Eye for an Eye, an (Heroes of Quantico Book #2): A Novel (19 page)

As she gathered up her notes, she saw Mark and Coop rise from their seats in the booth. After a brief discussion, Coop exited and Mark turned toward her. The warmth of his smile was like the thawing, life-generating caress of the spring sun.

That was an apt analogy, Emily reflected as she moved to join him. After Grant’s death, she’d been convinced she could never again take the risk of loving. Not even someone in a “safe”profession, let alone an FBI agent. Yet a mere three weeks into their reunion, she was finding it harder and harder to imagine life without Mark. The twenty-year gap in their relationship had melted away as her memory of the teenage Mark with grand plans and high ideals melded with the reality of the grown man who’d brought them to fruition with integrity, discipline, and an admirable sense of honor and justice.

She’d loved Mark back in those Wren Lake days, when young passions were high. Yet she’d gotten over him after life had set them on different paths.

This time, however, she didn’t think she’d emerge unscathed if she let him walk out of her life.

And that would happen in nine days, when he returned to

Quantico. For always, if she let fear stop her from following her heart. Or temporarily, if she was willing to give their relationship a fair chance. But unless she was, she couldn’t let him take the job here. His sole tie to St. Louis was her. If she didn’t think their relationship had a future, she had to be honest with him.

And she had to decide soon. Mark’s boss wouldn’t dally about filling the job in St. Louis.

“Good program.” Mark squeezed her hand as she entered the booth.

“Thanks.”

“Ready to call it a night?”

“Yes. See you next week, Andy.”

“I’ll be here.” With a wave, the long-haired technician set off down the hall to lock up.

Mark put his hand in the small of her back and guided her toward the door. When Coop gave a soft, patterned knock, signaling the all-clear, he stepped out first and motioned Emily to follow.

“You know, I’m starting to consider this clandestine stuff routine,” she commented as they walked toward the car. “That’s pretty sad.”

“A temporary inconvenience.” Coop opened the door for them as they slid into the backseat.

“I hear you’ve been given a reprieve for your anniversary, though,” Emily said as he took his place behind the wheel.

“Also temporary, unfortunately. But I’ll take it.”

“Your wife must be thrilled that you’ll be home to celebrate the big day.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” Grinning, he glanced at his two passengers in the rearview mirror. “By the way, Mark, she says thanks. And to tell you you’re invited for dinner as soon as you get back. Steak, no less.”

Curious, Emily looked at Mark. His face was hard to read in the dim light, but she thought she detected a flush on his cheeks.

“You had something to do with this?”

“Not much.”

“Don’t believe him, Emily. Somehow he convinced our boss— who doesn’t have a sentimental bone in his body—to give me a weekend pass. I always suspected my partner was a romantic at heart, although he keeps it well hidden. But being around you seems to bring it out in him.”

“Knock it off, Coop.” Mark’s comment came out as a low growl.

“Sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

“Sure.”

“Hey, Emily deals with feelings all day, every day. I’m sure she understands.”

Mark threw a quick, speculative glance her way, clearly not comfortable with his partner’s revelation about his softer side.

But she was glad Coop had passed on that bit of information.

It gave her yet another insight into the man who’d stolen her heart so many years ago on the shores of Wren Lake.

And it also reinforced her growing sense that her youthful crush hadn’t been misguided. Mark Sanders had been worthy of her affection years ago. And he was worthy of her love now.

If only she could find the courage to risk her heart again.

Dale had never been able to fathom why some men enjoyed frequenting sleazy, dark, smoky bars in questionable areas of town.

The ready availability of alcohol was one reason, he supposed.

He’d noticed the staff wasn’t too diligent about checking IDs, and a lot of the guys sitting around the tables had to be borderline minimum age.

The waitresses could be the attraction too. Most of the patrons were blatantly ogling the young women in their skin-tight jeans and low-cut tops.

It was possible the music was a draw, but he doubted it. Most of the customers were ignoring the small band that was playing some loud rock tune. For all he knew, it was the same song they’d been playing when he’d arrived forty-five minutes ago.

They all sounded alike to him.

He’d picked the same, shadowed corner table two nights in a row. It gave him a good view of the bar, and he’d already spotted some repeat customers from Wednesday night. The regulars were the ones he watched tonight. And it didn’t take long to pick out the one he needed to contact. The twenty-something guy with shaggy blond hair and several days’ growth of beard sat on the stool he’d occupied at the bar last night, and as the evening went on he conducted a series of discreet transactions.

That was the other reason to come to a place like this. For a price, in relative anonymity, you could get anything you wanted.

Cash was passed one way, goods the other. The exchange took seconds; eye contact was rarely made.

Several years ago, before his cop buddy had retired to Florida, he’d talked one night about the ease of doing business on the black market. Dale had half listened, never expecting to need the information. Now he wished he’d paid more attention. But he remembered a fair amount and had observed enough over the past two nights to do this.

He’d have preferred to make his own drug, but the recipe on the Internet was too complicated for his limited chemistry background. And he didn’t want to leave a trail by ordering the drug online via one of the products masquerading as a “health supplement.” There was no completely anonymous way to get it; this was the best he could do. Still, it bothered him. He Zdidn’t like relying on other people. Never had. For anything. But he didn’t have any better options in this situation.

Pulling the brim of his baseball cap lower, he adjusted the cheap, black-rimmed reading glasses he’d bought at Walgreens in an attempt to alter his appearance. Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the note written in the same style he’d used for his recent communication to the FBI agent and scanned it.

Liquid ecstasy. Tomorrow night?

He’d found the street slang for the drug on the Internet too.

There were a bunch of names for it, but this one appeared most often. The perverted use suggested by the name turned his stomach, but if the drug served its purpose, he could live with the term.

Two tables away, some guy yelled to the waitress to bring another round. This was the third for that table in the past half hour. The excess filled him with disgust. He didn’t drink alcohol, but he’d ordered a beer so he wouldn’t stand out. The untouched bottle sat on his table, the label dotted with beads of sweat. Like the ones forming on his forehead.

Signaling to the waitress, he folded the note into quarters.

When she approached, he kept his chin down and handed it to her, along with a five-dollar bill. “Please give this to the blond guy at the bar.”

She took it without a word, pocketing the money.

After she delivered it, cocking her head his direction, Dale watched from under the brim of his cap as the man unfolded it.

Sixty seconds later, the guy turned his direction and scrutinized him. Then he scribbled on the paper, refolded it, and gave it back to the waitress. She dropped it on his table as she passed.

Slowly Dale unfolded it. The amount the guy had jotted down was higher than it should be. He knew that from his research on the Net. But he wasn’t going to quibble about a few dollars.

It was a small price to pay for vengeance.

Lifting his chin, he gave a slight nod. The man turned back to the bar.

As Dale stood and threw some bills down next to his now-flat beer, relief flooded through him. His plans were falling into place. Tomorrow he’d have the drug in hand.

After that, it was just a matter of picking the right time and place.

19

As Nick pulled up in front of the American Airlines entrance at Lambert International Airport on Friday at noon, Coop leaned forward from the backseat and addressed Mark. “Watch yourself.”

“I will. Besides, your replacement is excellent.” He shot Nick a grin.

“I’m under strict orders to keep him in sight whenever he ventures out of the house,” Nick told Coop. “Since my focus is the bank robbery case, that means I get an extra body for the weekend. A good deal, if you ask me. I can use all the help I can get.”

Grimacing, Mark turned back to Coop. “Are you sure you don’t want some company on this trip?”

“Forget it, pal. Two’s company and all that. Nick, thanks for the accommodations.”

“Sorry about the drywall dust.”

“I survived.” Reaching for his duffel bag, he looked back at Mark. “Depending on how things go, I’ll either see you early next week here or in Quantico in a week.”

Per Mark’s conversation with Les, they were going to regroup on Monday morning via conference call to discuss the status of the case and decide if Coop’s presence was still needed in St. Louis.

“Okay. Thanks for all your help. Have a good flight.”

With a nod, Coop got out of the car and slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. Lifting his hand in farewell, he disappeared inside the terminal.

While Mark was glad Coop would be able to spend his anniversary with Monica, his partner’s absence meant he’d have less opportunity to focus on the shooting. For the weekend, at least, the bank robbery took precedence, so he’d have to stick close to Nick. The pieces in that case were falling rapidly into place, as they often did near the end.

Prior to the shooting, Mark had worked closely with his academy buddy to track down leads on the perpetrators. They’d discovered that the series of robberies, which had taken place in rapid succession over a four-day period, were the work of three men. Two had been identified and located during the past week and were being tailed. Nick was on the verge of locating the third. They knew he’d been in touch with his girlfriend, and they’d put round-the-clock surveillance on her, expecting she’d lead them to him. Once she did, they’d move in on all three simultaneously. They’d been holding back on arresting the first two, afraid their capture would tip off the third suspect that they were closing in on him too, and he’d flee.

A few agents would continue to track down the names on the Eight List, but progress would be slow. Nor did Mark expect that Oakdale would do much work on the contractor employee lists this weekend.

He understood why resources were being diverted to the bank case. It was hot and breaking. And he knew the clerical nature of list-checking wouldn’t have much appeal to the Oakdale detectives, or be a weekend priority.

But he didn’t have to like it.

Emily Lawson had been unaccompanied all day. Dale knew, because he’d been following her. Better yet, no one had stopped by to see her all evening.

Settling back in his car, he checked his watch. He needed to leave for the bar soon to pick up his “order,” but he’d hang around and watch her condo for a few more minutes in case that FBI agent decided to pay a late call.

His plan was ready to implement. Everything he needed was in a tote bag in the backseat, triple checked against his list. The last picture he’d taken of Ruthie and Bryan. A cordless drill. A screwdriver. A twelve-inch length of metal pipe, one inch in diameter. Duct tape. Latex gloves. Eight feet of flexible garden hose. Baseball cap. Glasses. Later tonight he’d add the drug to his cache.

And sometime in the next seventy-two hours, Emily Lawson would die.

The blond guy was sitting at the bar, in the same place he’d been the previous two nights. Dale scanned the dim room, heavy with smoke, as he settled his glasses on his nose and pulled his cap lower. No one took any notice of him as he paused inside the front door, and he eased over to the bar. Sliding onto the empty stool beside the man, he focused on the bartender and ordered a beer.

When it was delivered, he took out his wallet and paid for it. As the bartender took the cash, Dale slid out another bill, folded it in thirds, and laid it on the counter by his elbow with the denomination showing.

Five minutes dragged by while the guy next to him ignored the bill and smoked his cigarette.

Dale began to sweat. Had he misread the man’s message?

Maybe this was some kind of sting operation, and the guy was an undercover cop. Although securing the drug this way had seemed the least traceable option, he was suddenly afraid he’d made a disastrous mistake.

Just as he was about to snatch back the money and abort the sale, the man repositioned his arm on the bar, covering the bill.

With his other hand, he reached under and palmed the cash.

Pulling a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, he laid it on the bar next to Dale.

Out of the corner of his eye, Dale could see the pack was open. And it contained a small bottle, not cigarettes.

The man had come through.

Following his neighbor’s lead, Dale waited several minutes.

Then he casually picked up the cigarette pack and pocketed it.

As he rose, the man spoke in a low, amused voice.

“Have fun, Pop.”

Revolted, Dale turned away. The thought of using the drug for the purpose the man implied sickened him. Those who hurt or exploited innocent people were scum.

For him, the drug would serve a righteous purpose.

And it would do so soon.

Very soon.

The doorbell chimed as Mark came up the basement stairs in Nick’s house at noon on Saturday, and he took the last few two at a time. Wiping his hands on his paint-splattered jeans, he strode across the foyer and checked the peephole.

Now there was a pretty picture, he thought, his lips tipping into an appreciative smile.

Emily stood on the other side, juggling two large white sacks in her arms.

Flipping the deadbolt, Mark pulled the door open and grinned at her. “This is a surprise.”

Relief flooded her face. “I was about to give up. That was my third ring.”

“Sorry. I was in the basement cleaning a roller and I didn’t hear the bell. Welcome to the construction zone.” He stepped aside and ushered her in.

She took three steps in and came to an abrupt halt, her eyes widening as she surveyed the interior. “Wow! While I was waiting on the porch, I came to the conclusion you’d been exaggerating about the condition of Nick’s house.”

He could understand why. From the outside, the stately, two-story, Federal-style brick structure was in pristine condition, with new tuck-pointing and freshly painted shutters. Set on an acre of ground amid towering oak and maple trees, it was an impressive edifice.

The inside was another story, as Emily had discovered. All of the rooms were in various states of rehab. The smell of fresh paint predominated, and a fine haze of drywall dust was suspended in the air.

“Nope.” He shut and locked the door. “The exterior is deceptive. Designed to lure in the unsuspecting.”

“No wonder Coop had trouble with his allergies.”

“It’s not that bad once you get used to it. So what brings you over?”

“Curiosity, for one thing. After all the talk about Nick’s house, I was dying to see it.” She winced and gave him a rueful look.

“Oops. Pardon the expression. Anyway, he told me to stop by anytime. When you called this morning to say the two of you would be painting the dining room today, I thought I might be able to bribe a tour out of him if I brought lunch.” She held up the two white bags. “If all else failed, I came prepared to barter some manual labor for a tour. I wield a mean paintbrush.”

He eyed her paint-smudged jeans and T-shirt. “They look like they’ve already done a tour of duty.”

“Yes. I . . . Grant and I did a lot of work at our house.”

Sensing she didn’t want to talk about that, he let the comment pass. “Unfortunately, Nick got called in a couple of hours ago.

The bank robbery case is about to break. But you can bribe me.

For the price of a sandwich and the offer of help, I’ll show you every nook and cranny in this place. And trust me, I know my way around. Nick’s had me crawling under stairwells, wedged into closets, and hanging from the rafters.”

Twenty minutes later, after a thorough tour, they sat down to enjoy their turkey sandwiches in the kitchen. As Mark unwrapped his, the back door rattled, and a second later Nick appeared.

“I’m convinced he can smell food ten miles away.” Mark spared his host a quick, amused glance and bit into his sandwich.

“Very funny. Hi, Emily. I saw your car. What’s up?”

“I stopped by for a tour. Mark obliged. And I brought food.”

“Healthy food too, I see,” he remarked as he checked out the sandwiches.

“It beats that tofu thing you concocted the other night that Coop almost gagged on.” Mark shook his head and turned to Emily. “We had to make an emergency pizza run.”

“You guys don’t know what’s good for you,” Nick countered.

“We know what we like.”

“They’re not always the same thing. Don’t let this bottomless pit eat all the sandwiches, Emily. I want to run upstairs and change. And I have to return a few calls.” He tossed a UPS envelope on the table. “Steve asked me to deliver this to you. It came late yesterday afternoon from Quantico.”

Swiping a napkin across his mouth, Mark picked up the envelope as Nick headed toward the stairs, noting that it was marked personal and confidential. Les’s name was on the return address.

Odd. His boss rarely communicated in writing.

“Do you mind if I open this?” he asked Emily.

“Not at all.”

Pushing his chair back from the table, Mark pulled the tab on the envelope and reached inside. A note from Les was clipped to the top of two sheets of stationery.

“Mark—this came to your attention two days ago. In light of present circumstances, I asked Christy to look at it. Sorry for the intrusion. Les.”

Puzzled, Mark removed Les’s note and glanced at the unfamiliar script. Flipping to the second page, he sought out the signature.

Adam and Barbara Wheeler.

The parents of the boy he’d killed.

Mark sucked in a sharp breath, and his heart gave an odd jolt.

“Mark?”

He heard the concern in Emily’s voice above the sudden rushing in his ears. Raking unsteady fingers through his hair, he lifted his head and looked at her. Apprehension tightened her features, and she’d stopped eating.

“It’s a letter from Jason Wheeler’s parents.” The words came out hoarse and uneven.

She set down her sandwich. “Is this the first contact you’ve had from them since the shooting?”

“Yes.” He looked at the letter and turned it facedown on his lap. “I thought I was doing okay, that I’d dealt with the situation. But I have a feeling this is going to tear me up all over again.” The words came out choked, and he wiped a hand down his face.

“You don’t have to read it.”

“Yes, I do.” He clenched his napkin into a tight ball and rose.

“Would you excuse me for a few minutes?”

“Of course.”

Gripping the sheets of paper, Mark stepped onto the back porch. Coop would have had a fit if he was here, Mark knew, sparing a quick glance toward the wooded common ground behind Nick’s property. As a concession to safety he moved into the corner, where clematis vines climbed right-angle trellises and afforded a degree of privacy and concealment.