Hot Target (43 page)

He opened his eyes, and they were filled with pain and remorse. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered again. “I was too much of a coward.”

“You’re going to be okay,” Jules told him. He didn’t have to fake the rush of tears to his eyes. “Save the deathbed speech for another day.”

Adam took over. “He’s gone,” he said, facing the hillside. Anyone watching could surely read his lips. “He’s dead.” He reached down and pulled Jules’ jacket up over Robin’s head.

“Get ready to lift him,” Jules ordered. “Robin, don’t scream this time. Remember, you’re dead.”

Robin was dead.

As Jane hid behind Jules Cassidy’s battered rental car, she watched the video monitor. Adam had just pulled something—a jacket—up over her brother’s motionless face.

“No,” she said. “No . . .”

Tess was beside her. “Jane, you’ve got to keep your head down.” But then she saw the screen. “Oh, God . . .”

Jane was going to be sick.

On the screen Jules and Adam and another man picked up her brother’s body.

Her brother’s body.

Jane couldn’t breathe.

“Keep your head down,” Tess ordered her. “I’m going to go help them bring him inside. We’ll bring him to you, Jane—do you understand? I know you want to see him, but do not move from behind this car.”

Jane managed a nod and Tess disappeared.

Her cell phone rang, cutting through the babble of voices, through the sound of the helicopter thrumming to life out on the beach.

And Jane knew, with a certainty that was chilling, exactly who was on the other end. Sure enough, the number showing was that of Patty’s cell phone.

“You are so dead,” she said instead of hello.

The man laughed. “Today’s a good day to die, don’t you think?”

It was the man who’d called to say Patty had been kidnapped. Whoever had been found dead in that apartment this morning, it wasn’t this man—the same man she’d spoken to last night. Patty—completely drugged—probably hadn’t pulled the trigger of that gun, either. It was all an elaborate setup, a ruse to bring them all to right here and right now.

A right now in which her baby brother had just been killed.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” she told him, her voice shaking.

“I’m not looking to get away,” he said. “Like I said, it’s a good day to die. You have twenty seconds to step out from that tent, or I’ll start shooting. I was going to say that I would start with your brother, but gee, it looks like he’s already dead. I’ll have to change my plan. Oh, but look, isn’t that your boyfriend, the Navy SEAL, getting into that helicopter? I think, instead, I’ll start by shooting him. He’ll make such an easy target when he gets into the air. Or maybe I’ll shoot the pilot and he’ll die in the crash. Two for one. Wait, three for one. Someone else is getting on board, too.”

“No!” Jane said.

“You have the power to stop me,” he said. “Nineteen. Eighteen . . .” The connection was cut.

“Harve!” Jane shouted for her makeup man. “I need you! Now!”

Decker slid open the helicopter’s starboard-side door as Cosmo ditched the coils of extension cord he’d taken from the production tent. They didn’t need it because there was a length of mountain-climbing rope right on the helo’s deck. As Deck watched, Cos quickly tied it to a built-in anchor.

It would be easier on their hands than the plastic extension cord, in case they had to fast-rope to the ground. Although without gloves, the trip down was pretty much going to hurt, even with the rope.

But it wouldn’t hurt until later. In the moment, Decker knew he’d feel no pain. He’d be focusing on the here and now.

And here and now that pitted two poorly armed SEALs against one psycho with a sniper rifle.

Deck had only his handgun. And the room broom that Cosmo had conjured up from God knows where didn’t have much range, either. They’d have to get close.

Whereas psycho-sniper could start shooting at them before they even left the ground.

Decker hoped PJ really knew how to fly this thing. They were going to need to do some fancy maneuvers to keep from getting drilled.

“Go!” Cosmo shouted.

PJ revved the engine and . . .

It sputtered and coughed.

“Shit!”

“PJ!” Cos didn’t sound happy.

“I’m trying! Come on, baby. . . .”

The helicopter was having trouble getting off the ground, which was more of an assist from God than an actual heavenly sign.

Jane was certain that no matter how many seconds Mr. Insane-o had given her to get out from underneath the tent, he wasn’t going to shoot until the chopper was in the air.

Still, she knew if Tess or Nash saw her, they’d tackle her and toss her back behind the car. But they were both dealing with Robin’s body, carrying him behind the wall of crates, helping him sit up so they could see—

Helping him
sit
up?

Her brother was alive. His face was pale but his eyes were open, and he was talking.

If Jane
had
needed a sign from God, that would have been it. But she didn’t need one. She knew what she was doing. She had total faith that this was her only choice. She also knew that Cosmo would think otherwise, but he was wrong. This was not a foolish risk.

Moving to the edge of the tent so she’d be in position when PJ finally got that chopper off the ground, Jane used her cell phone to call Decker.

“Shoot to kill,” Decker shouted. “Jane just called. The shooter called her. She said he was suicidal—said it was a good day to die. He’s not likely to surrender.”

No way. Suicidal? Cosmo didn’t believe it. But there was no time to argue.

He was glad for the MP-5’s shoulder strap. Because when PJ finally jerked the helo up and into the air, he had to hold on with both hands to keep from falling out the door.

“Sorry,” PJ yelled.

There was no time to exchange a “Navy pilots are better” look with Decker, because even though they’d gone straight up first, PJ was now blasting toward that hillside.

Then again, maybe Navy pilots weren’t better, because Cos had never seen a toy like this—a nonmilitary helo—move at quite this speed.

As far as suicidal shooters went . . . Even though he didn’t buy it, he had no problem with a shoot-to-kill order.

None at all.

“Shit, is that Jane?” Decker shouted over the roar of the blades. “What is she doing?”

Words to chill his heart.

Cosmo hung out the door, looking down and back and—

It was.

Jane.

Running down the beach.

Toward the hillside.

Moving in a zigzag pattern.

Her long hair flying behind her.

She looked up at the helo, at him, her face a pale oval, already too far away for him to see clearly. Cosmo heard the
crack
of the rifle shot, saw her jerk and fall, blood spraying behind her.

Jesus Christ! She was wearing both a vest and a flak jacket—the shooter must’ve hit her in the head.

And with that knowledge, Cosmo became the man everyone thought him to be.

A robot.

“Shooter at ten o’clock!” Decker shouted.

Cos went out the door, searching the brush below him and slightly to the left for any sign of movement. As he slid down the rope, it tore at his hand, but he didn’t feel a fucking thing. He held the MP-5, ready to fire as soon as he got within range. . . .

But the gunman didn’t fire again and time slowed down the way it often did when his finger tightened on a trigger.

As an instant became an eternity, Cosmo caught the glint of sunlight on a rifle barrel. The blue of the sky was such a pretty color, it almost hurt to look at it. Cirrus clouds were wispy overhead. He saw the spidery veins of the leaves of the brush. . . .

He saw the green of a uniform hidden there behind those leaves and he slid closer and closer and . . .

Nazi.

Jack had seen a Nazi in a brown uniform, he’d said, climbing this hillside.

Brown, not green.

Jack might’ve been wrong. He was old—his eyesight might’ve been failing him. His memory might’ve been rusty.

Still, Cosmo hesitated for a lifetime and then another lifetime, enough for the shooter to raise that rifle and blow this helo right out of the perfect blue sky.

But the barrel didn’t move. And the barrel didn’t move.

Their man wasn’t suicidal. He was a game player. How did a game player win a no-win scenario?

The sunlight on that barrel sparkled and jumped, but the movement was all Cos’. The rifle didn’t move and it didn’t move and it didn’t move as his finger tightened on that trigger.

And down the hillside, away from that still-life portrait that could have been titled
Green Uniform with Rifle,
in that moment that lasted an eternity, something did move.

Cosmo caught a flash of brown out of the corner of his eye a fraction of a second before he finished squeezing that trigger. A fraction of a second before he released a deadly hail of lead into the wrong man.

Jack wasn’t wrong about that uniform.

In that eternity that lasted that fraction of a second, Cosmo saw—as clearly and as cleanly as the veins on those leaves—Murphy’s eyes as he learned Angelina was dead. Cosmo saw Jane, too, hair flying, blood spraying as she jerked and fell.

And he turned, finger tight against the trigger as he swept the MP-5 in the direction of that movement of brown, letting go of the rope and dropping the last dozen feet or so onto the rocky hillside.

He sensed more than saw Decker sliding down the rope after him as he skidded and scrambled for footing, as he dashed through the waist-high brush, as he came face-to-face with a man in a Nazi uniform, bleeding from three different entry wounds, none of them fatal.

The man was fumbling to get a sidearm free from a waist holster, but he froze when he saw Cosmo.

And Cosmo froze, too.

Jane was bleeding. Profusely.

Jules could see the blood from here.

He’d watched as she’d bolted from the tent, as she’d run across the beach, as that rifle had cracked and she’d been violently pushed back, as she’d hit the sand with a sickening crunch.

And, as he held Robin down to keep him from trying to run after her, Jules had heard the ragged firing of an automatic weapon. It paused and then fired again.

Jules told Adam to stay with Robin. He made sure Tess was there to greet the ambulances and police, whose sirens were getting louder and louder as they finally approached.

Then he ran out onto the beach.

Wayne, the extra who’d helped Jules and Adam carry Robin back to the tent, was right on his heels.

The kid had no fear.

The helicopter thrummed overhead, Cosmo catching a quick ride back to Jane by clinging to a rope. He leapt off and ran the rest of the way while the chopper made a rough-looking landing farther down the beach.

Cosmo reached Jane right about when Jules did, his pace picking up when he saw that she was covered—
covered
—with blood.

But then she sat up.

It was like something out of a horror movie. She just opened her eyes and sat up.

Cosmo dropped his weapon and stared at her. He was breathing hard, much harder than he should have been from that short run.

Jane met his gaze. Neither one of them spoke.

Jules caught Wayne’s arm. Pulled him back.

Jane opened her flak jacket to reveal the empty bladders that had held all that blood. Fake blood. “He didn’t even hit me. I just fell when I heard the sound of the gunshot.”

Cosmo nodded. Looked at Jules. “We’ll need a body bag on that hillside.” His voice was raspy, and he had to stop and clear his throat. “Decker’s still up there. He’s got the weapon and some kid our guy took hostage. Kid’s really out of it. Doped up or something. He was parked behind the sniper rifle. I’m pretty sure we were supposed to kill him, thinking he was the shooter, while our guy snuck down the hill and walked out of here with the rest of the extras.” He turned and looked at Jane again, and his voice shook. “I thought I told you to stay behind that car, in the tent.”

“I couldn’t,” she said.

He nodded, and then he walked away. Not far. Just about four yards. He sat down in the sand. Arms around his knees, he stared out at the ocean.

PJ dashed up, first aid kit from the helicopter in his hands, like that would’ve helped at all had Jane really been shot.

“You have medical training, right?” Jules asked him.

PJ nodded.

“We could use you up in the tents,” Jules continued. “We’ve got a bunch of extras who’ve been wounded. None fatally—Robin’s probably the worst off. He’s first in line for an ambulance.”

Jane looked up sharply at that, and Jules went to help her to her feet. “He’s been asking for you,” he told her.

She hesitated, looking over at Cosmo.

“Cos, you coming?” Jules called.

Cosmo turned slightly, just enough to acknowledge him, not quite looking back over his shoulder. “In a minute,” he said. “Just give me a minute.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-EIGHT

Adam was in the lobby, sitting next to Jack Shelton, when Jules came into the hospital. Jane Chadwick was there, too—down at the end of the room near the gift shop, giving an on-camera interview.

Which had to mean that her brother was okay, didn’t it? He’d tried calling on the way over, but couldn’t get through. He’d spent the entire ride imagining the worst.

“Robin’s out of surgery. He’s going to be all right,” Adam told him, and the relief was so intense Jules had to sit down. “The doctor came out to report that a bullet nicked his artery, but they worked their magic, and now he’s
resting comfortably,
which is a really stupid thing to say. I mean, the man was shot. What’s comfortable about that? You okay, J.?”

Jules looked up. “Yeah. Just . . .” He shook his head. Thank God.

“Not used to being on the other side of it, huh?” Adam said, standing up and feeding coins into a nearby soda machine. “Welcome to my world.”

As Jules rubbed the back of his neck, he could hear Jane talking to the reporter.

“The story we’re telling in
American Hero
has nothing to do with Judge Lord—except for the fact that because Hal grew up in a world with zero tolerance, he was forced to hide who he really was. His entire life was a lie—except for a few days in Paris, in 1945.”

Adam shoved a bottle of Coke, cold and slick with condensation, into his hands. “This was just another regular day for you, wasn’t it?” he asked.

Jules laughed at that. “No,” he said. He shook his head as he opened the soda and took a long drink. Sugar and caffeine—the two essential food groups. “Thanks.”

Adam shrugged as he sat down next to him.

“No, this was . . . a big day,” Jules said. “A long day.” He looked at Adam, who was still wearing his costume. Dirt—makeup along with the real thing—streaked his face. “Robin probably would’ve bled to death if you hadn’t helped him.”

“I didn’t help him.” Adam shrugged it off. “It was all Wayne.”

“Well, you found Wayne, and you went back out there. You did good. I’m . . . proud of you.” Jules held out his hand to Adam.

“So . . . what?” Adam said. “I save Robin’s life and all I get is a handshake?”

Jules laughed.

Adam did, too, and moved to embrace him.

But Jules put his hand up. “Yes, all you get is a handshake,” he said. “And my eternal thanks.”

Adam wasn’t laughing anymore. He took Jules’ hand. Looked searchingly into Jules’ eyes. “We’re really done this time, aren’t we?”

“We’re done,” Jules agreed, and for the first time, it felt true. It didn’t feel good, but it didn’t feel devastating, either. It just . . . was. He gently pulled his hand free.

Adam got to his feet. Took a few steps away. Turned back. “You sure?”

“Very,” Jules said.

“If you think Robin’s going to—”

“I don’t,” Jules said. “Good-bye, Adam.” He’d never said those words before. He’d always used a variation on “See you soon.”
Au revoir. Ta. Later, dude.
“Good luck with the movie.”

He wouldn’t go to see it, but Adam probably already knew that.

Adam turned to Jack, who was sitting nearby, obviously trying hard not to listen in. “Do you need a ride?” he asked the old man.

Jack shook his head. “Thank you, but no. Scotty’s on his way.”

Adam nodded and forced a smile. “See you on set, Jack.” He didn’t even glance at Jules again as he walked away.

Which was a pretty typical Adam thing to do. As Jules watched, Adam put on his sunglasses as he approached the automatic doors and went out into the morning sunshine without looking back.

From the row of chairs on the other side of the soda machine, Jack spoke. “It’s very odd,” the old man said, “to see one’s life re-created for a film.”

Jules looked around, uncertain at first whether Jack was talking to him. But he was the only one in the immediate area, so he smiled politely. “It must be.”

“Hearing words that I spoke over sixty years ago, seeing mistakes that I made repeated by actors . . . But I have to be honest, young man. Watching you with Robin Chadwick . . .” Jack shook his head. “More than anything else, it’s the way you look at him that makes me remember, most vividly, how painful it all was.”

Jules ran one hand down his face as he laughed. “It’s that obvious, huh?”

“Only to me.”

“I don’t know what it is about him.”

“He’s got that magic,” Jack agreed. “But he drinks too much.” He made a tsking sound. “The question one needs to ask oneself is whether or not the fabulous cheekbones are worth the price of the heartache and pain.”

“Do you think if he went into rehab—” Jules stopped himself with a laugh. “Listen to me. What am I saying? I’m so not doing that to myself. Not again. There’s got to be someone out there who won’t make me bleed.”

“I’m certain there is,” Jack said.

“Said the man whose life is being made into a movie—that ends unhappily.”

“It only ended unhappily for Hal,” Jack pointed out.

Jules scoffed. “You weren’t devastated? Come on, I’ve read the script. I read that letter Hal wrote to you. God . . .”

“Please do not write. I will not answer you,”
Jack quoted.
“Do not come to see me. I will not know you.”
He shook his head. “It took a while—years—but I came to realize that he wasn’t being needlessly cruel. He was, in fact, sparing me. Hal knew he couldn’t give me what I truly wanted—a love that could live and bloom in the sunlight. Oh, we could be together, sure—in secret, in the darkness, hiding and sneaking around, sharing a few short days every few months or so. If he hadn’t written that letter, Hal could have had it all. His family, his career, his wife, his life. And me, as well. Instead, he set me free.”

“Jack!” A distinguished-looking white-haired man in a Mister Rogers sweater was coming through the hospital doors. “Thank God you’re all right!” He stopped short in front of Jack, taking in the dusty remains of what had once been a very nice pair of pants and an Armani shirt. His voice wavered. “
Are
you all right?”

And then it was Jules’ turn to pretend not to listen. “I’m fine,” Jack said reassuringly as the two men embraced. “Jane insisted the doctors check me out.”

“And?”

“A few bruises,” Jack said. “My hip’s a little sore. Nothing a good soak in the Jacuzzi won’t cure.”

“They said on the news that you helped save hundreds of lives.”

“The key word there is
helped,
” Jack said modestly.

“Cosmo Richter told me you’re the one who saw the extra in the Nazi uniform climbing that hill with a rifle,” Jules couldn’t help but chime in, and both Jack and his partner turned to look at him. “Without that information, Cos probably would’ve killed the wrong man.”

“Jules Cassidy, Scott Cardaro.” Jack introduced them. “Jules is an FBI agent. Scotty’s my current twinkie.”

Scott laughed as he held out his hand for Jules to shake. His eyes sparkled in a face that was handsome and youthful despite the wrinkles. “Will you listen to him? I’ll be seventy-one next week. I haven’t qualified as a
twinkie
in decades. And when he uses the word
current,
people tend to think I moved in last week.” The look he gave Jack was exasperated but affectionate. “We’ll have been together forty-nine years this December.”

Jules sat back in his seat. “Forty-nine . . . ? Wow.” Forty-nine years was pretty damn close to forever. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Jack said. He turned to Scott. “We were just discussing the movie. Jules here is under the impression it ends unhappily.”

“Only for Hal.” Scott echoed Jack’s earlier words. “I, for one, intend to cheer and applaud wildly when Hal rides off into the sunset.” He grinned. “Not a day goes by that I don’t send up a little thank-you message to Harold Lord. You know that old saying? When God closes a door, he opens a window.” He winked at Jules. “Someday we’ll invite you over for dinner and tell you the story of how I climbed in Jack’s window. But right now, the Jacuzzi calls.”

Jack winked at Jules, too. “Sometimes you get lucky and the cheekbones come for free.”

As Jules watched, bemused, Scott carefully helped Jack out of his seat. He tucked the older man’s hand into the crook of his arm and together they headed for their home. The home that they’d shared for forty-nine years. In the sunlight.

Cosmo had vanished.

Jules Cassidy, however, was sitting in the hospital lobby, waiting for her.

Jane could see him as she shook the reporter’s hand, finishing up the TV interview.

No one had died today—for that she’d be forever grateful.

Well, no one except for the man who’d killed Angelina, and try as she might, she couldn’t feel sorry that he was gone.

Cosmo had shot him. And of course the speculation that was already going around was that he’d done it in cold blood. That the man had been injured and at his mercy and—

“Mr. Insane-o’s real name was John Bordette,” Jules told her as he rose to his feet to greet her. “You knew him as Carl Linderman, but he also went by Barry Parks and John Weaver. He may have had other aliases, too, but we haven’t found them yet. He actually paid taxes for all four of these identities. That’s how he screwed up—how we found him. Because he paid taxes.” He shook his head. “The real Carl Linderman—I’m sure he’s buried in his basement. But he was in his late seventies, on complete disability. He’d stopped filing tax returns about four years ago. Then, just last year, he’s suddenly filing again, reporting income from stock dividends. Not huge amounts—sixteen, seventeen thousand dollars a year. But it was just kind of weird that out of the blue he’s dotting all his I’s and crossing all his T’s. So he was put on the IRS’s ‘that’s kind of weird’ list. When we cross-referenced your list of extras and stage crew, his name got flagged. Cosmo went to check him out and—”

“Have you seen Cosmo?” Jane asked.

“I’m right here.”

Jules jumped, too, as Cosmo came out from where he’d been lurking alongside a candy machine. His pants were filthy, and the shirt he had on was a hideous plaid. Had he been wearing that early this morning, when he’d left the house? As he approached, Jane’s heart was in her throat.

Promise me no foolish risks.

The way he’d looked at her on the beach was beyond angry, beyond upset, beyond any emotion she’d ever seen before on his face, even when he’d told her about Murphy.

“Sorry it took me so long to catch up to you,” Cosmo told her. “When you went to the hospital with Robin, I was giving my statement to the local police and the FBI and the state troopers and . . .” He looked at Jules. “I think at one point, the coast guard was even there.”

Jules laughed. “I think you’re right. And then someone from JAG showed up.”

“It took a while,” Cosmo told Jane. “By the time I got a ride out here, you were giving a TV interview.” He turned back to Jules. “Any luck connecting our guy—what was his real name?”

“John Bordette,” Jules said.

“He tied to the Freedom Network?”

“Only his Barry Parks persona is on their membership roster. But that’s not enough of a connection. He’s also a member of the Springfield Friends of the Public Library. That doesn’t make them responsible for his actions, either.” Jules shook his head. “We think it’s more likely that Bordette was planning to put Mercedes’ murder on his résumé in an attempt to gain entry to the Freedom Network’s inner sanctum. We did place Bordette in Idaho Falls just prior to the Ben Chertok murder. We also think we may have cleared up the mystery surrounding what was thought to be an unrelated suicide from about that same time. This kid shot himself, and his family insisted it couldn’t be self-inflicted. Turns out the kid worked in the same grocery store as Bordette. He was the same kind of troublemaker and loner as Mark Avery—their similarities are kind of eerie, actually.”

“Mark Avery was the man Patty allegedly killed?” Cosmo was trying to get it straight.

“Here’s what we think happened,” Jules said. “John Bordette, a borderline psychopath, has aspirations of being one of Tim Ebersole’s lieutenants in the Freedom Network. He has this dream—it’s kind of like a twisted buddy movie. John and his new best friend, Timmy, attempt to ‘make America safe for real Americans,’ and zany high jinks ensue. Anyway, Tim won’t take John’s calls—gee, I wonder why not—so John figures he’ll show the Freedom Network what he’s made of. He decides to get rid of their ‘arch enemy,’ ADA Ben Chertok, and does so, fatally shooting him. The kid from the grocery store either knows too much or was part of a backup plan that John didn’t need. Whatever the case, John wastes the kid on his way out of town, making it look like a suicide.

“He hides for a while, makes sure he’s not a murder suspect, then calls up Timbo. Except, whoopsie, Tim
still
won’t take his calls. Nobody in the Freedom Network gives a flying fig about Ben Chertok’s execution. Johnny’s back to square one. He sits and stews, and probably wastes Carl Linderman to cheer himself up and add a new identity to his list. But then, hey, what should appear on the Freedom Network website?” Jules looked at Jane. “Your face in the center of a bull’s-eye. But this time John’s not just going to kill you quickly and easily. He’s going to make sure that people know he’s going to kill you. And he’s going to kill you despite your 24/7 protection from a team of professional bodyguards.

“He meets Mark Avery, sets him up from the start—because the way John’s going to kill you is to make all this noise and create all this danger, but then make you think that the threat is gone. It starts with that rifle shot at the house, while Mark’s car is driving past.

“He probably told Mark to do some kind of surveillance run on his own, and then got in place somewhere back behind the house, waited for Mark to show up, and fired the shot.

“John waited for the uproar to die down, then drove home in his truck. He smeared mud on his license plate just in case, but he probably didn’t figure Cosmo would be out there, hiding in the dark, watching the street, all those hours later.” Jules paused. “Any questions, class?”