Mark (In the Company of Snipers Book 2) (21 page)

“I don’t want to be in here,” she screamed, thrashing until every bone and muscle hurt all over again.

Control fled.

“I want to go home!”

This wave of panic stifled worse than the others before it. The bleakness of her predicament choked the life out of her.

“Mom! I want to come home!”

Alex must be running out of options.

Mark sat across from Mike Castor.

This was the second interview. Libby’s last chance. One way or the other, Castor or Mark would break. He’d been warned not to touch the prisoner, so he gripped the edge of the table, only because it kept him from wrapping his fingers around Castor’s neck.

Fear clutched every breath. Time was slipping away. His heartbeat throbbed its dismal cadence,
‘Libby’s dying. My Libby. My life.’

Zack was right though. Castor was falling apart. Anyone could see that. He licked his lips and couldn’t seem to hold still. The man’s lips were chapped and sore. Apparently he’d been scared to death for quite a while.

I don’t care. My Libby’s dying.

But Mark knew better. The only reason Alex had allowed him into the same room with Castor was to pacify him. Alex was also using Mark as a Threat Level DELTA tactic. He made two of Castor. Alex was still playing. Mark wasn’t.

When he’d entered the small interrogation room, he caught the look of terror in the man’s eyes. A young man didn’t toss hay bales all his life, wrestle cattle for branding, or walk miles to school each day and turn out to be a wimp. Mark was the proverbial gorilla in the room, and right now, he wanted to use every ounce of that muscle to pound the truth out of the coward in front of him. His hold on the ethical treatment of prisoners was very thin. Mark glanced at Alex. If push came to shove, not even his domineering boss could stop him.

She’s dying, Boss. It’s all your fault.

Alex didn’t ask a single question. He waited. Mark followed his cue, trying hard to not jump the gun. Castor fidgeted and looked everywhere but at Alex and Mark.

The second Alex leaned forward Mark held his breath. Game time. Castor was going to lose. He had to.

“I want you to meet Libby’s friend,” Alex said calmly. “This is Mark Houston.”

Castor glanced up, but immediately bowed his head onto his arms again.

“Look at him, Marine.” One minute Alex was respectful, the next he turned belligerent. It worked.

Castor looked up at Mark, shaking but not breaking eye contact. “Why? You gonna beat me to death?”

As a matter of fact, yeah.
Mark grunted, his knuckles tight on the edge of the table. Now was not the moment to bait him.

“He’s not here to hurt—” Alex barely spoke when Castor exploded.

“Cuz that’s what you’re gonna have to do!”

That’s all it took. One minute, Mark was sitting. The next he was on his feet, reaching across the table with both Alex’s hands in the middle of his chest. He would’ve had him too, if Castor had known when to shut up.

“Kill me. Do it. I wish you would!” Castor bellowed. “You’re a big guy. At least with you, all this bullshit would be over. Do it. God, just beat me to death right here and now. Choke me. Break my neck. Just freaking kill me!”

His plea took the wind out of Mark’s sails. Common sense re-engaged. He still towered over Castor, his rage filling the small room, and by the looks of him, Castor felt it. But he wasn’t taunting Mark. The man really wanted to die. Fear glistened in his eyes and all over his damp sweaty body.

“Tell me where she is,” Mark ground out. Alex’s hands were still nailed to his pectorals, pushing him back into his seat. He shrugged it off, half wanting to knock his boss on his butt, too. “Where’d you guys stick her? What’d you do with her?”

“Sit down,” Alex commanded.

Mark stared at Alex, but the damn smug man did not even look up to meet his eye. He assumed Mark would simply obey because he was boss.
Well, guess again.
Breathing hard, Mark took another second to think. Alex was no match for him. He might get a sandwich, but Mark could make a meal of him if he wanted to. And he did.

Mark dusted his boss’s hands off his chest. Alex finally decided to look up at him. Castor had just tossed a wrench into the works. You can’t intimidate a man who wants you to kill him. Mark swallowed hard and sat, glaring at Castor.

“How about a deal, Mike?” Alex sat, pulling his chair closer to the table. He’d turned into the the good cop, even using Castor’s real first name.

“I got nothing to say,” Castor whispered, his furtive gaze on Mark before it hit the table again.

“You might want to reconsider. There’s no way out of this mess.” Alex was extremely calm, compared to the scene Mark had witnessed earlier. “Your next stop is prison. Hard time.”

Castor grunted, his eyes full of tears. “I wish.”

Alex leaned forward like a good used-car salesman. “Listen to me. I’ve got one deal to make. Only one. I’m talking to you first because frankly, I hate that sonofabitchin Russian friend of yours. I can’t keep you out of prison, but I can make sure you live.”

“How?”

“I have some influence. I can ensure that you’ll serve your sentence in a secure facility.”

For a second, Mark saw a flicker of hope in Castor’s eyes, but the man was simply too scared to think. His chest rose with short, hurried breaths, and his tongue continually skimmed both lips when he wasn’t biting them. He started rocking from side to side, his foot tapping hard against the table leg.

“Tell me what you need.” Alex changed tactics. “What can I do to sweeten the deal?”

Castor rolled his shoulders, blinking away his tears. “You feds. You don’t get it, do you?”

“What don’t I get?”

“No! No! I’m not saying anything.” By now his chair bounced off two legs each time he rocked. “I can’t.”

It dawned on Mark slowly. Hitting this man wasn’t going to get him what he needed. Killing him? No way. His heart plummeted. Mike Castor would go to his grave before he’d confess where Libby was hidden. It was his life or hers.

“Then we’re done here.” Alex stood to leave. Castor had stopped rocking and buried his face in his arms again.

Mark couldn’t get out of that room fast enough. Nothing Alex had said or done had helped. Both Yuri and Castor were dead ends. Time was running out. The clock was ticking. Wherever she was, Libby was suffocating to death right this very minute. She couldn’t breathe. Neither could he.

“Mark.”

He heard Alex say his name, but he shoved past him.
Libby’s dying.

“Mark!” Alex called to him again.

Mark walked away. He had nothing decent to say. Quick strides took him down the hall. He had to get out of this building. Her lack of oxygen stifled him. Her panic flooded his senses. Across the essence of time he could feel all she was going through—her panic, her fear, the dark smothering darkness of whatever they’d buried her in. Sympathetic claustrophobia brought the walls of the police station crashing in too close.
She’s dying!

With a shove, he burst through the nearest exit doors, pushing them wide open. Air gushed into his lungs, but he’d nearly hit the pretty woman coming up the stairs. Kelsey.

“I’m sorry,” tumbled off his lips.

“Mark.” Her brown eyes filled with tenderness the moment she looked up.

He choked at his thoughtless action. He’d almost hurt her. “Ma’am. I’m sorry. I—”

In less than a second, she had hold of him, her hands barely circling his muscular forearms. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered, her eyes bright with tears. “We thought Libby needed to be with her mother.”

“I know,” was all he could manage to speak. “I understand ... that.”

“Alex will find her.” Tears covered her cheeks. She meant encouragement, but she hadn’t seen what he had just witnessed.

“No,” he croaked.
Not true. Castor and Yuri won’t talk. Yuri wants his drugs. Castor wants to live. Alex won’t negotiate. Libby’s dying!

Mark pushed Kelsey gently out of his arms and set her aside before he bolted down the stairs.

I. Have. To. Go!

Libby squeezed her eyes shut against the darkness. She had already prayed so many prayers, but with every bright, positive picture she had conjured, an uglier one stood in the shadows, like a bucket of ice water ready to drown any glimmer of hope. She had found moments of sanity by repeating favorite songs and poems she’d memorized in school. It helped divert her mind from her awful conditions.

No light. No heat. No water. No Mark.

She revisited them now with meticulous attention, trying not to shiver, trying to lick her dry lips with her moisture deprived tongue. There were so many poems she had loved over the years. Like long practiced prayers, she set her mind in a loop and repeated Robert Frost’s words over and over. Her English teacher would be proud how she had dissected and analyzed those poems.

Eerily, her mind returned to the hopelessness of
‘the darkest evening of the year.’
Again and again she focused on the lovely woods, the downy flake, or the poor little horse out in the cold wintry weather, but her mind circled relentlessly back to
‘the darkest evening of the year.’

I’m in the darkest evening. Stuck in blackest night and hopeless day, but Mark will find me. He’s coming for me now. I feel it. I know it.

Fear pushed against the faint pulse of hope in her heart.

Fight it. Push it back before it takes over again.

Gulping a quick breath, she pushed back one more time and started to recite another poem, her teeth chattering through the lovely verses of Rudyard Kipling. She used to love the world of possibilities contained in the little word
‘if.’

Her teacher would be so proud.

Mark ran.

He’d become a human volcano primed to blow, and he didn’t want to do that around Kelsey. He hit the sidewalk with one intention only. Get as far away from Alex as possible. The only thing he could do right now was pray, and his mind was already hell bent on heaven. It just wasn’t enough.

Mark headed east and away from the police station. Kelsey would tell Alex which direction he’d gone. He didn’t care. Right now, he needed room to breathe. He couldn’t take the not knowing anymore. He had to find some place to think before he tore the police station apart and Alex with it.

The blocks flew swiftly by as his legs became fiery pistons pounding the sidewalk, eating up the anger stored too long inside.

I can’t lose her. Not Libby. Not again. Please. Not again.

He poured all of his angst into running. Sweat poured down his face, neck, and chest, but still he ran. People stepped out of his way. Traffic held at intersections when he disregarded crosswalks and stoplights. Stores, service stations, restaurants and cafes—everything blurred as the sidewalk became a treadmill through town.

God. Help me. Help me find a way.

His marathon ended at the manicured baseball diamond of the local sports park. Grinding to a halt at home plate, Mark bowed his hands to his knees, panting and gasping for air that didn’t bring any relief. The burn in his lungs matched the pain in his side, but they were nothing compared to the gaping hole in his heart. He was drenched to the bone with sweat, tears, and the dirty feeling of despair.

Light glimmered from the few lampposts in the park. He dropped to his knees and sobbed like a baby with his face in the dirt. The place was quiet. No one witnessed him heave and vomit—he hoped. The irony did not escape him. This was home plate, the place where winners were made – and losers. And he, the biggest loser of them all.

God, anything. Please let her live. This time
—
please let her live. Don’t take Libby, too.
Bitter tears fell into the dust. Hopelessness settled in.
Take me instead. I deserve to die. Not Libby. Take me.

Instead of the wise voice of God, he heard his father again. John Houston, the angriest man in the world. Mark had never known what made his father so mean, but he was. The tragedy was that he owned the best farm in the county. He had a good life, a wife that adored him, and a son that forever tried to please. If he’d ever once looked up from his angry path, he might have seen all that, but he didn’t. Not once. He was locked into looking down.

Get used to it, you damn baby. You’re a worthless excuse for a son. Grow up.

That was the bitter man’s version of consolation the day of JayJay’s funeral.

God, how Mark missed his mom.