Hard to Let Go (26 page)
No. One way or the other, those two would get what was coming to them. Beckett just hoped—
Lights swung into the access road that led to the garage, and then the sound of a car’s engine reached him inside the structure.
Game time.
A black Lexus rolled into the garage, its interior too dark to ensure that the driver was Wexler or confirm that he’d come alone. It swung around to park just like Beckett had. When the car engine cut off, it left an even more pronounced silence in its wake. So quiet that Beckett could hear the interior mechanism of the door handle as the driver opened it and stepped out.
Definitely Wexler.
“You’re late,” Beckett said.
Wexler ignored the comment. “Did you bring the laptop?”
“Right here. Did you bring everything I requested in both digital and paper formats?” Beckett fired right back.
The man stepped to his trunk and popped it. “All yours,” Wexler said, gesturing to the interior.
Beckett gave the opening a wide berth until he could lay eyes on what was inside. Two white file boxes full of papers. The trunk was otherwise so clean the car had to be a rental.
Wexler held out his hand. “This thumb drive has all the digital copies.”
“I’ll confirm what’s on here on the laptop,” Beckett said, taking note of how calm and relaxed the man seemed to be—which would make sense if Wexler felt confident that Beckett wasn’t walking out of there alive no matter what was said or done in the interim. As Beckett returned to his open hatch and the laptop that sat within, Wexler stayed close. Too close, really. Given that this man had played a role in killing his friends, ruining his career, and attacking Hard Ink, it took every bit of discipline Beckett had to shove away his righteous anger and not squeeze the life out of Wexler using his bare hands.
Instead, he plugged the thumb drive into the USB port, opened the drive, and watched as a series of directories came up on the screen. He double-clicked on the one labeled
E-mails.
Sure enough, the folder contained exactly what Beckett had requested—incriminating e-mail communications with Kaine about WCE business, dating back to the beginning of WCE’s arrangements, almost four years ago.
He opened a few more. Everything seemed in order. Beckett slipped the thumb drive into his jeans pocket. For a moment, he strained to listen to the nighttime sounds that wafted into the garage. Easy was going to whistle a bird call when he’d accomplished his task. That would be Beckett’s all-clear signal.
So far, nothing.
“The bank log-in. Now,” Wexler said, hovering at Beckett’s side.
Beckett clicked over to the internet browser, already open to the bank’s account log-in page, and entered the information required to access Merritt’s account with its twelve-million-dollar balance. Once inside, he clicked on Edit Account Profile. Gesturing to the machine, he said, “It’s all yours.”
Wexler stepped forward like a starving man at an all-you-can-eat buffet, greedily grabbing the machine and hunching over it to hunt and peck at the keyboard. Keeping an eye on him, Beckett walked to the back of the Lexus. Using the light of the trunk, he confirmed that the papers in the two boxes were what Wexler purported them to be. He’d brought the hard evidence, which he no doubt believed was about to be destroyed in an explosion right along with Beckett.
Quickly, Beckett planted a small tracking device inside the trunk—just a precaution in case Wexler managed to give the Ravens the slip. That was doubtful, but it was always best to plan for the worst case scenarios in missions like these.
Beckett set one box on top of the other, lifted both out of the trunk, and moved them to the back of the SUV. He couldn’t have acted more chill, despite the fact that the contents of those boxes would be the key to restoring much of what had been taken away from him and his teammates.
Glaring, Wexler shifted his stance and the laptop, too, making sure Beckett couldn’t see what he entered. Not that it mattered. Marz’s brilliance ensured that the computer was sending them all the information they needed.
“I guess Seneka wasn’t the legend he’s been made out to be, huh?” Beckett said, crossing his arms and watching the man work.
“Why’s that?” Wexler said. Hunt and peck. Hunt and peck.
“Just seems like you wouldn’t have set up your own little black op behind his back if he’d been even half the fucking rock star the stories paint him as.”
Scoffing under his breath, Wexler shook his head. “Seneka might be everything you’ve heard, but he sure as hell didn’t get there on his own. Despite what everyone says and the man himself acknowledges.” Hunt and peck.
“I see. So he was one of those take-all-the-credit types,” Beckett said, egging him on. Honestly, he was curious how Wexler justified everything he’d done to himself, plus, as incompetent as he was on a keyboard, trying to talk and type at the same time was slowing him down even further. And every extra second he could give Easy and Nick, the better. “They’re the worst to work for. You bust your ass and lay your life on the line, while they sit back and claim all the glory.”
Wexler peered up at him. “That’s
exactly
what it’s been like. Twenty fucking years.”
Damn, if Chen didn’t have this guy pegged to a tee.
“Done!” Wexler said. “Wait.” He leaned in, scowling.
“It’s gonna require you to log into your e-mail and confirm the account changes via a link they send. It’s an extra security feature.”
Huffing, Wexler nodded and went back to clicking, hunting, and pecking. Leaning in more, he frowned.
“Problem?” Beckett asked.
“Not anymore,” Wexler said. Straightening, he aimed a gun point-blank at Beckett’s chest and fired. Twice. The silencer kept it from making noise.
Which compounded Beckett’s surprise as the slugs hit him right over the heart.
The vest did its job, keeping the bullets from penetrating his body. But the combination of the close range and the velocity at which the bullets had left the muzzle sent him staggering until he went down hard on his back, his head glancing off the concrete. The frontal impact of the bullets stole his ability to breathe, and the fall knocked what little remaining breath he had right out of him. His vision went splotchy, his head tingly. He clawed onto consciousness enough to hear shots being fired, enough to see Wexler toss something into Beckett’s SUV, enough for his survival instincts to roar,
Get off your ass soldier, and move!
The tires on Wexler’s car squealed against the new concrete.
Sluggishly, Beckett forced his body up, pain radiating outward from his chest, his mind spinning on Wexler having thrown something into the truck.
The documents!
He staggered to the back, grabbed the two boxes and ran.
He might’ve made it eight agony-filled strides when the explosion went off. The blast hit him in the back and sent him flying. Weightless. And then gravity returned in fucking spades. Slamming him down to the concrete so hard his ears rang. Or maybe that was the result of the explosion in such a confined space.
Either way, it kept him from hearing his teammates until Nick and Marz were in his face, grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him away from the fiery debris field. Their mouths moved but there was no sound. Then Shane was in his face, seemingly asking him something.
Beckett shook his head. “Can’t hear you! Can’t hear!” he said.
Sonofafuck,
he hurt
everywhere.
“The documents?” he said. “Did the documents make it?” He had the thumb drive, of course, but had no idea if Wexler had really done what he’d asked and provided all the documents in both formats. And he hadn’t wanted to take the chance. Not with the evidence being their ticket out of all this.
Jesus, how did the ringing in his head manage to deaden every other sound
and
be so damn loud?
Shane waved a hand in front of his face, forcing Beckett to focus. His teammate gestured as if to ask if he could stand. Beckett nodded and sat up—
Except . . . Nope. No, he actually could not do that at all. Not on his own.
Easy and Shane were right there, helping him to his feet. Beckett groaned as his body protested the movement. But none of that mattered. What mattered—and what he still didn’t know—was whether he’d saved the evidence. Whether they’d secured Wexler. Whether he’d done the job they’d needed him to do.
Marz appeared in front of him holding the two boxes, a big grin on his face.
“We got it?” Beckett asked. “Everything made it?”
Laughing, Marz nodded, and then someone tapped Beckett on the shoulder. Grinning, Shane put a finger to his lips and gestured to tone it down with his hand.
Oh.
“Am I yelling? I can’t hear a goddamned thing.”
Shane nodded and gave his shoulder a squeeze.
Beckett groaned at the light contact. “Fucker shot me. Twice. Point-blank. Feels like . . . somebody swung for the fences . . . using my chest for batting practice.” Shit. Where had all the oxygen gone?
Shane’s whole face frowned. With Nick and Easy supporting his arms over their shoulders, Shane tore Beckett’s button-down open. Sure enough, two flattened silver slugs were embedded in the front of the Kevlar vest. Christ, he was going to need to eat an entire bottle of ibuprofen tonight.
Movement caught Beckett’s eye. Dare came running up, cell phone pressed to his ear. He mouthed words Beckett couldn’t make out, and then Shane and Marz were both clasping hands with Dare, smiling, laughing . . . celebrating?
“What? What happened?” Beckett asked.
Marz held up a finger and crouched down by the boxes. A minute later he rose and held out a sheet of paper.
Beckett squinted to read it by the firelight of the burned-out shell of his SUV.
Documents all saved
Wexler dead
Beckett’s gaze cut to Marz’s. “We got him?”
Marz nodded.
“You’re sure? We really . . .”
Yes,
Marz mouthed. And then he rolled his eyes and scribbled on the paper again, underlining his words twice for emphasis.
We got him.
And it’s finally fucking over
W
hen they pulled into the gravel lot behind Hard Ink, Beckett knew three things for sure.
First, that he wanted to punch Shane McCallan in the face for making him stay awake the whole ride home when he wanted to sleep so bad it hurt. Everytime Beckett’s eyelids started to fall, Shane shook him awake and pointed to Beckett’s head. All Beckett had to say to that was, “Fuck you, concussion,” because he’d more than earned a few hours of oblivion.
Second, that he wished his hearing hadn’t started to return so he wouldn’t have had to hear Marz butcher the entire eighties’ anthem “Eye of the Tiger” from memory—God love him, but the boy could
not
sing to save his life. Beckett had been almost ready to hit himself in the head again just to see if he could make the madness stop.
Third, that their night was about to get even better. Because Chen stood outside the back door waiting for them. Before they left, Nick had alerted the Ravens remaining behind to guard the building that Chen would be coming and had clearance to pass the roadblock. Nick had called Chen as they hightailed it out of the garage to let him know they’d been successful. And here he was already.
Beckett startled as Nick opened his door for him, mostly because he wasn’t actually aware the truck had come to a stop. Still felt like they were moving, or maybe that was just how badly he’d gotten knocked around. But at least his feet could support him now without the world going all tilt-a-whirl. Not that his friends let him go it alone. Marz and Nick flanked him, their arms around his back the whole way across the lot and up to the gym.
Supporting him. Carrying him. Catching him when he fell.
Boy, if that wasn’t a metaphor for everything he’d ever wanted and never had. He had it now, though. But with all the evidence they needed in hand, what would happen next?
Inside, they found Becca, Emilie, Sara, and Jenna sitting at the computer tables waiting for them. Right before Marz had started busting everyone’s ear drums, he’d called Em to let her know what had gone down. The women sprang from their seats and rushed across the room, and as the four couples around him celebrated their reunions and their victory, the pain in Beckett’s chest had absolutely nothing to do with having been shot.
Kat. How was she doing? Had she awakened? Had there been any complications? Was she scared and lonely, wondering why he wasn’t there? At least Charlie was there. He’d let her know what was going on. Although that did nothing to make Beckett yearn any less to be by her side.
Fuck.
“Oh, my God, Beckett,” Becca said, her gaze running over him. “I want to hug you but I don’t want to hurt you.”
He managed a nod, holding out one hand to keep her at bay. “I’m one giant bruise right now. I’ll take a rain check, though.”
She pressed onto tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “I talked to Charlie. Kat hasn’t woken up yet but the nurses say her vitals are strong.”
Aw, hell. Now his eyes were stinging. “Thanks,” he said.
“Em’s grabbing you some ibuprofen, big guy,” Marz said. “Let’s get you sitting down before you fall down and put a hole in the floor.”
Beckett chuckled and groaned. “Don’t make me laugh.”
Soon, they were all gathered around Marz’s desk, including Eileen, who kept jumping up on Marz’s lap, and Cy, whose head popped out of one of their supply boxes in front of the desk. Instead of running, he sat and watched them warily with that one yellow eye.
Nick held out his arms. “Well, meet the gang,” he said to Chen. “You can speak freely in front of everyone. We’re all in this together.”
Wearing the same thing he’d had on earlier—save for the physician’s coat—Chen scanned the group and nodded. “As you wish.” He sat in a folding chair and braced his elbows on his knees. “Million-dollar-question time,” he said. “What did you get from Wexler?”
Easy hefted the boxes onto Marz’s desk, and they spent the next hour going through them. The e-mails detailed WCE’s criminal activities and Kaine’s knowledge of and participation in said criminal activities. They made clear that Kaine ran the Afghan side of WCE’s black op, while Wexler managed the U.S. side, though in the tone and wording of many of the messages, Wexler clearly came off as the subordinate in the relationship.
Included among the messages were exchanges with and about Frank Merritt. Kaine had initially recruited Merritt into the op without realizing that Chen had already recruited Merritt to investigate what the CIA suspected was a massive conspiracy of corruption, theft, and smuggling. So Merritt had been playing both sides from the beginning, and Beckett couldn’t begin to imagine the kind of stress that must’ve laid on his shoulders—especially since Kaine and Merritt had been friends since West Point. At the end, Kaine’s suspicion of Merritt grew—
why
was not totally clear from what they’d read so far, but the general had communicated his intent to eradicate a possible breach in their organization with the words,
M’s dispensable. I’ll handle the problem within the week.
That e-mail was dated three days before the ambush that had changed the lives of every single person in the room.
The next week, another e-mail to Wexler followed up with the chiller,
Didn’t end them all as planned. Will handle administratively. Longer, messier, but just as effective.
Sonofafuckingbitch.
For the first time since returning stateside, Beckett realized just how truly lucky he was to have made it out alive. To
be
alive. Because if Kaine’d had his way, Beckett never would’ve had the chance to fall in love with Katherine Rixey.
As they worked through the boxes, they found many of the messages worded similarly—vague enough to perhaps seem benign. Specific enough that, if you knew what they referenced, you saw just how goddamned evil Landon Kaine really was. But when paired with Merritt’s records, these new files were definitely damning.
Marz then walked Chen through everything else they’d accumulated on Church, WCE, and Kaine—from his own research, from Merritt’s microchip, from Seneka, and from Wexler. Marz left out any mention of Kat sharing documents from the Justice investigation, and Beckett was relieved at that on her behalf. She’d been forced to sacrifice enough, thank you very much.
It was an impressive body of work, and an even more impressive collection of evidence. The question was . . .
“So, is this enough?” Nick asked. “To nail Kaine? To clear our names? To bring this whole conspiracy crashing down once and for all?”
Chen stared at Nick a long minute, then gave a single nod. “This is exactly what is needed to accomplish every one of those objectives. But there’s a catch.”
Beckett’s stomach dropped. What now?
“And that is?” Nick asked warily.
“Your team deserves the credit for busting all of this wide open. But the Company’s going to claim it. Just telling you that straight up. How big a problem is that for you?”
Nick’s gaze roamed the room, and each man said his peace.
“Fine by me,” Easy said.
“Hell, I don’t want to be explaining to
anyone
how we got half this information,” Marz said, and that perspective struck a chord deep inside Beckett. Because they hadn’t exactly stayed on the right side of the law in all of this, had they?
“As far as I’m concerned,” Shane said, hugging Sara in front of him, “it was never about any kind of recognition. So that doesn’t bother me any.”
Beckett nodded, grimacing as he shifted in the chair. “I don’t want credit. I want justice. However you can best serve it up.”
Nick held out his hands. “There you go. I think it’s safe to say that we’d be happy with you keeping our names out of it as much as possible.”
Chen rose from his seat. “Well, then, let’s get busy. I want a full digital archive of all of this as quick as we can. Because I know exactly what I need to do.”
O
H,
G
OD, EVERYTHING
hurts
.
Sounds. Smells. Sensations. These all slowly returned to Kat as she broke through the surface of consciousness. Her eyelids were stuck together, her lips were dry and sore, her mouth was a desert. She swallowed and . . . there was something in her throat.
She moaned and sluggishly lifted a hand to her face.
“No, no, hon,” someone said. “Gotta leave that in for now. Come on and wake up for me, Katherine. Can you open your eyes?”
It was like lifting a hundred pounds, but she finally did it. Pale green walls. Darkness at the window. Twin bed with rails on the sides. A nurse?
It all came rushing back.
The funeral. The shooting. Cole.
Oh, my God. What happened? What happened?
“Whoa, hon. Settle down,” the young, blond-haired nurse said. “I’m sure you have lots of questions and we’ll get them all answered. But you’ve been through a lot and you’ve gotta try to stay calm. Okay?”
Blinking away tears, Kat nodded. Been through a lot? Was that why she hurt so bad? Because her chest was on fire.
The nurse—Carrie, her name tag read—dabbed away the wetness with a tissue. As she monitored all her vitals, Carrie explained that she’d been shot in the chest and had undergone surgery to repair damage to her heart and right lung. “Everything’s looking good so far,” she said. “We’re going to take you down to CT in a few minutes to check on the fluid around your lung.”
Kat tried to speak and it came out a moan, and she was so frustrated that she couldn’t communicate.
“Here,” Carrie said, handing her a thick pad of yellow Post-it notes and a pencil. “Do you think you can write?”
“Mm-hmm,” she said. It was messy as hell, but she managed to get down her question.
Were any of my family or friends hurt?
Kat saw the answer on Carrie’s face the moment she finished reading the question—and she also saw the woman’s hesitation to answer.
Fumbling the pad, Kat lowered it to write:
Plz tell me
.
Carrie’s expression filled with sympathy. “Okay. Your brother’s in the next unit. Suffered a brain injury but is expected to do fine.”
Oh, God.
Name?
she wrote with a shaking hand.
“Uh, Jeremy, I think.”
Kat lost it. Maybe it was the pain or the grief or the meds they’d given her, but the thought of her happy, playful, sweet brother suffering a brain injury was the most sickening thing she’d ever heard.
And then, mercifully, a cold stinging sensation threaded through her arm and made her drift away . . .
The next time Kat surfaced, sunlight streamed into the room. She was all alone. Where was everybody?
Piercing pain radiating from her chest chased the question away. The intubation tube kept her from bending her neck enough to try to see her wound, but she ran her fingers over her chest and felt the thick bandages that must lay beneath her gown. Probably just as well, since movement hurt and exhausted her in equal measure. She sighed and closed her eyes.
You sing, too, now. A, B, C . . .
Beckett. The memory of him singing to her—trying to get her to sing with him—popped into her head. And despite the sheer silliness of the song, the man could sing. Big, strong, hard-ass Beckett. A singer. Who would’ve thought?
God, she missed him. How many days had it been since the funeral? For some reason, it felt like ages. Ages since she’d last seen Beckett, felt his touch, received his kiss.
It was so quiet in the hospital room. Like a tomb. Kat’s skin broke out in goose bumps at the thought. She grasped the black remote tethered to the bed rail and turned on the wall-mounted television.
Cartoons. Sports. Reruns of some old reality TV show. A History Channel documentary on D-Day. Cable news.
Blech.
She was about to flip back to the documentary when the moving ticker at the bottom of the news program caught her eye.
BREAKING NEWS: Decorated U.S. Army General Landon Kaine at Center of International Conspiracy.
Wait. What?
She turned up the volume on the talking heads at the news desk.
“Breaking news now,” an older male anchor said. “Two-star Army General Landon Kaine, one of the top names circulated to become the president’s next National Security Advisor, has been accused of running a long-standing, international narcotics ring involving the theft and smuggling of Afghan heroin confiscated by the Army and slated for destruction. A
Washington Post
article today published a damning exposé showing how Kaine, for his own personal profit, conspired to ship that heroin to the United States for distribution at the hands of Baltimore’s Church Gang, believed to be the biggest distributor of heroin on the East Coast . . .”
How in the world had this happened? How long had she been asleep?
“In addition,” the anchor continued, “the
Post
article lays out the very disturbing story of an Army Special Forces A-team assigned to counternarcotics missions in Afghanistan that Kaine sought to destroy when its commander learned of his involvement in the theft. Colonel Frank Merritt was a highly decorated soldier who died in a checkpoint ambush last year along with six other Green Berets from his team. As the commanding officer of their base, Kaine then brought charges against the five survivors of the ambush and oversaw their discharges from the Army. The
Post
withheld the names of those dishonored service members, and the Army has not yet issued a statement . . .”
