Crossfire (20 page)

The shack, tucked into a narrow bend on the Somersett River, resembled a toolshed kept afloat by fifty-five-gallon oil drums. Locals had been plunking the river shacks—used for hunting, fishing, and vacations— down on Lowcountry marshes since before anyone could remember, and although a recent law made them illegal, the authorities didn’t exactly appear to be out there beating the bushes looking for them.

Not that the shooter planned to stay here much longer. The trick, he’d decided, was to keep moving. After all, a moving target was harder to hit.

The outside of the ramshackle wooden building sported a corrugated tin roof, a broken window, and a toilet bolted to the deck. A johnboat was tied to the dock’s pilings.

The inside of the shack wasn’t much better, though. Along with a pair of army green canvas cots, an uneven wooden table, two chairs, a sofa with the stuffing falling out of it, and a kerosene stove, it also boasted a thirteen-inch television powered by a gas generator. The signal was plucked out of the humid air by a pizza-sized satellite dish atop the rusting roof.

‘‘Would you look at that!’’ his spotter crowed. ‘‘That Valentine Snow is talking about us.’’

The reporter was, indeed, standing in the parking lot of the Harborview Piggly Wiggly, her expression sober as she reported on yet another shooting. Her red suit was the color of fresh blood, much brighter than the splotch darkening the asphalt near where she was doing her stand-up.

‘‘We are fucking famous!’’ The spotter strutted around the cramped interior like a banty rooster. ‘‘Cheee-rist, wouldn’t all those vets down at the center shit a brick if they knew it was us making all these headlines?’’

‘‘Yeah. And then, once they were done shitting, they’d pick up the phone and call the cops,’’ the shooter pointed out as he cleaned and oiled a Glock 17 he’d bought on the Internet.

He liked the Glock, which was the most popular police weapon going. When it had first come out, there’d been a misconception that the bad guys would be able to sneak it past security onto planes because of its plastic frame. That fear was quickly put to rest because the slide, barrel, and other internal parts were metal, easily caught by metal detectors. Which, to the shooter’s mind, was too bad.

Still, he appreciated its light weight and the fact that it consisted of only thirty-three parts, including the magazine, which made it easy to take apart.

‘‘Well, sure. It wasn’t like I was gonna tell anyone,’’ the other man said. ‘‘But you gotta admit it sounds like fun. Just to see the look on their faces.’’

Once again proving he had nothing in common with this loser, the shooter shared no such temptation.

‘‘Wait till they see what we’ve got planned for tonight,’’ the spotter said as he took a long pull from the bottle of Jim Beam. ‘‘We will blow their freaking minds!’’

Speaking of blowing minds . . .

The shooter pointed the black pistol at his soon-to-be former partner’s face. ‘‘Sit down.’’

He got a goggle-eyed look in return to the quietly issued command. ‘‘What?’’

‘‘I said, Sit. The. Fuck. Down. And shut the hell up.’’

‘‘Hey!’’ The spotter didn’t argue, but quickly plunked his bony butt on the wooden chair. ‘‘I didn’t mean to piss you off. I was just saying—’’

‘‘You talk too damn much.’’

‘‘Well, yeah, sometimes. I mean, that’s what all my ex-wives used to say, but—’’

‘‘See. There you go again. Rattling on about nothing of any importance.’’

The guy may have been an alcoholic loser, but apparently he hadn’t pickled every gray cell, because some distant, primal lizard part of his brain got the message.

He slammed his cigarette-yellowed teeth together. And shut the hell up.

‘‘That’s better.’’ The shooter stood up from the rickety old table that bore the cigarette burns and carved initials of previous residents. It took him two strides to cross the single room. ‘‘Now, why don’t you have a drink?’’ he said pleasantly.

The other man licked his lips. ‘‘I wouldn’t turn one down,’’ he said. Then, belatedly remembering the shooter’s instructions, shut up. And took a long swallow.

‘‘Another,’’ the shooter said.

The man drank.

‘‘Another.’’

They kept that up until the bottle was empty.

Most normal people would probably be passed out from that much bourbon. Or at least puked their guts out. Years of excessive drinking had given Charlie Jensen an increased tolerance to alcohol. The only sign that he’d just polished off 1.75 liters of Kentucky bourbon was the fact that his red-rimmed eyes looked a bit blurrier than usual.

‘‘Next step.’’ The shooter took the gun from the towel he’d used to clean the Glock. Picked up Jensen’s right hand and wrapped his fingers around the stock.

‘‘Hey.’’ The single word was slurred. ‘‘Whatcha thin’ you’re doin?’’

‘‘Ensuring you your own spot on the nightly news.’’

Using the towel to prevent his fingerprints from getting onto the pistol, he flicked off the safety lock and curled his latest victim’s index finger around the trigger.

Then pulled.

The sound rang out over the marsh. Outside the shack, a blue heron took to the sky. Inside, what was left of Corporal Charles Jensen’s brains joined the blood, bone, and fish guts on the rotting plank floor.

One shot. One kill.

James ‘‘Sandy’’ Sandman was somewhere in his mid-fifties, graying at the temples, and sporting a mahogany tan that Cait figured he’d acquired on the golf course. Or maybe sailing in the harbor.

He was wearing a blinding Hawaiian shirt covered with purple hibiscus, a pair of khakis, and white shoes. Although Cait would have trouble taking him seriously, it was impossible to turn on the TV without seeing one of his commercials, and if the ads could be believed, he was the top Nissan dealer in the Lowcountry.

‘‘We sell a lot of cars here, Special Agent,’’ he said. ‘‘It’s hard to remember everyone who drives out with one.’’

‘‘Yet you offer small-town Southern friendliness at big-city discount prices.’’ She quoted his slogan.

‘‘Well, that’s true enough.’’ He frowned. ‘‘You don’t really believe the sniper’s using one of my vehicles to do his killing from?’’

Cait thought he seemed more upset by that possibility than by the idea of the murders.

‘‘I don’t know,’’ she said honestly. ‘‘But a suspicious car with your dealership decal on it was seen in the vicinity of the school shooting. So of course we have to check everything out.’’

‘‘Well, anything I can do to help,’’ he said. He reached into the pocket of the hibiscus shirt and pulled out an embossed white business card. ‘‘You might want to tell your superiors that we offer special fleet discounts to law enforcement.’’

‘‘I’ll pass it on.’’ Like she was going to interrupt a manhunt to pimp for this Somersett Don Ho.

She was surprised to discover that he actually did sell a lot of cars. Even more surprised by how many brown Altimas hadn’t been financed.

‘‘We’ve got a lot of retirees settling down here,’’ he said. ‘‘When you’re in your eighties, you’re not all that likely to be taking on more payments.’’

Cait supposed that was so. Although she didn’t want to rule out anything, she’d also guess that her shooter wasn’t going to turn out to be a grumpy old man.

Despite his claim of personalized small-town service, Sandy Sandman hadn’t actually shaken the hand of every customer who’d driven off the lot. But Cait did leave with a list of names and addresses.

She strongly doubted that her shooter, who’d proven himself fairly clever so far, would have been stupid enough to hand out factual information. Then again, shake enough trees and something may fall out.

She was driving back to the JOC, planning to turn the list over to one of the desk guys to check out while she went to the PTSD meeting with Quinn, when she automatically slowed down as she approached an intersection two blocks south of the cathedral. Although she’d really, really tried to cut back on her speeding, ever since the city had installed that traffic camera—

‘‘Shit!’’

How could she not have thought of that? The first camera had only taken shots of license plates—which wouldn’t be useful in this situation, given what the kid said about the mud—but the cops had quickly discovered that quite a few normally law-abiding people were more than willing to lie through their teeth and swear they weren’t driving the car when the photo was taken of their car going over the speed limit.

Which was when the city council ponied up the additionalbucks to buy the upgraded camera that not only shot the plate but took a photo of the driver as well.

With any luck, their shooter might just have been caught on Somersett’s very own candid camera.

One of the skills of a sniper was an ability to put himself into the head of your enemy. So, as Quinn drove around the city, searching out possible hides, he also thought about where, if he’d been the guy, he’d hang out when he wasn’t terrorizing innocent citizens.

When a possible answer came to him, he’d called John and Zach Tremayne over from Swann Island.

‘‘Okay,’’ he told the men, ‘‘I think he might be hiding out in the marsh.’’

‘‘Makes sense to me,’’ John said. Like his son, Zach, he was a former SEAL and kept his hand in the Special Ops world by doing tactical work for Phoenix Team. ‘‘Got a lot of miles out there. Some too shallow for the Coast Guard to get into.’’

‘‘That’s why I thought you and Zach could take out your johnboat. Unless,’’ Quinn said to Zach, ‘‘you’re too caught up in wedding plans.’’

John roared at that idea, while Zach rolled his eyes. ‘‘It hasn’t been that bad.’’

‘‘Sure, that’s what you say now,’’ his father said. ‘‘But I seem to remember a lot of bitching like a girl about some fool groom’s gift during last week’s poker game.’’

‘‘Got me.’’ Zach shook his head. ‘‘Who the hell makes up all these rules anyway? I swear it was easier humping through minefields than maneuvering through all this matrimonial stuff.’’

‘‘Not that I’d know,’’ Quinn said, ‘‘but my guess would be that the best way to handle the situation would be to go along with whatever the bride wants. Especially since Sabrina probably used to plan stuff like this for a living.’’

Zach’s fiancée had just been promoted to manager of a luxury international hotel chain when a terrorist bomb had literally blown the building out from under her. Which was how she’d landed back on nearby Swann Island and gotten hooked up with Zach, who’d also come home after that debacle in Afghanistan.

It hadn’t been easy for either of them, and just as they’d begun to learn to love and trust again, a stone-cold serial killer had nearly destroyed everything they’d fought so hard to rebuild.

They were good people, good friends, and Quinn was damn happy for both of them. He was also glad that afterward, along with working on the remodeling of Sabrina Swann’s antebellum family home, the man who was like a brother to him had joined him at the private security firm.

Along with Shane Garrett, who was still at Walter Reed Army Hospital in D.C., there was no one Quinn would rather work with; their shared battlefield experiences had forged a stronger, closer bond than blood ties ever could have.

‘‘Going along with the program is pretty much what I’ve been trying to do,’’ Zach said. ‘‘I’ve been looking at it like BUD/S training. I just show up and do whatever the hell I’m told. At least I’ve got it luckier than Nate. He’s on his way back from a trip to Charleston with Titania, on a mission to choose a flatware pattern.’’

‘‘Do me a favor?’’ John said.

‘‘What?’’ Zach asked his father.

‘‘Don’t let anyone know that my son not only knows the word ‘flatware’ but just used it in a sentence.’’

‘‘Roger that,’’ Zach agreed with a grin that told Quinn that as much a pain as all the wedding preparations were, his bride-to-be was well worth the trouble. ‘‘Fortunately, Swannsea’s loaded with china and silver-ware, so since Sabrina’s set there, I escaped that part of the exercise.’’

Swann Island sheriff and former Marine Nate Spencer was marrying Sabrina’s best friend in a double ceremony. It was, according to local papers, going to be the highlight of the Swann Island social season. Which Quinn figured just showed how much in love both men were, since he suspected they’d rather have a case of the clap than go through any dog and pony show that involved formal attire.

‘‘Speaking of Swannsea, do you think you can spare some construction crews from the remodeling over there to get going on this place?’’ Quinn asked.

‘‘Sure,’’ John said. ‘‘If you recall, I mentioned that we could move a little faster, but you kept saying you weren’t in any hurry. So, hell, figuring you were busy on your book, I didn’t want to push.’’

‘‘Well, now I’m in a hurry.’’

‘‘This sudden need for a proper house wouldn’t have anything to do with Cait Cavanaugh, would it?’’ Zach asked.

‘‘Negative,’’ Quinn lied.

Zach’s laugh was short and satisfied. ‘‘Damned if you’re not nest building.’’

‘‘The hell I am. And if you don’t mind, can we get back to the reason I called you both over here?’’

‘‘Sure,’’ Zach said agreeably. ‘‘Better begin with the bedroom,’’ he told his father.

‘‘Roger that,’’ John replied.

Quinn blew out a frustrated breath between his teeth. ‘‘I told Cait the guy’s not a sniper.’’

‘‘I gotta agree,’’ John said.

‘‘Me, too,’’ Zach concurred. ‘‘Any sniper worth his salt wouldn’t go risking a head shot. But it sounds like he’s got himself an arsenal.’’

‘‘Yeah,’’ Quinn said grimly. ‘‘Along with a mission.’’

Since she hadn’t sworn him to secrecy, and he knew they would keep it to themselves, he told the two men about the letters Valentine Snow had received. Which it turned out they already knew about, given that Joe Gannon had taken on the bodyguard job.

‘‘Think he’s really obsessed with the woman?’’ Zach asked. ‘‘Or are the letters and the tarot cards merely a smoke screen?’’

‘‘To get everyone chasing their tails.’’ Quinn nodded. ‘‘I’ve considered that. So has Cait. But sure as hell the one thing that gets ignored is going to be the thing that could crack the case. Meanwhile, while you and your dad check out the marsh, Cait and I are going to go to Mike Gannon’s PTSD group meeting tonight.’’

‘‘I went to a couple of those,’’ Zach revealed.

His dad shot him a look. ‘‘You didn’t tell me about that.’’

Zach shrugged. ‘‘It wasn’t that big a deal. The shrink the VA sent me to suggested it. But spilling my guts to strangers, even guys who were going through the same thing, just felt too weird.’’

Quinn knew that of the three of them, Zach had suffered the most emotionally after that clusterfuck in the Kush. He suspected that guilt had played a major part in the former SEAL’s problems. Which, he’d always known, was why his former teammate avoided visiting Shane at Walter Reed as often as Quinn himself had.

‘‘I was in Washington this past weekend,’’ Zach said. Quinn wasn’t surprised his friend was on the same wavelength. The ability to read one another’s minds had proven valuable during all their years of covert missions.

‘‘And how did that go?’’ he asked with studied casualness.

‘‘Pretty good, actually. I was surprised at all the programs they have there. When I got there he was on the FATS shooting range.’’

‘‘They’ve got a shooting range at the hospital?’’ John asked.

‘‘Across the street. The Firearms Training System is a pretty cool setup. A computer system runs simulated battlefield scenarios, and you can shoot a bunch of electronically integrated weapons at this huge screen. They start with basic marksmanship stuff, then move on to close three-round shot grouping, then finally the pop-up target lanes like we did in BUD/S and video combat scenarios.

‘‘A computer keeps track of the results. Shane managed to requalify in the first five sessions. By fifteen, he actually topped what he was shooting when the helo went down.’’

‘‘Good for him,’’ John said approvingly.

‘‘Yeah. He said it makes him feel like a soldier again. He’s also like a damn monkey on the rock wall they’ve got him climbing.’’

‘‘That’s a lot different PT than guys had when we got back from ’Nam,’’ John said.

‘‘Yeah. Well, to hear vets tell it, your generation got the shaft,’’ Quinn said. ‘‘But this is great news. So, when does he think he’s going to get sprung from there?’’

‘‘He could probably leave now, but he signed up to be part of a test group for this new bionic leg, so it looks as if it’s going to be a couple more months at least. But he assured me he’d be back to stand up for me when I get hitched. Which reminds me,’’ he said, turning back to his father, ‘‘I’ve been meaning to ask you to be my best man.’’

Quinn figured John Tremayne would swear it was a trick of the light, but there was no mistaking the sudden sheen of moisture the request brought to the older man’s eyes.

‘‘You sure about that? Because I figured you’d want guys your own age.’’

‘‘Quinn and Shane have already agreed to be ushers. But, hey, since grooms don’t have their fathers walk them down the aisle like brides do, I figured the next best thing would be to have you standing beside me. Like you always have.’’

He left unsaid what Quinn knew all three men in the room were thinking. That it had been John who’d dragged his son back into the real world when PTSD had Zach trying to drink the state of South Carolina dry.

‘‘Well, if we’re going to capture this guy, we’d better get a move on,’’ the older man said gruffly.

‘‘Roger that,’’ Zach said.

He stayed behind a moment after his father left the house. ‘‘Interesting, you and Cait Cavanaugh working together,’’ he said.

‘‘ ‘Interesting’ is one word for it, I suppose.’’

‘‘So, I guess she’s put behind her whatever the hell it was you did to piss her off?’’

‘‘I didn’t do anything, dammit,’’ Quinn said the same thing he always had whenever the redhead’s name had come up over the years. ‘‘Unless you know something I don’t?’’

‘‘I haven’t a clue. Women are fabulous creatures, and I thank God for them every day, but hell, any man who pretends to know what goes through their minds is flat-out lying. Though,’’ he tacked on, ‘‘there was that little matter of you taking advantage of her inebriated condition to sleep with her.’’

‘‘Hey, she was the one who jumped me,’’ Quinn complained. And they certainly hadn’t done that much sleeping. ‘‘The next thing I knew, she’d shed that damn Pepto-Bismol-pink dress and was twining herself around me like a goddamn python, and . . .’’

Although Quinn had never been one to kiss and tell, he’d shared the story in the Kush, when it looked as if none of them would get out of those mountains alive. The idea that he would die without ever knowing what the hell he’d done to so piss Cait Cavanaugh off had been one of the few regrets of his life.

‘‘Well, I guess you just needed to be there,’’ he muttered.

‘‘I’m just as glad I wasn’t. Since she still likes me.’’

‘‘Rub it in, why don’t you?’’ Quinn plowed a hand through his hair. ‘‘At least I’m making some progress. She doesn’t look like she wants to shoot me whenever she sees me anymore.’’

‘‘Well, I guess that’s a start.’’

‘‘Yeah. That’s kinda how I see it.’’

Cait was, hands down, the most frustrating, hardheaded, exasperating person—male or female—he’d ever met.

She was also the most compelling.

She’d gotten into his system like a damn virus years ago, and as much as he tried to convince himself that an intelligent, sane man would stay clear of anything or anyone who could so mess with his head the way that woman could without even trying, he’d never been able to quite shake loose of her.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, since the shooter had forced them back together again, Quinn wasn’t real sure he wanted to be loose of Special Agent Caitlin Cavanaugh.