Thrill Ride (Black Knights Inc. #4)(61)
Uh-huh. Rock could just imagine Agent Wilhelm jumping right on that, especially since it would require him to approach Boss.
A couple of interminable seconds passed before heavy footsteps pounded up the steps of the front porch. Rock tried to pay attention to the direction those steps moved, but it was difficult given he was distracted by the noise of all three women sobbing hysterically. And the guy who’d been holding the gun on them, who was still holding the gun on them by the sounds of it, kept shouting, “Get back! Stay put!”
Rock silently promised to kill the morceau de merde—piece of shit—if he so much as twitched that trigger in the women’s direction, but his attention was soon diverted by the conversation taking place at the front door…
“Who took the shots?” Boss demanded, his tone filled with enough authority and rage to make most men curl into a protective fetal position. “Because I want that bastard’s balls on a platter!”
“It wasn’t us,” Wilhelm declared vehemently. His voice sounded far less official when it wasn’t booming at them over the loudspeaker. “Swear to God, it wasn’t. One of my men saw a flash from a scope coming from the trees across the way. I’ve got part of my team in pursuit of the shooter.”
Shooter. That would be Ghost, and no way in hell would the CIA catch him. That man came by his nickname honestly. If he wanted to disappear? He did. Period. End of story. Just…smoke.
“Bullshit!” Boss thundered, sounding like he was vibrating with fury. Go Boss! Way to sell it. “You just killed an innocent man. And when we find out who was really behind all those murders back stateside, I’m going to see that you’re stripped of your position and the only job you’ll get in the intelligence community is that of urinal cake replacer in the men’s bathroom at Langley’s detention center!”
Urinal cake replacer? Was that even a real job?
“It wasn’t us!” Wilhelm shouted ferociously, and, okay, so there was that official tone.
For a couple of minutes, obscenities were exchanged, and Rock imagined the two men were face-to-face like a couple of rabid dogs, snarling and barking and slathering. Then Wilhelm said, “I need to examine the body.”
Body. Mon dieu, it was bizarre to be referred to as such.
“You lay one finger on that man,” Boss rumbled, his voice pitched so low you could feel it in your chest like the boom of fireworks on the Fourth of July, “and I’ll personally put a bullet in your brain.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Wilhelm scoffed. And Boss must’ve made a face that begged the CIA agent to call his bluff, because a couple of seconds ticked by before Wilhelm opened his mouth again. And this time, his tone was far less assured. “Look, Mr. Knight, my men didn’t kill Babineaux. Someone else did. As a rogue,” there was that despicable word again, “he probably made a lot of enemies. Someone was waiting to take him out.”
And, as Rock’s dear ol’ daddy used to say, B.I.N.G.O. That spells bingo!
Because that was exactly the conclusion to which they’d hoped the CIA would jump.
“Even if what you’re saying is true, you’re not touching him,” Boss declared, his uncompromising tone saying it all. Rock was pretty positive the guy’s Rock-of-Gibraltar expression probably said it even better. “That man lying dead over there,” he imagined Boss hooking a thumb in his direction and he held his breath, “has done more for the safety and for the sovereignty of our country than you and all those men you’ve brought with you combined. He bled red, white, and blue since the day he was born,” mostly just red, Rock could vouch for that, “and I won’t have you poking and prodding at his corpse, defiling him more than you already have.”
“I’ve got orders—”
“You’ve got orders to confirm his death,” Boss interrupted. “Well, as I’m sure you can see, the man is dead. If you want confirmation that that’s really Richard ‘Rock’ Babineaux lying over there in a pool of blood, you can just scoop up a sample and take it back to your fancy-schmancy lab at Langley. I’m sure you have a DNA profile on him from his time with the SEALs.”
And hadn’t that been a fun day in the Teams? When they’d all filed down to the infirmary where an automaton-looking * with a needle and some plastic tubes took their blood, swabbed their cheeks, and removed a follicle of hair from each of them? Funner still was the fact that it’d all been done on the not-so-unlikely chance that their bodies were so badly burned or shredded or whatever that normal means of identification wouldn’t work.
Of course, he never thought he’d be using those tissue samples to help fake his own death. But if there was one truism in the spec-ops community, it was always expect the unexpected.
The silence while Wilhelm considered Boss’s decree stretched until it was palpable. Like a rubber band pulled to its breaking point. And Rock’s heart, usually pretty good about keeping a steady beat, began thundering in his chest so loudly he thought it a miracle Wilhelm couldn’t hear it even from thirty feet away. And wouldn’t that be the way to blow this whole can of worms wide open?
He fancied he could actually hear the second hand ticking on Boss’s big diver’s watch. Everything hinged on Wilhelm accepting this particular edict.
And just when he was sure the guy was going to balk, Wilhelm yelled, “Dietz, bring me the collection kit! We’ve got samples to take!”