Shadow of Doubt (An SBG Novel Book 2) (3 page)

Malone nodded to Jersey, who pulled a jumpsuit out of a small bag attached to his belt.

“Your . . . name?”

Malone almost missed the scratchy, whispered question, her voice was so faint. He paused and connected with her eyes again. “Captain Jeremy Malone, ma’am.”

Michelle nodded and her mouth twitched. His heart broke at seeing her attempt to smile under all the swelling and bruising. “Cappy for short.”

He couldn’t stop the wide grin. “I like it, but don’t try to talk too much.” Malone patted her arm. “Save your energy so we can get you out of here and stateside just in time for Christmas.”

Jersey jerked the jumpsuit forward and Malone pointed to it. “I’m going to help you put this on, okay?”

Her eyes didn’t stray from their locked position on his as she nodded.

It took both Malone and Jersey too much time to wrestle the one-piece outfit over her maimed body, not that it was her fault. Every inch of her was covered with bruising or worse. Malone figured her whimpers were probably substitutes for the screams she so rightly deserved to cry. His admiration of her grew. She out-warriored most men who had years of training. If he guessed right, she had at least two broken ribs and countless fractures throughout her body. And he hadn’t even tried to quantify the burns and open lacerations now seeping into the olive covering.

Goddamn animals.

He opened a small duffel latched to his side and grabbed a pair of hard-bottom slippers, sliding them on her feet. Gripping the strap of his M4 Carbine, he maneuvered the weapon so it rested against his back. He picked Michelle up as gently as he could and cradled her against his bulky vest.

“Call the others,” Malone ordered to Jersey. “Tell them we’re coming out.”

Jersey cracked his neck from the left to the right, then jammed the phone to his ear and snapped, “We’re good to go.” He paused, then hung up. “They’ll meet us outside.”

Malone jerked his head in acknowledgement and followed the sergeant out the door. He hated how they had to retrace their steps instead of exiting out of an alternate location. Using the same exit made it too easy for the cartel to set up an ambush and put a bullet in his ass. But there wasn’t enough time to scout another route and Michelle’s condition prevented them from executing anything more aggressive.

Jersey shouldered his weapon and quartered the area as they progressed, his posture and steps more aggressive then warranted.
What the hell is going through the sergeant’s mind?

Once they cleared the building, Malone ran for the trees. Jacks materialized from the foliage like a ghost and stopped dead. His eyes scanned Michelle’s battered face and he started cussing.

“Save it,” Malone barked. “Get us the hell to the chopper before you blow a gasket.”

They blazed a trail toward the coordinates where the Black Hawk was supposed to meet them.

Gunfire, grenades, and screams filled the air as they trekked to the rendezvous. Luckily, they didn’t encounter anyone en route, but Malone didn’t trust the peace would last long. He took a knee with the rest of his unit in the foliage and adjusted his grip.

“Hang on a little longer,” he whispered, getting caught up in Michelle’s squinted stare. He fought the urge to
hug
her against him, wanting to force his health and strength into her just so he wouldn’t feel like such a bastard for enjoying the intimacy of his hold. “Your taxi’s on its way,” he added gruffly.

The rest of his team aimed little infrared devices at the sky, signaling to the chopper their position. Within minutes, the sound of the Black Hawk thundered overhead, then landed.

Damn.
No doubt, every piece of shit cartel member heard that racket and was now racing to their spot.

Jacks slapped three unit members on their shoulders and hauled ass to the other side of the bird while Jersey and the rest of the team spread out, surrounding the chopper. Malone climbed inside. He exchanged a quick glance with the medic, conveying just how bad Michelle was before he set her on the latched-down gurney.

Smoothing a hand over her hair, he yelled over the whirling blades, “This is the end of the line for me.”

Her body jolted and she clutched his vest, shaking her head back and forth weakly. “No,” she whispered.

“Don’t worry, you’re in excellent hands. They’ll get you patched up and to a hospital in no time.” He tried to clamp down on his racing pulse that had nothing to do with the firefight outside. “I’m sure some government official will be in to check on you and help figure out what comes next.”

Machine-gun reports raged closer and he caught a glimpse of his men running, returning fire to keep the perimeter secure.

She clung to his uniform. “Cappy, don’t leave me.”

Ah God. If that just didn’t rip his heart out.

“Sir, I need to get her hooked up to an IV,” the medic stated urgently.

“And I gotta go,
now
,” the pilot yelled. “Either strap in or jump off, Captain.”

Shit. This sucked. He peeled her fingers off, reaching into his vest pocket at the same time and pulled out a small piece of paper and pen. After scribbling his name and phone number, he clasped her hands together and slid the paper between her palms. Leaning forward, he whispered into her ear, “If you ever get into trouble again, contact me. I promise I’ll come running, no questions asked.” He brushed a light kiss below her lobe and sat up. In a full voice, he said, “Hang in there, Michelle. You’re a survivor. Don’t let his hold you back.”

He made it as far as the edge of the chopper before he couldn’t stop himself from turning and searing her battered image into his brain. That son of a bitch Ramon was going to pay for this.

He hopped to the ground and the medic wasted no time slamming the side door shut as the pilot lifted off.

“We finally ready to enter the fight, sir?” Jersey asked, turning his NVG-hidden eyes toward Malone while fiddling with the flap on his vest pocket.

Malone unlocked his clenched jaw. “Yeah. Let’s finish this.”

Ridge Creek, North Carolina—Present Day

Cappy dropped his chin to his chest and shook his head. Unbelievable.

He peered at the computer screen again, praying he’d see something different, but of course nothing had changed. The large photo remained stubbornly fixed on the social media site. Goddamn it. Didn’t Jillian realize
anyone
could see this on the Internet?

Cappy slumped against the headboard and adjusted the laptop resting across his thighs. Unable to sleep, he had decided to check in on his three younger sisters. Jennifer, the oldest of the three, didn’t have any new updates. Julie only gave a quick mention about her two kids adjusting to the new school year. But Jillian, the youngest sibling with a ten year age gap from him, posted a picture of her raising a wineglass while trying to smack a kiss on some guy’s cheek. Cappy could practically smell the vast quantity of alcohol she must have consumed to have that wonky-eyed, red-cheeked expression. Christ. Not helping one bit was the caption, “Having a blast in Cancun!” telling the sickos of the world where to find her.

He counted down from ten in his head. At twenty-eight, Jillian should know better. For the millionth time, he wished he could pick up the phone and rip into his flighty sister. But he couldn’t. Not because it would be O’dark-thirty in Mexico but because a dead man shouldn’t be able to dial a phone.

He signed off and snapped the lid shut. He couldn’t take any more family time. Lord knew what he’d see if he continued to run down his list.

Grabbing his usual uniform of T-shirt and cargo pants out of his duffel, he quickly donned the clothing. The other double bed filling the space appeared suspiciously unused. He growl-sighed and finished lacing his combat boots. Next stop, coffee machine.

Outside of the guest bedroom, thick plastic sheeting covered the floor-to-ceiling living room windows and rapped against the surface. On top of that, the forest wind howled and whistled through the myriad of bullet holes marring the once-beautiful glass, invading what should have been a quiet Saturday morning.

He rounded the corner of a cathedral-height stone fireplace acting like a partition between the living and dining rooms and stopped abruptly. “You’ve been at it all night again, haven’t you?”

Ted Byrnes’s head snapped up and he stared at Cappy a second too long without comprehension in his blurry eyes. The thin man’s hair stood up on the back of his head and his shirt was buttoned wrong.

Cappy sighed at his temporary roommate. “You can’t keep this pace up.”

“Can’t help it.” The computer genius, and now unofficial member of Delta Squad, slumped on a dining chair, one of the few left after a sniper tried to kill them all ten days ago. “I’ve got too many projects going and not enough time to put all the fires out.”

Too true. Right now, everything was in flux, to put it mildly. Using his old military jargon, he’d describe it more like tits up, FUBAR, and SNAFU.

He needed coffee. Six a.m. was too early for all the bullshit to start grinding away at his gut and not be properly caffeinated.

“Senator Harris is worried about Uncle Victor sitting in a public prison instead of one of our holding cells. With him knowing every skeleton and dead body in SweetBriar Group’s closet, he could talk to the press and reveal the hidden side of SBG.”

Cappy snorted. “I wouldn’t put it past the bastard. Especially when he was the one responsible for
putting
most of those skeletons in our closet, but he can’t be moved. Too much coverage of his arrest, bail denial, and transfer to the Kansas penitentiary.”

Victor Dalmingo had been the CEO and public face of SweetBriar Group, an environmental company that was really a front for the biggest privately funded mercenary-style agency in existence, before Delta Squad joined forces with Kansas U.S. Senator Bob Harris to take him down. The pompous ass even coined the company motto
“Black Ops Without the Red Tape.” The fact the U.S. government was SBG’s biggest client
should
have the Senator worried. The man had to keep it and all the operatives like Delta Squad out of the public’s awareness.

Ted blinked and Cappy’s irritation lessened a notch. He had a soft spot for the twenty-seven-year-old. The guy had made a very hard choice a few weeks ago; saving the lives of Delta Squad over a family bond could’ve very easily gone the other direction. Thank God the kid chose them. Ted may be socially awkward, but the genius was an asset Cappy would utilize to the fullest to keep his squad safe.

“We any closer to identifying Victor’s personal assassin squad?” Cappy drummed his fingers while the brewing coffee hissed and steamed. It had been rumored for years that the CEO had a personal squad who answered only to him.

“Not yet. Obviously the ones we killed were part of that group and no longer an issue,” Ted answered with a sigh, peering around at the bullet holes dotting the walls and furniture. “I know it’s important, and I have it on my ‘to-do’ list, but it’s not the highest priority.”

The single-serve Keurig machine finally snapped off. Cappy grabbed his tall thermos, and screwed the cap on. Even after he transitioned from the Green Berets to SBG, he never bothered developing a taste for things like sugar and cream. Too many years in the field without the luxuries had him set in his ways.

“What are you working on now?”

Ted ran his fingers through his hair, leaving tracks behind.

How long had it been since the genius took a shower? Cappy took a large, fortifying swallow. He’d remedy that in a minute.

“The Senator wants every SBG facility cleared out by week’s end in case the shit hits the fan.” Ted pushed his glasses up and rubbed his eyes. Senator Bob Harris had taken control of the clandestine side of SBG when Victor was arrested, while the Board of Directors maintained the public face. “We can’t go to any of our backup sites because Victor set those up. So I’m frantically trying to find suitable places all across the country, buying out the owners using all new fake identities I’ve had to create, and setting up the logistics of the move.”

“Where’s the rest of the IT staff? You weren’t the only one working for SBG. Why aren’t they helping?”

“They are. Since I’m one of the few IT technicians with a level-five clearance and the only one Bob trusts at the moment, it all falls on me.”

“Gotcha.” Cappy prayed the brew would kick in soon. “Not to add to your plate, but you’ve got a handle on the blackmail Victor used against the Senator, right?”

“Yeah. I copied everything off the ghost drives I found on SBG’s servers onto my own. Which not only included the Senator, but everyone else Victor kept under his thumb. I then destroyed the ghost drives and closed the ability to set up another one.”

Cappy understood only a part of that answer. “Good. I don’t trust Victor to stay quiet in prison.”

“No one does.” Ted rubbed his eyes again. “With all the squads officially ordered to go to ground it’s a good thing Grady’s allowing us to stay—”

“Seriously?” Talon’s angry disbelief had Cappy jerking his head toward the fireplace, where his operative emerged from the shadows. “We’re staying? I thought the sale of the house behind here was expedited?”

Cappy swallowed another mouthful of caffeine. His subordinate was difficult to get along with on the best of days, but now that he nursed a broken heart, his moods were evolving to downright vile.

“It is,” Cappy answered. “We should have the deed in the next few days, but you know we’ve still got the demolition inside to reconfigure the layout and to set up the perimeter security around these two homes.”

“Hey, guys.”

Wonderful.
The object of Talon’s jealousy popped out on the other side of the partition. Except for the eyes—Casper Grady’s were crystal blue and Talon’s were emerald green—the two were similar: blond hair, muscular physiques, and both in love with Wraith, the squad’s reinstated sniper. At least Cappy hoped Wraith would convert her “definite possibility” to rejoin the squad answer into a “yes.” Not only would he regain the best sniper in SBG’s history, he’d inherit Grady’s former Marine skills too, because the civilian made it clear he wouldn’t allow Wraith to go into danger without being there to watch her back.

“What’s going on? Why’s everyone up so early?” Grady asked in his deep Carolina drawl while strolling to the Keurig, forcing Cappy to the side.

“Ted never went to bed,” Cappy answered. “I’m a light sleeper. Couldn’t rest with the plastic banging against the glass—”

“Sorry about that.” Grady grimaced. “Replacements have been ordered.”

“Not a complaint.” Cappy waved a hand.

Talon marched toward the coffee machine—the one Grady currently blocked—and paused, slapping his hands on his hips. “You going to move today or what?”

Grady casually scratched the open area at the base of his throat where a silver chain with a three-headed spiraling dragon pendant now rested against his skin. Talon’s eyes narrowed and his fingers whitened. The team’s symbol, the one they all wore proudly, had been given to Grady by Wraith when she publically declared her love for him.

Tipping his full mug in Talon’s direction, Grady leisurely stepped to the side, smirking at Talon’s death stare and taking a noisy slurp.

Cappy inwardly sighed. Those two had already wailed on each other like two schoolboys in the backyard. The bruises from that fight had only just faded, they didn’t need to add a fresh set. Regardless of who provoked whom, Cappy’s sympathy went out to Talon. It couldn’t be easy living with the man who captured the heart of the woman you’re in love with.

“Uh, Cappy,” Ted said, trepidation dripping in his voice, “you better come look at this.”

Christ. What now? His cell phone rang.

“Don’t answer that,” Ted yelled. “You need to see this first.”

Fuck.

“What’s going on?” Wraith asked, tightening her sable hair into a ponytail as she rounded the partition, wearing a Gradwick Adventure Center polo, matching Grady’s.

Cappy would bet his left nut her going into work today was all Grady’s doing to keep her away from Talon. Those three needed to get a handle on this before Cappy was forced to intervene.

The room filled up with almost the whole gang. The only two missing were Magician and Romeo—what a pair. He’d assigned those two to tie up loose ends in the mid-west and return at the end of the week.

The phone in Cappy’s hand rang again and Senator Harris’s name flashed across the display.

“I’m serious,” Ted said. “If that’s the Senator, you should look at this first.”

Son of a bitch.
He strode around the kitchen island and stationed himself just to the left of Ted’s chair. The rest of the group piled in around him.

YouTube filled one of the monitor screens with a frozen video in the center. The title “Playboy’s Last Fling” dominated the space below the video screen.

Cappy’s stomach tightened.

“I took a break and trolled the Internet.” Ted pointed. “This video on YouTube already has ten thousand hits and after skipping through it, I pulled this off the nine-one-one database.” Ted highlighted another file and an audio equalizer popped up on the other monitor. Green lines jumped on a black background as voices began to speak.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
a female operator asked.

“Um,”
a frazzled male voice said twice.
“I need to report a murder.”

“A murder, sir?”

A throat cleared.
“Yes.”

“What’s your address, sir?”

“Blakely Hotel. Down-downtown Indianapolis.”

“Did you witness the murder, sir?”

The man swallowed loudly.
“Ah, no.”

“How do you know it’s a murder, sir?”

“I’m, ah, the night manager. One of my room service attendants entered the suite this morning to deliver a breakfast order Mr. Colin Harris prearranged and discovered him dead in his bed.”
Audible swallow.
“The blood . . .”

Oh shit.

Ted stopped the tape. “The rest is just the operator keeping him on the line until the police arrived.”

Ted clicked the “Play” icon on the video.

A shaky image from some type of handheld camera showed the Senator’s son, Colin, strolling along the sidewalk in front of the hotel. The cameraman must have been positioned at least four floors up based on the angle and lack of close zoom. The woman Colin escorted weaved and bobbed, obviously drunk. Her long-sleeved, mid-length black dress showcased a pair of generous hips, making Cappy straighten and take notice. A pair of heels dangled from her right hand and she barely missed smacking the doorman in the head with them. She giggled and petted the uniformed man before Colin pulled her inside. The video faded to black then reappeared with a blurry image of a darkened hotel suite.

The cameraman was now level with the room.

Cappy’s phone rang again. This time he needed no encouragement to ignore it.

Lights flashed on and the camera’s autofocus sharpened to catch the couple laughing in the foyer as Colin closed and locked the door. The cameraman zoomed in and Cappy’s pulse began to race. He must have made a sound because Ted whipped around to cast a quizzical expression at him. He ignored it and narrowed his eyes on the screen.

The woman straightened and tossed her shoes and purse on top of an ottoman near the door. She turned and the cameraman got a clear shot of her face. Cappy’s heart froze.
Son of a bitch
. The face of both his nightmares and dreams now stared at him. Michelle Alger of Laurel, Delaware with a rainbow butterfly tattoo on her left hip.

She tottered farther into the living room area just as Colin pulled a bottle of champagne out of a silver ice bucket and held it up. Michelle clapped a hand across her mouth and laughed, bending at the waist. Cappy gripped his coffee mug. The oily SOB peered right down the front of her modest dress. Colin popped the cork and Cappy imagined hearing the startled shriek accompanying Michelle’s laughter. Colin poured two glasses and Michelle grabbed one overflowing with bubbles.