Cheating Justice (The Justice Team) (32 page)

He shot her a text. FIFTH FLOOR. VOICES. I THINK FROM NORTH SIDE. CHECK ALL WINDOWS.

Inside of five minutes, Caroline had shattered the window on the back door to the manufacturing plant and let herself in. If this were the movies, she’d have picked the lock—which she could have done—but since the broken-down building appeared to have been without life for at least a decade, she saved herself time and aggravation and busted the window.

With her rifle and carry bag slung across her shoulders, she made her way through the empty building, kicking her way through random garbage and machine parts that littered the filthy floor. A rat skittered away and Caroline’s heart slammed.
Hate those damned things
.

In the far corner, she located a set of stairs and made her way up to the fifth floor where she stood on a catwalk lining the interior of the plant. Above her was the open area she’d spied from the street. She needed to get up there, but the steps ended at the fifth level. Had to be another way up. She glanced around and inhaled the suffocating dust of the deteriorating building.

Should have brought a water bottle
. Above her, the ceiling sat low and she scoured the area for another set of steps that would lead her upstairs. Nothing. She headed across the catwalk to the far end where she found an ancient elevator with a gate closure. Deathtrap. Right next to it—
bingo
—were the stairs.

If they could be called that. In essence what she had equaled a rusty thrill ride that would send her plummeting five stories to the cement floor where she’d meet her death.

Plan B.

Back to the elevator. She analyzed the open space above where emergency climbing rungs had been bolted to the side wall. Whether those rungs were intact or not, she couldn’t know, but on closer inspection, they looked solid. She slid her rifle and carry bag crossways across her body, curled her fingers into the elevator gate and gave it a test shake. The cables seemed intact and the elevator barely moved. She’d have to risk it.

At least she’d worn flat shoes. But wow—she’d prefer to be in her cargo pants instead of slacks and a lightweight shirt. Whatever. Digging one foot into the gate, she boosted herself up and—upsy-daisy—climbed over the top of the car. The elevator swayed and she grabbed the cable to steady herself. Her stomach flipped. Long way down.

Only way to go was up. Breathing heavy from her climb, she swiped her arm across her forehead to dry the dripping sweat then reached for the climbing rung.
Whoa, baby.
The elevator car swayed again then stopped. Stretched across the top of the car and the side wall, she gave the rung a yank. Solid.

“Here we go.”

Hanging on to the elevator cable, she moved one foot to the lower climbing rung. When it held, she said a lightning quick “Glory be” and swung fully onto the rungs.

The Glory be paid off because the rungs held.
Thank you.

She quickly made her way up the rungs, checking the security of each before she put her weight on it. Near the top, one bolt broke away. Just
pop!
That sucker flew.

Fire ripped across her shoulders as half her body hung in the air.
Move
. Still gripping the lower rung, she let go of the bad one.

She’d have to jump to reach the next lever, and if she missed, well, it had been a great thirty-three years.
Dammit.
Only a few feet from the top and she’d hit a snag. She dropped her head, closed her eyes and breathed in. Slowly, she exhaled and envisioned the leap. Envisioned grabbing on to that rung. Envisioned flinging herself over the top. Envisioned Mitch and his life that needed saving.

She threw her shoulders back, willed away the frying sensation and focused.

“I’m hanging in the middle of a fucking elevator shaft. Mitch will love it.”

Her front pants pocket buzzed. Terrific. Text coming in. Grey had said to leave her phone on. Well, he’d have to wait a second.
Can’t talk now, hon
. She stared up at the rung, took a deep breath, counted three and leaped. Her body was airborne for half a second, but it could have been an hour and then—
foom
—she grabbed hold of the rung, tightening her fingers around it. The soles of her flat shoes slid down the concrete wall—
oh, no
—and she scrambled for a better grip.

Fierce stabs of panic plunged into her.
No, no, no
.

With her other hand, she clutched the rung and hung there, her feet loose as her arms and shoulders absorbed the agony of holding her body weight. Sweat slid down the center of her back and her arms quivered under the pressure.
Hang on
. A vision of her dead body sprawled across the floor filled her mind. Not today.
No dying today.

“You got this, Caroline.”

And then her foot hit a chip in the wall. Just a small indentation but it was enough for her to prop her toe into it and get traction.
Go
. She heaved herself over the top, her breaths coming fast and hard and painful as her cheek lay against the disgusting floor, but—hey, it beat falling five stories to her death.

Dirt she could deal with.

Death, not so much.

Damn you, Mitch Monroe.

Breathing hard, she jumped to her feet, retrieved her phone and checked the text that had come in. Grey. Windows. North side. Got it. Thirty seconds and she’d be in place.

Running to the window, she set her bag on the floor, lifted her rifle, snapped the bipod legs open and placed them on an open sill. 
Lookie here
. The target building faced due west where the sun would be directly in her face. How she loved a challenge. She dropped to her knee and adjusted her scope to 10 power for a wide view. Starting at the far end of the building she scanned the first window, then the second. Nothing. Third window. Pay dirt.

She switched the scope to 50 power bringing her target window into narrow focus. A sheer curtain with a six-inch space in the middle hung in the window. Behind it, a man in a black suit paced back and forth, his movements quick and jerking. Stressed. For a split second, he turned toward her. The DAG. That son of a bitch.

To his left, another target stood, arms crossed, feet spread as if waiting to be summoned to action. He stared down at a man in a chair and—
oh, God
—her skin caught fire again. Sitting in that chair, his head drooped forward, the side of his face battered and bloody, was Mitch. This man that drove her crazy, that she’d threatened to shoot countless times, that she
loved
, had been beaten like a rabid animal.

Can’t allow that.

“Sons of bitches. You’re going down.”

Caroline closed her eyes, let the fury wash through her, and reminded herself she was an FBI agent trained to handle these types of situations with swift efficiency. She could not, would not get emotional.

At least not yet.

When Mitch was free, she’d get emotional.

Donaldson had told her to call if she saw anything illegal. Did she have time for that? Would he consider this illegal? One would hope, but she didn’t know anymore. Forget Donaldson. She opened her eyes again. “Okay, boys, let’s see what we’ve got.”

In the window, her target continued his pacing, staring down at an unmoving Mitch.
He’s pissed.

Well, so am I.

But if she had to take a shot, it would be a cold bore one. Through a veiled curtain.

This shot was all about precision with a custom fit weapon. Caroline knew her rifle—the length of the barrel, the curve of the butt against her shoulder, the crisp two pound pull of the trigger—like she knew her own body. She breathed in. Precision and breathing she could control. Bad cartridges,
fliers
, she couldn’t, but her accuracy percentage clocked in at .5 MOA. No doubt—she could make the shot.

Not. A. Problem.

Her phone rang. She backed away from the scope. Grey. She punched the screen for the speakerphone and set the phone by her feet. “I’m in place. Can you hear anything?”

“No.”

She went back to her scope. Across the street, her target stomped around, back and forth, back and forth, his movements jerky. On her rifle, she grabbed the bolt, chambered a round, and locked it down.

“You ready?” Grey asked.

“I’m ready.”

“Wake up, asshole.”

Mitch opened his eyes, or at least the one that wasn’t swollen from being punched. The deep voice belonged to another of Straling’s goons, this one a long-haired hippy type with a tattoo on the side of his neck. During the night, he and Cobra had dragged Mitch up to the fifth floor and taken turns beating the shit out of him, mostly for fun, it seemed.

His hands were tied to the chair, forcing him to face front. The morning sun cast faint light from the window onto the cracked kitchen flooring where Mitch’s blood had pooled and dried in spots. His head pounded, his ribs ached with every breath, and he needed to take a piss. “Where’s Straling?”

“Right here.” The man stepped in front of him in a fresh suit and tie, smelling of soap and shampoo. “Ready to confess your crimes?”

The bastard had gone home and showered. Probably even slept for a while. Could be good or bad. Either he’d left Maria alone or he’d gotten what he wanted from her even before Hippie Douche Bag had given Mitch a black eye.

Man, he needed a drink. Or a toothbrush. His mouth was dry and his sore jaw had trouble forming words. His time in between beatings had given him opportunities to think about the DAG’s involvement, but he was still missing the man’s motivations. Politics, no doubt, but maybe in the end, it didn’t matter. Right now, he had to convince the DAG that Maria was an innocent party. “You don’t need to hurt the girl. She was sleeping with Tommy but she doesn’t know anything.”

Straling shook a finger at Mitch as he paced around him in a circle. “She actually knows quite a lot. More than is good for her health, I’m afraid.”

“She’s too scared to talk, and I’ll give you all of Tommy’s files if you let her go.”

“Files?” Straling seemed to consider the offer. “Oh, you mean these?”

He fished two flash drives from his jacket pocket—the red one Maria had been carrying and Mitch’s blue one. He waved them in front of Mitch’s good eye. “Looks like your bargaining chip is off the table. I have everything I need to wrap up this little operation and make sure the United States of America continues the good fight.”

Goddamn
. He had the files. Now what? “You don’t have Jesse Lando. Is he your inside man? The one who set up Tommy?”

“Oh, please. Lando couldn’t think his way out of a paper sack. He’s a varmint like those nasty little scorpions they have down there near the border. He had a simple job. One simple fucking job, and that was to buy guns and deliver them to Balboa. That’s it. But your friend, Agent Nusco, had to get involved and poke his dick where it didn’t belong.” Straling tsked, continuing to pace.

“Who shot Tommy? You don’t have the balls.”

The DAG gave Mitch a questioning look. “Goading, Mitch? After all of this, you’re still itching for a fight?”

When Mitch didn’t answer, Straling smiled. “Doesn’t matter. You’ll be dead soon anyway. How does it feel to know you can’t hurt me?”

Oh, I’ll hurt you, fucker.

“Lando got cold feet, decided to back out. Do you know how long it took me to set up that operation? Two years. I had that pussy Will Atkinson in place, doing whatever I wanted in order to keep his big brother as the attorney general in New Mexico. He harassed the gun shop owners, kept me informed about all the whining the taskforce members were doing. Right from the start, I knew Nusco would be a pain in the ass. Two years of planning and organizing and making promises. Promises I still have to keep. Our nation’s safety depends on it. My
job
depends on it.”

“You’re insane. Letting guns walk doesn’t make our nation safer.”

“The border states, with all the smuggling and rampant crime…need stricter gun control laws. The president has been trying to enact such laws, but Congress keeps burying the bills with bureaucratic bullshit. I knew I could move the immovable force.”

Either Mitch was lightheaded from lack of sleep and water, or Cobra and Hippy had rattled his brain. This guy sounded like he’d just escaped from the loony bin. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Newton’s first law of motion…in order for the motion of an object to change, a force must act upon it. In this case, the object that needs to change is Congress, and I’m the force acting upon it by proving we have an illegal firearms problem.”

He couldn’t be serious. “So you flooded the market with guns? You wanted to increase violence in New Mexico in order to pass a fucking gun control law?”

“Brilliant, no?”

No. Far from it. Lunatic. “How many innocent people died or were injured because of your cockamamie plan?”

“Now see, I thought you had vision. The AG is bailing after this term. Who do you think is in line for that job? You of all people should understand that sacrifices have to be made for the greater good.”

Sacrifice. Mitch knew too much about sacrificing himself and his friends for the fucking greater good. His voice came out low and ragged. “Who killed Tommy? If it wasn’t Lando, then who?”

Straling spoke to Cobra and Hippy. “Get the girl.”