Deadly Force (13 page)

Sea grass clumps blew in the wind. In the distance, the ocean waves rolled up to the beach and subsided.

Maggie trailed along, wagging her tail but remaining quiet. Bianca held her breath, listening and waiting. When nothing happened—no windows broke, no bullets came whizzing at her face—she let out the breath. Nervous energy burned in her veins and she couldn’t help the half-hysterical, half-relieved laugh that forced itself up her throat.

She didn’t know much about assassins, but she did know they were patient. Tephra probably had her in his scope’s sight already, but maybe not. Maybe he was still setting up Grace, or making a plan to enter the house and shoot her up close and personal.

Execution style. No broken glass, no bullets embedded in the walls or accidently hitting the vase on the coffee table and shattering it.

Much less messy.

Except, he didn’t know Bianca had her own gun. And the dog. She wouldn’t put Maggie in danger, but Maggie’s instincts might keep Bianca alive for another day.

Her wrist grew tired of holding the Glock. She ignored the ache. Keeping the gun in position, she eyed the phone. She wasn’t Cal, wasn’t a SEAL by any stretch, but thanks to an abusive mother, a SEAL for a husband who took personal defense training to a new level, and a job that required even office grunts to know the ins and outs of a survival course, she wasn’t a helpless maiden either.

One, two, three
… She lunged for the cell phone.

Halfway there, she went down on one hip to slide by the purple plastic, letting her momentum carry her past the phone, her left hand grabbing it as she kept the Glock semi-trained on the door.

Maggie barked and ran after her, a game. Bianca ended up with her back against the stairway, the wrought iron bars and wooden treads providing only a skeleton of cover.

Not enough
.

Acting once again like a fast-action movie star, Bianca gained her feet, and keeping low, made a dash back to the security of the kitchen island. She and Maggie fell into a tangled heap at the base of the breakfast bar, Bianca releasing another anxious laugh as she fended off Maggie’s playful face licks. They’d succeeded without a shot being fired.

Her glasses were askew. They hit the floor as Maggie’s excited ministrations knocked them off her face. “Sit, girl,” she said, fumbling to replace the glasses and look at the cell phone’s screen.

The dog did as instructed, a drop of drool hitting the screen as she panted over it.

The call had gone to voicemail, but it hadn’t been from Cal. Bianca hung her head.
Cooper
. He was persistent, that was for sure.

Tephra already knew where she was, so keeping her location a secret was a moot point. Cal wasn’t back and hadn’t responded to her text. When he did show up, he’d walk into an ambush. Would Tephra kill her and disappear? Or would he decide to take out Cal, too, assuming he knew too much?

Tephra’s kills always looked like suicides or accidents. Either that, or the target simply disappeared, never to be seen again. If he’d gotten to her sooner, he might have made her disappear. Now, he had Cal to worry about.

Murder-suicide. If she were him, that’s what she’d make it look like. The images played out in her mind. She and Cal were in the middle of a divorce. They’d argued, he shot her, then turned the gun on himself. Neat and convenient.

Damn
. No way could she let Tephra get away with that.

Her hands shook and she set down the phone, using Cal’s T-shirt to wipe away sweat from her forehead. Queasiness ricocheted around in her stomach, the morning’s pancakes backing up in her throat.

The house had a high-end security system. It would take Tephra time to bypass it. Since he didn’t like messes, she guessed he wouldn’t want to trigger the alarm and send police their way. The time it took him to work on that, she needed to come up with a plan.

Booby-traps? She knew nothing about making them outside of the silly stuff she’d seen in
Home Alone
. She doubted in real life if any of those would work.

The ache in her wrist had turned into full-fledged burning. Off to her left, she heard the faint beep of the security system. Maggie’s ears rose and she stood. Bianca peeked around the corner, checking the door that faced the street. She didn’t see anyone through the frosted pane of glass in the transom, but saw the green light blink. Someone had punched in the code.

Cal. He was back. Had to be him from the way Maggie’s tail was wagging. The dog ignored the door across from the breakfast bar, though, and sprinted for the living room, leaving Bianca behind.

Yep, had to be Cal. Relief swamped her. Her shoulders slumped and her hand nearly dropped the Glock.

Pull it together. You’re not out of the woods yet
.

Gaining her feet, she edged past the refrigerator and leaned out enough to see the double doors facing the beach. Through the patio window, she could see Tephra’s boat still bobbing out on the water. Her phone buzzed and she ran back to grab it off the floor.

Not again. Cooper’s persistence had bled into the neurotic arena. He was obviously extremely concerned or extremely pissed.

She had to tell him what was going on, for his sake, as well as hers. She and Cal needed help. She wasn’t sure just how far north up the coast they’d traveled, and she knew Cooper couldn’t get there in time, but he’d know some way to help them.

Punching the button, she went back to her lookout spot. Why hadn’t Cal come through the door yet? “Agent Harris,” she said just above a whisper, “Please don’t say anything, just listen. I don’t have much time.”

Maggie was scratching at the bottom of the double doors. Bianca’s nerves went on high alert as she stared, gripping the Glock, and pointing it at the doors. “I’m north of San Diego in a house owned by Emit Petit. Not sure of the exact location, but I’m in trouble. There’s a man trying to kill me and…”

Behind her, she heard a pop and then a squeak…the kitchen door. She whirled around and gasped.

A man with graying red hair and a large nose stood in the doorway. A black leather vest hung on his frame, showing bare arms and heavy tats. His jeans were dark, held up by a big belt buckle. His motorcycle boots were covered in dust.

In his hand was a nasty, black handgun with a silencer on the end. “Hello, sweetheart,” Rory Tephra said.

Bianca dropped her phone.

Chapter Eleven

“Agent Marx?” Cooper said into the phone. From the other end came a clattering noise—she’d dropped her cell. “Bianca!”

The marina buzzed with activity. Two police cars, an ambulance, a bunch of spectators. A pair of EMTs guided a gurney toward their vehicle, a white sheet covering a body discovered dead in a nearby boat.

Across from Cooper sat Bobby in his wheelchair, his dark eyes boring into Cooper while a white cord hung from an earbud in his ear. The computer guru was listening in on the conversation Cooper was having with Bianca from his trusty jacked-up laptop from which he did all his spying.

Or the
non
-conversation Cooper was having with her as it was. Cooper gripped the phone. Bianca had disappeared and left him hanging. Not like her at all. If anything, since she’d joined the taskforce, she’d been anal about her job, working eighteen-hour days, and going above and beyond on every case he’d handed her.

She hadn’t shown up for a meeting this morning, hadn’t answered repeated calls and texts. Not only from him but from the other taskforce members as well. The last contact had been shortly after 0800 hours with Ronni, his lead FBI undercover operative.

Cooper wasn’t a worrier. He did however have a gut feeling that Bianca was in trouble.

Bobby had traced her phone to the Starbucks down the road from her apartment. The manager inside claimed Bianca was a regular but hadn’t shown up that morning for her daily chai tea latte. He’d seen her in the parking lot, leaving her car to get into a cab.

At the news, Cooper’s gut feeling had turned into full-blown concern.

Agents like Ronni and his right-hand man, Thomas, often broke routine and didn’t always report in on a regular basis. Came with their jobs as undercover operatives. Bianca Marx wasn’t an operative. She was a brainiac with obsessive work habits. He could set his watch by her.

At least she’d answered her phone this time, but the story that had issued from her mouth was so crazy, he wondered if she’d been drinking. “Agent Marx, what is going on?”

In the background, a dog barked, a man grunted, then a loud blast rang out. The noise seemed to explode close to Cooper’s ear and he jerked the phone away.

“Was that a gun shot?” Bobby said.

Sure sounded like it, but before Cooper could get his phone back to his ear and try to find out, another noise came through the speaker…a crunching sound. The line went dead.

“Goddammit,” he swore under his breath, hitting the redial button.

Thomas half-jogged, half-walked from the marina’s office and headed their way. Humidity was high and sweat glistened on the kid’s tan forehead.

Bobby pulled the earbuds from his ear and began furiously typing on his laptop. “Searching for Emit Petit in Southern Cali.”

Who the hell was Emit Petit and why was Bianca at his house? “Did she honestly say someone was trying to kill her?”

Bobby glanced up, met Cooper’s eyes. “You heard correctly.”

Shit
.

Thomas stopped next to Cooper’s side and read from a small notebook in his hand. “According to the manager, Cal Reese worked here and lived on a boat docked in slip thirteen.” He pointed to the last slip along the dock. “Guy saw a blond female that fits Bianca’s description talking to Cal around 0800 hours and go on his boat. Never saw her leave, but once the storm came in, he claims he was busy fielding calls and might have missed her exiting. He did catch a glimpse of Cal going on that boat”—Thomas pointed to a dingy houseboat a couple of slips closer to them—“belonging to one Gus Molier, a long-time tenant here at the marina, and leave a minute later. Molier is the guy they hauled out on the gurney.”

Bianca’s cell phone rang. Once, twice, three times. Cooper set his jaw.

“EMTs say Molier’s neck was broken,” Thomas said.

Bobby stopped typing and pinned Thomas with a look. “Tell me the guy took a fall and broke it himself.”

Thomas shook his head. “No official ruling yet, but Molier was lying in bed. A friend came to meet him for breakfast and found him.”

“You don’t break your neck lying in bed,” Bobby said.

That left murder.

Not many men could kill a person by breaking their neck. A SEAL could.

Cooper knew everything about his taskforce members. Things they didn’t know he knew. Even though Bianca never spoke about her personal life, he knew she was in the middle of a divorce and her Navy SEAL husband had recently returned to the States holding his ass and not much else after a blown mission.

SEALs had enormous mental, physical, and emotional reserves, but they were still human. Had Cal Reese snapped, and say, oh, killed his neighbor and kidnapped his soon-to-be ex-wife?

Bianca’s phone went to voicemail. Again. Cooper nearly threw his own phone across the marina.

When she hadn’t answered multiple calls and texts earlier that day, he’d had no choice but to hunt down Cal Reese. Except upon arrival, he and the SCVC Taskforce had found this mess.

“Got ʼem,” Bobby said, staring at his screen. “Emit Petit. Lives and works in L.A. Has a second home on the beach a few miles south of there.”

L.A. was a solid two hours north without traffic. Cooper disconnected and pocketed the phone. “Call the local cops and have them send cars to both addresses immediately. Get the Coast Guard searching for Reese’s boat. Warn all of them that they may be dealing with a volatile military-trained expert.” He motioned at Thomas. “You’re with me.”

Thomas nodded and headed for Cooper’s SUV. Bobby was already dialing his phone. “You want an APB for Reese?”

There’s
a man trying to kill me
… “You bet your ass I do. If they locate him, they are to hold him until I get there.”

Bobby’s wheelchair hummed to life. “Coop, hold up. There’s something you should know.”

Cooper stopped and turned back. “What?”

“It’s Reese. My source inside the DoD says he’s got PTSD. Could be dangerous. His superiors believe he’s responsible for the deaths of three men during his last mission. There’s a military investigation going on.”

The day just got better and better. “Find that bastard.”

“Coop!” Bobby stopped him again. “I know what you’re thinking, but don’t go off half-cocked. It sounds like Bianca got on his boat willingly, and you have no proof that she’s still with him, or that he murdered Molier.”

He didn’t have proof, but he had his gut, and his gut said that was definitely a gunshot he’d heard on the other end. “She might already be dead, Bobby.”

His friend’s expression darkened. He shut his laptop and engaged his wheelchair, following Thomas to Cooper’s SUV. Bobby had great respect for the NSA agent and her enormous brain. “You’re going to need me. I’m coming with you.”

Bianca’s phone lay semi-crushed on the kitchen floor. Several sorry, weak buzzing sounds had come from it before it died completely.