Hard to Come By (9 page)

It wasn’t uncommon. After years of living within the regimentation and command structure of the military, and after a long time of enduring high-stress, crisis situations, the loosey-goosey relaxation of normal life just grated on some men, leaving them unable to train themselves out of warrior mode and into civilian mode. Add to that the fact that images of wartime experiences often played like a nonstop horror movie on the inside of your eyelids—no matter how well adjusted you were—and some soldiers found themselves wishing to go back or unable to return despite the fact that their boots were firmly planted on American soil.

These kinds of adjustment issues were often tied up with undiagnosed PTSD or other disorders. Marz had seen it again and again among the men and women he met in the hospital, at PT, and even at his prosthetist’s office.

And thinking that Manny Garza might not only be neck-deep in drug, gun, and human trafficking on behalf of one or more criminal organizations but also not quite right in the head? That didn’t bode well for them.

Emilie
.

Oh, shit
.

How much did she know about her brother’s mental health? She was a psychologist after all. Surely, she’d recognize the signs? But would she help him? Protect him? Turn him away? And what would she do if she both knew he wasn’t well
and
knew what he was involved in.

Damn, it would be nice if every time they learned something it didn’t raise a half-dozen new questions.

Marz peeked into the bathroom—the shower, the linen closet, and the medicine cabinet were all empty. One long-dry towel hung on the back of the door. Just for shits and giggles, he lifted the lid on the toilet tank to make sure nothing had been hidden inside. And that was a big fat no.

One thing was clear. Garza had gone ghost. Recently, if Marz had to guess. Maybe after Friday night when Church’s empire went down in flames? No one left here who could say for sure.

“Got something,” Shane said through his earpiece. “Kitchen.”

Marz and Beckett double-timed it downstairs and joined the group congregated in the small space.

“Gun-cleaning kit,” Shane said, waving to the tools and bottles he’d spread out on the counter. He tapped his finger against a dirty black cloth. “But this is what interested me,” Shane said, and he unfolded the fabric.

It wasn’t a cloth, but a T-shirt. Something that became more apparent as Shane stretched out the chest part of the fabric to reveal a logo.

A medieval helmet in profile with the words
Seneka Worldwide Security
stacked beside the image.

“Sonofabitch,” said Nick. “Garza
is
SWS.”

Seneka Worldwide Security was a defense contractor and security services provider known for recruiting
SpecOps guys upon retirement or discharge. And a corporation that ran some sorta business through Pier 13 at Baltimore’s marine terminal, where the Church Gang, including Garza, had conducted a major drug deal—not to mention some downright sickening human trafficking—not even a week ago.

“Or he was,” Marz said. They’d suspected Church’s use of that pier wasn’t coincidental and might’ve been evidence of a tie between the gang and the contractor, but now they had proof. Not definitive, but as close as they were going to get. Garza either was or had been an SWS operative.

And that gave them a direct connection between the Church Gang, the heroin trade, Afghanistan, and Army Special Forces personnel. Moreover, Seneka was one of only four providers the Defense Department contracted for equipment, materiel, and services in support of counternarcotics activities in Afghanistan. In country, Seneka mentored Afghan officials in drug interdiction and counternarcotics, and trained the police in counternarcotics. Some of the same kind of work their SF team had done. Which meant they had access to product. Lots of access.

Damnit
. Seneka was right in the middle of it all.

“Garza being SWS makes him doubly useful,” Beckett said. “First, because he’d be able to identify the players on the other side of that drug deal. Second, because he’d be able to provide proof that Seneka formed the definitive connection between the Churchmen’s heroin trade and Afghanistan.”

“Was just thinking the same damn thing,” Marz said, his brain reeling. They’d just significantly narrowed the degrees of separation between the Church Gang’s activities and the ambush and frame job that had killed
their friends, ended their careers, and tarnished their honor.

It was crystal fucking clear that people involved in counternarcotics—like their own commander—had been and likely still were taking the Afghani drugs that were supposed to be destroyed and selling them abroad, including back in the States. Given the charges of corruption that Congress, the media, and foreign governments often leveled against SWS, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine them engaging in a little extracurricular activity. Especially of the incredibly lucrative kind.

Seneka operatives weren’t called mercenaries for nothing.

Nick leaned back against the counter. “The operatives who work for Seneka make the Churchmen look like kids playing cowboys and Indians. Shit.”

“Out of the frying pan and into the fire,” Shane said. “You know, every time we peel back a layer of this onion, the sting is going to get worse and worse, right?”

Blowing out a long breath, Nick nodded. “Bring the shirt. Let’s clear out of here and take this conversation back to Hard Ink. We’ve got some strategizing to do.”

E
milie sat at her kitchen table in a shaft of early morning sunlight and stared at her cell phone. Time to call her mother about Manny. She didn’t want to put it off any longer, not with the party looming and Manny’s behavior on the decline.

She’d meant to do it last night, but the unexpectedly wonderful surprise of her date with Derek had taken up the whole evening, and it had been way too late to catch her mother by the time Emilie had gotten home.

So worth it. Her night with Derek had been—she smiled and sipped her coffee—so amazing. The conversation had been great, the food had been fantastic, and the kissing—
Oh
—the kissing had been bone-meltingly good. The kind of kissing that made the world spin around you until it entirely faded away. The kind of kissing that left you hot and breathless and dying for
more. The kind of kissing that made you wet just from the shifting press of lips and tongue and teeth.

The kind of kissing that had almost convinced Emilie to throw caution to the wind and invite Derek home.

A tingle ran over Emilie’s skin just thinking about it.

Because, man, it had been
so long
. Too long. Even before Emilie had learned about Jack’s infidelity, things had slowed down between them. A lot. Turns out that was because he was getting it elsewhere.

No, don’t ruin your Derek buzz by thinking of Jack
.

Right
.

Because Emilie was totally buzzing. She might just float through her whole day.

And there were so many other things about the date that had made it great, too. That he’d cared what she wanted to do. How he’d asked about her and really listened to what she had to say. That he’d held her and bought her a jacket when she’d been cold.

That he’d asked her out again.

Well, at least they’d talked about meeting after she finished at the Baltimore clinic tomorrow night. But they hadn’t actually made any specific plans.

If he didn’t call or text her, would she call him? Emilie’s shoulders fell at the thought.

No, don’t second-guess it. Derek hasn’t given you any reason not to believe what he’d said. He’ll call
.

Looking at her phone again, Emilie sighed. If she put off this call with her mother any longer, she’d be late for her first patient. On the screen of her cell, she pressed her mother’s number and placed the phone to her ear.

When her mother answered, Emilie’s stomach went for a loop-the-loop. Ridiculous to be thirty years old and afraid to tell your mother something, but it was
only because of how much Mama adored Manny. Years ago when their father split, Manny had stepped up to fill as much of the man’s shoes as was possible for a sixteen-year-old. Emilie adored him for that, too. And always would.

She and her mother made the usual small talk and discussed Saturday’s party plans, and then Emilie couldn’t put it off another minute. “So, Mama, I need to talk to you about Manny.”

“Oh, Emmy, not this again,” her mother said. “I’m not sure why you—”

“He pulled a gun in my house,” Emilie said, going the direct route to get her mother’s attention.

“He . . . what? Well . . . there had to be . . . a good reason?” Sometimes people wanted something to be true so badly that they’d find a way to read any situation to make it that way.

“Mama, it was because the UPS truck had pulled up in front of my house. Manny thinks someone is after him—”

“Has he called the police? Who is after him?”

Emilie dropped her head into her hand and braced her elbow on the table. “
No one
is after him. That’s the point. He only thinks there is. It’s pretty classic paranoia.”

Long pause. “He’s under a lot of stress, Emilie. That’s all.” Her mother sniffed.

Choosing her words carefully, Emilie said, “I’m sure that’s true, but I don’t think that’s all that’s going on. Mama, he was in the Army for twelve years. He fought multiple tours of combat and must’ve seen so many horrible things. The Army has a huge incidence of depression and PTSD, and he’s showing the signs. He needs help.”

“Emilie,” she said, and she could almost see her mother shaking her head. “I will talk to him.”

No. Not this time. Her mother had said this before to get Emilie to back off. And though she’d never go as far as to call her mother a liar, she couldn’t help but doubt that those conversations had ever taken place. “That’s not enough. Not this time.”

“Em—”

Emilie closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. “He grabbed me, Mama. He shoved me up against a wall. He destroyed my property. And when I got mad about it, he got in my face and yelled while holding a knife. Does that sound like our Manny?” When her mother didn’t answer, Emilie pressed. “Does it?”

A troubled sigh came down the line. “No,
mija
. No, it doesn’t. What is it you want to do?”

It was a bittersweet victory at best, because Emilie did not relish the thought of having Manny picked up and hauled into an ER against his will. She explained the emergency evaluation petition and what it would unleash, and she didn’t miss for a second the way her mother’s breath caught when she’d explained that Manny could be held involuntarily for several days, longer if the medical staff agreed he was a danger to himself or others.

“Please, wait, Emilie. Let me see him. Let me talk to him,” her mother pleaded.

“Mama—”

“Saturday. I’ll see him at your house on Saturday. Let me see him with my own eyes before you do anything. It will kill him, Emilie.” The strain in her mother’s voice made the backs of her own eyes prick.

Blowing out a long breath, Emilie nodded. “Okay,
Saturday. But I’m filing the paperwork after that. If he hurts himself or someone else—”

“He won’t. Okay, but he won’t,” she said.

Their good-bye was a tense, awkward affair. The phone sagged in Emilie’s hand. Well, it had gone better than it could’ve but not as good as she’d wanted. Waiting made her uneasy, but Saturday was only a few days away, so Emilie could live with the compromise. She hoped. Boy, this was sure gonna make the party lots of fun, wasn’t it?

She just barely resisted banging her head against the table. Instead, she got up, placed her mug in the sink, and grabbed her things for the day.

The morning sped by with a string of appointments. When lunch came, Emilie was almost tempted to walk down to the coffee shop again, but she didn’t have the time today. She unpacked the lunch she’d made and ate at her desk while she surfed the internet. On Facebook, a news story one of her clinic colleagues had posted caught her eye: “Two Killed in Suspected Rival Gang Shooting.”

Emilie recognized the story as the one Derek had mentioned last night, and she clicked through to read.

Two men were gunned down in separate incidents yesterday in what Baltimore City Police suspect were rival gang shootings. Police are still identifying the victims, whose bodies were found on East Preston Street in the Berea neighborhood and near Brehms Lane in Belair, both on the eastern side of Baltimore City
.

A suspect is wanted for questioning in connection with the Belair murder, and is described as a Hispanic male, aged 28 to 35, with black hair
pulled back in a ponytail. Anyone with information should call BCP
.

A source at the police department said authorities are speculating that yesterday’s execution-style murders are related to last Friday night’s explosion at the Confessions strip club on Weston Avenue, a known hangout of the Church Gang. Louis Jackson, director of the city’s task force on gang violence, said, “It’s not uncommon to see a series of high-profile gang-related incidents occur when the power of the dominant gang wanes or appears poised to do so. This could be other groups making their move.”

Investigations into the city’s gang violence estimate that the Church Gang is responsible for nearly one-half of all gang-related murders in the city and 23 percent of its overall murder rate
. . .

And
this
was why Emilie hated reading the news. She still did it, of course, but it was more than a little unsettling to hear that the city she worked in once a week might be in the middle of escalating gang warfare. Not that she was really surprised. She worked with patients at the clinic who dealt with or were victims of the city’s gangs all the time. If not as victims of violence, then as victims of the heroin addiction these gangs made possible. It wasn’t for nothing that Baltimore was known as the heroin capital of the United States. Government agencies estimated that as many as ten per cent of the city’s residents were addicts.

Heartbreaking, really. Which was why Emilie gave her time at the clinic up there once a week. She’d do more if she could.

Knock, knock
.

Emilie looked up from her computer to find Carol, the office receptionist, standing in the doorway. “Your one o’clock is here,” Carol said.

Quickly cleaning off her desk, Emilie nodded. “Give me two minutes and send her in?”

“You got it.”

The afternoon went by in a blur, a blessing when she had things she didn’t want to think about. And then at five o’clock on the dot, her cell buzzed an incoming text message. Emilie retrieved her phone from her top desk drawer.

Derek
.

Her smile was instantaneous.

This time last night I was on your front porch so I thought it would be a good time to text. ;)

She laughed, and was it any coincidence that the last time she’d done so, she’d been with him? Emilie debated how to reply and finally decided to just go for it:
Perfect timing, though I preferred you on my front porch . .
. Stomach flipping, she pressed Send and grinned like an idiot while she waited for his response.

Her cell buzzed again.
Me too, which is why I’m texting. Would either Little Italy or Inner Harbor work for you tomorrow night?

They made their plans for a quiet little place with absolutely divine food in Little Italy. He’d offered to pick her up, and, though her instincts told her that was probably fine, she decided to meet him there instead.

She packed up her belongings to leave. And even though she was going home to an empty house, she was happy. Because Derek had given her something to look forward to, and Emilie hadn’t had that with a man in a long, long time.

M
ARZ RECLINED IN
his chair, laced his hands behind his head, and basked in the news that he was definitely going to see Emilie tomorrow night. Because that was one of the few things that had gone right about his day.

This morning, they’d debriefed last night’s op and brainstormed scenarios for dealing with Seneka. The possibility existed, of course, that Garza was working on his own, but they had to plan as if they might be up against the whole corporate beast. Plus, something Garza had said that first night they’d seen him at the drug deal argued in favor of him not working solo. When the leader of the other side of the deal asked if Garza was staying with the Churchmen, Garza had replied that he had to because someone wanted him to keep an eye on business with Church.

At the time, their team had no idea who that someone might be. Now that they knew that Garza was SWS, that organization was a prime possibility.

And that was some bad frickin’ news, because Seneka operatives were highly trained, well-funded, and not too concerned about scruples, morals, or ethics. When it came to getting a job done, the ends justified the means every damn time.

Marz and the guys knew that firsthand, since they’d been caught up in someone’s “means” a year ago. If Seneka was mixed up in the ambush that killed half their team, like they believed, they already knew exactly what the organization was willing to do.

And now everyone was counting on Marz.

Because the last thing Nick had said as this morning’s meeting ended was, “We can’t consider going after Seneka until we know what’s on that chip. We need all the available intel in hand and we need it yesterday. Can you do it, Marz?”

Of course, he’d said yes. What other answer was there when their lives, their reputations, and their honor were on the line?

Nick was talking about a tiny microchip they’d found a few days before, hidden inside a teddy bear that belonged to Becca. Her father—their commander—had sent her the bear months before his death, and the chip was just one in a string of mysteries they had yet to solve.

Correction: that
Marz
had yet to solve.

Which meant it was time to get back to work. Marz sat up in his chair just as Charlie and Becca walked into the gym.

“Yo,” Marz said, giving a wave.

“I come bearing gifts,” Charlie called. “Or, actually,
we
come bearing gifts, since—” He lifted the hand wrapped in gauze. The bandages hid the fact that he’d lost two of his fingers when the Church Gang had taken him hostage two weeks before. The gang had done such a butcher job on the digits that Becca had been forced to call in a few of her EMT friends to perform essentially a field operation to prevent infection.

“Prezzies are my favorite. Whatcha got for me?” Marz asked as they crossed the room.

Charlie and Becca walked up to the desk and each settled a drink and a plate with a giant sandwich and chips on the plywood surface. “Food,” Charlie said. “I was starving, so I figured you might like a break, too.”

“Aw, dude, you are my favorite person right now,” Marz said, his stomach growling at the sight of the food.

“You realize you say that to everyone who makes you food, right?” Becca said with her hands on her hips.

Marz chuckled and winked. “I’m easy like that.
But, thank you, too, Becca. You’re my other favorite person.”

Shaking her head, she turned away and started back across the room. “Be good, boys.”

“What fun is that?” Marz called, brushing crumbs off his jeans. Becca just waved. Smiling, Marz looked at Charlie. “You know, wearing your shirt inside out just makes me want to know
even more
what the shirt says.” Today’s shirt was gray-blue and the outline of a picture was visible through the cotton.

Across the room, Becca opened the door just as Nick walked in. Her laughter echoed through the gym as he tugged her into the hallway. He came back a minute later wearing a big grin.