could make good on his promise to Sean.

Zimmer’s hair had frizzed even more than usual in the high humidity, and the kid looked scared. Well, he should. He hunched over the steering wheel, giving Lonan the wary eye. The kid knew everything to know about cars, and gears, and driving like Hell was hungry and he was marked as lunch, and he was reliable. The way he’d been at that age, raised by Sean and Aiden.

“Everything’s fucked,” Zimmer said, breathing hard. Asthma acting up a bit.

“Nah, just delayed a bit,” Lonan answered. “We were goin’ t’ be here anyway. Torment the Fed.” He waved his phone at the kid. “Shots of the girl, trussed up like a bird, the Fed not knowing to choose between her an’ the crowd. Now we’ll just grab her, extra-like. You’ve gotta be flexible. Everythin’s subject to change.”

“How do y’ know for sure they’ll bring her here?” the kid asked.

“Because we’ll be the first on scene, and Dox doesn’t miss.”

The laughing crowd, the noise, the packed space, the constant animated movement in the racetrack’s clubhouse overwhelmed Bobbie Faye.

“Sonofabitch,” Trevor seethed, having already motioned for Cam and Riles.

Ten minutes.
Hell, there was no freakin’ way to even get everyone’s attention in ten minutes, much less get them out of the building in an orderly fashion. “Fire alarm,
now
,” he bit out to the bartender. “Bomb threat,” he said, lower, as the man reached for the alarm.

Nothing happened. Nothing.

Frantic seconds ticked by, and still, nothing.

“Shit,” the bartender noted under his breath, tapping at computer keys, checking on the security and fire software. “It’s dead.”

They could shout, “Bomb threat,” or even, “Fire,” and people would get trampled, and killed. And Sean would sit there, wherever he was, however he was watching them, and gloat, hurting and killing people.

Wait.

Watching her
. Not wanting to blow her up
just yet
.

Trevor and Riles and Cam were already issuing orders to the security team, the staff, ushering people to get out, fast.

“I don’t want them to go toward the parking lot,” Trevor said. “Too many cars there, one could be a car bomb. We need to get them somewhere we can watch.” He glanced around, the rain barely misting now, and he saw the open ground of the track. “There.”

She followed his glance—it wouldn’t help if there were snipers, but there was nothing but a big water fountain in the center. Of course, getting a couple of thousand people, both inside the club and milling around the shops, all to stand outside in the mud?

No. Fucking. Way.

“How many agents on the ground?” Cam asked.

“Two on the outer perimeter,” Trevor said, checking his phone. He must’ve GPSed every damned one of them. “Two more on their way in, but they’re not going to be in position soon enough.”

“I’ve got three state cops, two sheriffs,” Cam said.

“One minute down. Nine minutes left,” she pointed out, and the crowd laughed and drank and watched the big-screen TVs. The security and staff were trying to move out the
people on the perimeter to keep the crowd from trampling each other, but they weren’t moving fast enough.

“He’s not going to blow
me
up,” she pointed out to Trevor, climbing up onto the dark bar. The rounded brass pipe that ran along the outer front edge felt ice cold through her blue jeans. She wanted to make sure the fucker could see her, see what she was doing.

Both men paused as if they were about to argue. “We don’t have
time
. Eight minutes left. No one’s moving fast enough. He can see me, so maybe he’ll be curious. Give me the phone. Let me talk to him while y’all get everyone out. Maybe I can stall him.” She held her hand out for the phone, not giving Trevor a choice. He could fight her—and waste time—or he could work with her. He handed her the phone.

“You’re out of your fucking mind,” Cam snapped at him, reaching for her. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Cam didn’t try to tuck her under his arm and run the gamut of the crowd with her. The only thing stopping him before was the ingrained utter priority of the innocents surrounding them.

“Duly noted,” Trevor snapped back, blocking Cam’s hand. “Get these people out of here.”

She hit redial as they moved away from her, herding the crowd toward the doors as the entire clubhouse morphed into organized chaos.

“Hullo,
àlainn
,” Sean said after the second ring, “an’ how are you this fine day?”

She stifled a shudder, aware that Trevor had kept her in his peripheral vision as he moved very argumentative people out of the building. Sean’s was the voice in her nightmares. His voice, the image of her having to shoot Mitch, the image of Sean dragging her toward that helicopter. Odd, how none of her other disasters had clawed up her insides in quite the same way that Sean had.

She inhaled, shaky, and then pasted on her cheeriest voice. “Oh, fine, Sean. I always like panicking people and causing mass hysteria. Gets the old adrenaline pumping. I’ve heard that’s good for the complexion. And how are you?” she asked politely. One should probably always be polite to a murderer.
That was probably in a “How To Talk To Bad Guys” rule book somewhere.

The chicken foot bracelet was not only black, it had started to vibrate.

He chuckled. “You’re an entertaining woman, luv, but it’s not goin’ to help you.”

“C’mon, Sean, you don’t want to blow people up. You’re really really pissed off at me about the diamonds and, um, that whole arrest thing, but you’re free now. You’ve escaped, nobody has a clue where you are. You win! See! Go home”—she saw Trevor hold up three fingers: three minutes—“and have some whiskey. I’ll even buy—uh, with my next paycheck. Nothin’ but the best. Besides, there’s gotta be something else out there worth stealing! Something to live for!”

Sean laughed. It was a warm laugh, liquid fire, deep and rumbly, which surprised her about the man, but it didn’t lessen the flood of fear coursing through her. “Yeah,
álainn
, I’ve missed you. But that doesn’t mean you’re safe there on that bar. You best be gettin’ out.”

“Or! Better idea!” she said. “You could change your mind! Good karma points!”

He chuckled again. “Luv, you’ve bought the crowd one extra minute, for makin’ me laugh. But you need to know, I do aim t’ blow people up, and before we’re done, you’ll have to choose who you save. I mean to have you,
àlainn,
in bits and pieces if I must. You tell that to your fiancé. You’ve now got two minutes left.”

1-800-PLZ-HIDE

—scroll on bottom of local news channel

A red dot appeared just above her heart—a laser gun, sighting in on her. Lesson learned: bad guys lie. Great. Fine time to remember
that
one.

“Tell him,
àlainn
.”

“Two minutes!” she shouted to Trevor, who worked far across the long span of a room to her left where he urged people to hurry. Riles was ahead of him, at the exit, and about a hundred people remained inside. And because she shouted, Trevor glanced back over his shoulder and saw the red dot just below her collarbone. He spun, running for her.

“Tell him to stop right there, luv.
Now
.”

She put her hand up to warn Trevor, shouting for him to stop as she waggled the phone at him so he’d understand. He braked immediately, breathing hard, frozen. A hell of an eternity crackled in the twenty feet between them as he stood with his fists clenched, his eyes scanning the room, desperate for some sort of solution.