Hard to Let Go (23 page)

“The, uh, rest of the women?” Beckett asked, wishing with everything he had that Kat was hanging in the backseat of Shane’s truck just as she had been this morning, looking so polished and sophisticated and downright gorgeous in that clingy blouse and trim pants.

“All fine,” Easy said, his voice strained.

Beckett’s gaze stayed glued to Kat and his mind tried to keep up with everything the paramedics and Becca said. “How bad is Jeremy?” he asked. The question made him put two plus two together for the first time.
Both
of Nick’s siblings were seriously injured? Jesus Christ.

“Head injury. He’s unconscious. Fucking Wexler pistol-whipped him and dropped him in the street like a piece of garbage.”

Fuckfuckfuck. Don’t lose it, Murda. Hold it the fuck together
. “Both are gonna be okay,” he said, more to himself than to Easy or Marz. But both men voiced their agreement.

Rotors sounded from somewhere above them. Not too far, by the sound of it. Beckett looked up until the black and gold chopper came into view over the tops of the trees. As it descended, the downwash off the rotors whipped up the wind around them. It landed far enough away on the field to keep them safe from flying debris. And then two teams of two each were hauling ass with stretchers toward them. One branched off toward Jeremy, who apparently lay back where Vance’s car had been parked.

The ambulance EMTs barked out a list of conditions and assessments, and then they made room for the trauma unit crew. The new guys had Kat loaded up onto the stretcher in mere minutes. Beckett followed, but the closest man shook his head. “Unless you’re injured, there’s no room,” he yelled. “You’ll have to follow by car. I’m sorry.”

The words were like someone had reached inside his chest and ripped his heart out. He came to a halting stop, absofuckinglutely lost.

Down the way, another stretcher was lifted onto the grass. Beckett took off in that direction. Toward an unconscious Jeremy. The very thought made Beckett sick to his stomach. “How is he?” he called over the engine noise from the chopper.

“Don’t know yet,” Nick said, voice raw. “Jesus.”

Beckett grasped Nick’s arm—the one that wasn’t bleeding. “Kat.”

Anguish flashed through those odd, pale eyes. “How bad?”

“Bad,” Beckett said.

“Gotta fly,” one of the crew yelled. They rushed by with Jeremy’s stretcher.

Nick whirled. “I have to come. They’re my brother and sister.”

The guy hesitated, but then his eyes went to the blood trailing down Nick’s biceps. “How bad you hurt?”

“Grazed.”

Nodding, the man said, “Good enough. Come on.”

“Take care of them both,” Beckett called as Nick took off behind the medics.

Both stretchers disappeared inside the big bird, the door rolled shut, and the engine powered up. Then they were lifting off, getting higher, disappearing altogether over the trees into the bright blue May sky.

Taking with them everything Beckett wanted but never thought he could have.

Chapter 23

M
ore emergency vehicles had arrived at some point, because two ambulances and three police cars now clogged the road behind their line of cars. Four cops congregated around someone on a stretcher—Vance, if Beckett had to guess. Given the audience, Beckett rushed to the open doors of the other rig, Marz, Easy, and Shane right behind him.

Seneka lay flat on a stretcher, knees raised, as a tech worked on him.

“How is he?” Beckett asked.

“Nick?” Seneka called in a weak, raspy voice.

Beckett climbed up into the small interior. “What is it? Nick had to go. We’ve got casualties.”

“Hey, you can’t be in here,” the EMT said.

Seneka waved Beckett closer as he tugged off the oxygen tube, his movements imprecise, his eyes groggy.

“Sir, please,” the EMT said as he tried to put the line back in place.

The old man wouldn’t have it. “Jesus, gimme space. Need to say . . . something,” he managed. Gritting his teeth, Seneka shifted his arm and reached into his hip pocket.

“Mr. Seneka, you can’t—”

“Look, son,” he said to the paramedic. “I’ve got scars older than you. Well aware I’ve got some abdominal trauma. Let me . . . say my . . . piece.” He blew out a harsh breath. “Take this,” he said to Beckett, handing him a cell phone. “Pass code is 1445. All Wexler’s contact info in there. Call him now. Dangle . . . the money. Before he goes . . . dark and deep.” He groaned and clutched his side. “Files . . . in my . . . truck for . . . you.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” the EMT said to Beckett, eyes flashing in anger. “You have to go. Now. End of discussion.” He leveled a hard stare at Seneka, who collapsed back against the stretcher.

Beckett cleared out of the ambulance to find one of the cops talking to Shane and Easy. The doors to the rig closed behind him and it took off.

Beckett glanced at the phone in his hands, his mind on a perpetual churn. Ahead, Vance stared at them from the back of his ambulance and waved them over.

“Jesus. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” he said when Beckett and Marz got closer. “Got hit in the shoulder during the first exchange of shots. Arm is fucking useless.” He gestured to the mound of gauze around his whole shoulder and biceps. “Can’t feel my fingers for a damn.”

“Just take care of yourself, Vance. That’s all that matters,” Marz said.

Vance looked each of them in the eyes. “Do what you have to do to make this right. I’ll help clean up the mess. And don’t worry about full statements just now. Told the uniforms I’d get them myself later.”

Beckett looked toward the tent, where other cops were taking notes and marking off the crime scene. Washington’s body still lay in the grass. Farther down the hill, Cole’s did, too.

What a fucking mess.

Kat
. His heart tore inside his chest.
God
, it hurt. Everything hurt so damn bad that he could barely stand to be inside his own skin.

But there were things that needed to be done. People who needed to be looked after. And so he did one of the few things he truly excelled at—he shoved all that fucking emotion down so deep it might never see the light of day again.

The paramedics closed up the second ambulance and took off, sirens
whoop
ing over the quiet field.

“We gotta make that call,” Marz said.

“Yeah,” Beckett said, his voice steely and emotionless to his own ears. “Take a minute and check on the others? Reassure them everything’s over, everything’s okay.” At least for this minute in time . . .

And even though it might never be okay again. Not for him. And, Jesus, not for Nick either.

Marz nodded and took off.

How are you, Kat? Hang in there for me, Angel
.

The thought had him retrieving his own cell from his pocket. He shot a text to Nick.
Keep me—
He backspaced and deleted
me.
Keep us posted. We’ve all got your back.

A long moment later his phone buzzed a reply.
I want Wexler’s fucking head on a platter. And I want to know the goddamn sitch with the other shooter.

One in a long line of hells to pay was going to include explaining to Nick why he’d withheld the knowledge that Kat had a stalker. If he’d only opened his mouth like he knew he should’ve, like his gut
told
him he should’ve, Kat would be alive and well right now. Not bleeding out in the back of a helicopter. Not being medevacked to a trauma center to fight for her life.

Beckett punched out a reply.
On Seneka’s advice, we’re going after Wexler before he disappears. Shooter was Kat’s ex-boyfriend stalker. Will share what I know when I see you next.

Assuming Nick wanted to hear a word out of Beckett’s mouth from this point forward. God knew he wouldn’t blame the man for holding him responsible, at least for what happened to his sister.

Enough, Murda
, Beckett chided himself.
Get your head out of your ass
. Right.

Shane and Easy came jogging up. “Gave them all our names and contact information,” Shane said. “And a general rundown of events.”

“Vance is gonna get official statements from us,” Beckett said. “So that should clear us to bug out of here.” The guys nodded. “Come on,” he said. Walking to Jeremy’s Jeep, he found Charlie, Becca, Sara, and Jenna standing by the front passenger door, each wearing grief-filled expressions. But Charlie’s was by far the worst. And Beckett so clearly recognized the pain in the other man’s eyes that it was like looking in a mirror. Guilt. Pure and unadulterated.

Beckett got right up in his face, grasped him gently by the back of the neck and nailed him in the eye. “Not your fault. You hear me? None of it.” Charlie’s blue eyes flashed in anger and disbelief. “Let it go, Charlie. I’m telling you. If you don’t, it will stand between you and Jer like a wall. And you don’t want that. Put all your energy into him getting back on his feet and let the rest
go
.”

Charlie searched his gaze, and a single tear rolled down from the guy’s blue eyes. And then another. And another. Like he was trying, but couldn’t quite hold them back. “Thanks,” he finally managed, his voice so choked it came out almost hoarse. “Can we take off for the hospital?” he asked.

“Rather we all stay together,” Beckett said. “Wexler’s a total loose cannon and we don’t know who else might be out there that he’s working with. Just give me a few minutes to deal with something, then we’ll come up with a plan.” Everyone nodded.

“You’re a good man, Beckett Murda,” Becca said, throwing her arms around his neck.

Falser words were never spoken. But he kept his mouth shut and accepted Becca’s kindness, because she deserved that much from him.

“I’m gonna check on Emilie and her mom,” Marz said. “Then we can take care of that call.”

Beckett gave a nod and became acutely aware that he was the odd man out. Shane held Sara’s hand as she worried over how he was doing. Easy hugged Jenna, who seemed unable to stop shaking. And Charlie and Becca leaned on one another, both of them quietly trying to hold back their worry and tears for the Rixeys they loved. At Shane’s pickup, Marz leaned in the rear door, tending to his woman and her kin.

And there he stood, all the fuck alone. Just like always. Just like he deserved. Just like it might be forever.

And why the hell was he
still
having to learn this particular lesson? After thirty-four years, he’d have thought it had been well and truly hammered into his head. He was no good. He hurt others and drove them away. He was better off on his own.

He tried not to be a jealous, resentful asshole. He really did.

Without a word, Beckett left the group behind, passed by Marz, and let himself into Seneka’s Suburban. Wallowing in his own ancient misery didn’t help a goddamned soul. Focusing on work? Yeah, that’s what he needed to do.

Nothing in the front seat.

Nothing in the passenger seat.

Beckett popped the back and waited while the hatch lifted.

A white file box with a lid sat in one corner of the trunk. Beckett opened the box and flipped through the folders stowed inside. One was labeled,
WCE Account.

Heart kicking into a sprint, Beckett fished it out and flipped it open. It contained a series of deposit tickets from WCE to not only Merritt’s and Kaine’s accounts, but Wexler’s, Garza’s, and at least a half dozen other men, including Jimmy Church. And on a yellow Post-it in the center of the top sheet was a hastily scrawled note:
WCE = Wexler-Church Exchange.

A business partnership, just like Procter & Gamble, Hewlett-Packard, or Ben & Jerry’s. For fuck’s sake.

And talk about the arrogance involved in using his own last name for this particular business, in which Wexler, a former Army Green Beret, made an unholy alliance with street scum to steal from his country, spread the poison of heroin to his fellow countrymen, and kill his brothers-in-arms in the process.

Someone like that couldn’t be allowed to live.

“What are you finding?” Marz asked in a quiet voice.

Beckett handed him the file. “Everything we ever wanted to know about WCE.” It was almost anticlimactic. Or maybe that was just because some of the people who’d made it all possible—and who should’ve been here to celebrate—were fighting for their lives instead.

“What a chance fucking encounter, huh?” Marz said, scanning the contents of the file.

After a long moment, Beckett nodded. Every single thing about Seneka rang true today. He’d almost certainly lured his two possible betrayers to Baltimore for the funeral and had intended to find some way to keep them in town for the meeting they’d scheduled—to which Seneka had always intended to bring those two men. But Seneka hadn’t needed to do the dirty work. Wexler outed himself, which had maybe been Seneka’s plan all along. No doubt Wexler had known exactly who they were the minute he saw their faces. He’d probably been searching for an escape hatch before the Suburban even rolled to a stop. But they’d have to wait until Seneka was on his feet again to know any of that for sure.

Flipping through more folders, Beckett found personnel records and detailed lists of connections for the other men whose names he hadn’t recognized. There were carefully kept spreadsheets of heroin stolen and sold from various sites around Afghanistan, and—holy shit—a file containing a long list of women’s names. “Take a look at this,” he said, passing it to Shane.

Steel gray eyes cut to Beckett and then down to the clipped papers. “Fuck me running,” Shane said, his voice like ice. He turned from one page to another.

When Shane was a teenager, some scumbag had scooped his eight-year-old sister off the street on which they lived. He and his family never saw little Molly McCallan again. As a result, protecting women who needed help had become a personal calling of Shane’s. It was what led him to help Sara, who they’d learned had been forced into her waitressing job at a strip club and her relationship with one of Church’s top henchmen to pay off her deceased father’s debts to the gang.

“God, I don’t know if this list is a blessing or a curse,” Shane said as he showed it to Easy and Marz. “A blessing because their families could be notified about what happened to them. A curse because who would ever want to learn
this
? But, damn, if we could track down families or missing persons reports, we could find photographs. Maybe somewhere in all this or the Colonel’s files there are records of who bought them.” Shane raked a hand through his dark blond hair, his eyes flashing.

Beckett knew exactly where Shane’s thoughts were going—to finding and saving them. A totally honorable goal. But that was a fight for a whole other day. Had to be. Not that Beckett liked it. Not one bit.

“You realize,” Marz said, “between this and the Colonel’s microchip, we might have all we’d need to take down every bit of this operation.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Easy said, dark eyes flashing. “We need Wexler before we can come anywhere near to claiming mission accomplished here. Especially after today.”

“Damn straight.” Beckett tossed the files back into the box and retrieved Seneka’s cell. The pass code the man had given him worked, just like he said. And it took only a few swipes of Beckett’s thumb to find Wexler’s contact card. He pressed on the listed cell phone number, then hit Send.

The first ring barely sounded when Wexler barked into the phone, “You fucking set me up.” And wasn’t
that
an interesting greeting.

“This isn’t Seneka,” Beckett said. “It’s Beckett Murda. And I’ve got twelve million reasons why you might want to listen to what I have to say.” He borrowed the line from Nick, and it seemed to work the second time around, too. While Wexler didn’t respond right away, he didn’t hang up either.

“You have two minutes,” Wexler hissed.

“I want an in-person meeting to perform a simple exchange. You get the twelve million dollars from Frank Merritt’s account. I get definitive proof from you that Kaine headed this whole operation and hung my A-team out to dry. Simple as that.”