Gabe (In the Company of Snipers, #8)(39)

David laid the black ops folder on the table. “Perspective. I’m not your enemy here. I’d like to propose a couple of theories, that’s all.”

“Then propose away.” Hell. Why not? Rumors were flying. He was at a loss as to how to stop the latest fairytale that it was Alex who’d rescued Kelsey. Connor’s video coverage was no help. Despite what Mark had told Zack in their morning conversation, that mysterious guy in black sure walked like Alex, but would he have done that, just covered his face and drove away?

Hell, no. He’d have made damned sure he was seen, that whoever filmed him got a clear shot of his middle finger. Or a live round.

“Bear with me. Hear me out. You’re the boss here, and—”

Enough! Temper got the best of Mark. “No. I’m not Alex. What the hell, David? Everyone looks at me like I’m the natural-born heir to the Stewart throne. Well, I’ve got news for you. I’m not.”

“But you are.”

“No, I’m not. I don’t know why the hell Alex left this place to you, me, and—”

“And Harley cannot deal with leadership right now. He’s better off at home with his wife and sons.”

Mark clenched the back of his neck with one hand, weary with the weight of perceived leadership. Everyone sure saw something different than he did. Despite his USMC training, this wasn’t the job he’d signed up for. Plain and simple, he didn’t want it. “And that leaves you and me.”

Still—David was correct. Harley wasn’t capable of leadership at the moment. The TEAM was better off with him at home.

“Yes,” David said, still as calm as ever. “That leaves you and me, but you’re the one holding everyone together, Mark, not me.”

“I am, huh? Sure doesn’t feel like it.”

“You just can’t see it because you’re walking point. You’re so far out ahead of the rest of us that you can’t see who’s behind you anymore, but believe me. Everyone’s got your back. We’re all here.”

Mark stared out the ceiling-to-floor window. Alex’s ghost was everywhere, his fingerprints on every damned wall and countertop of the company he’d built from the ground up. No matter what any legal document said, The TEAM was his. Still. It always would be.

“Okay, so talk. I do need some help.”

“That’s why no one went home last night,” David reminded him. “We’re here to help. All of us.”

“Yeah. I know.” Mark blew out a big breath and let a fraction of frustration go with it. The TEAM was the absolute best covert surveillance company in town. Hell, maybe on the entire East Coast. He just didn’t want to lead it, not this way. “Whatcha got, David? What are you thinking?”

“That maybe we need to set aside everything we thought we knew. To begin again, tell me what you saw when you and Harley accompanied Kelsey to the morgue.”


The recollection came back in a flood of nausea and all too vivid detail. Mark’s headache kicked up a notch. He’d tried to talk Kelsey out of going, but she’d insisted. That was when all this crazy talk about exhumations and Alex visiting her in her dreams started.

“She could barely stand,” he said softly. “When the ME pulled the tray out of the drawer... when he lowered the sheet... I barely caught her before she hit the floor.”

“And Harley was upset.”

Mark nodded. More like devastated. Anguished. Hopeless. Maybe suicidal. Mark didn’t know who’d cried harder that day, Kelsey or Harley.

“I’m sorry. I know this is hard, but did you notice any stitching? Was there a Y-shaped incision on the body?” David pressed. “It would’ve been visible below the collarbones. The ME had completed his autopsy by then. He would’ve made the thoracoabdominal incisions in order to determine cause of death. It’s standard procedure.”

Mark lifted the back of his hand to his mouth. God. MEs and morticians. Ghouls of the trade. “I didn’t see any incision. The ME only exposed Alex’s face.”

And that was enough, because it was his friend and boss on that stainless steel tray, only it wasn’t. The macabre image of Alex’s gray lips and lifeless, pale skin tortured Mark still. He didn’t need to see stitches to know the body had been cut open, every organ measured and weighed, bagged, and replaced.

David extracted two black and white eight-by-ten glossies from the folder. He’d been unusually quiet the last week. No wonder. He’d been running his own investigation on the ME.

From neck to trunk, the photos showed the cleaned-up version of a male cadaver with three entry and exit holes, including the very prominent stitching David had asked about. The label in the upper left corner declared these grotesquely intimate images to be Alex.

Bile lifted up from Mark’s gut. The walls closed in, making it difficult to breathe. Why the hell had David ambushed him like this? God, that’s not just a body you’re showing me. Alex was my friend. Maybe my best friend.

“Tell me what’s missing, Mark. Do you see it?”

He glanced at the photos, his heart thumping in his chest. “I don’t see anything.” And I sonofabitchin’ don’t want to.

“Look again,” David urged. “You will.”

Swallowing hard, Mark did as David requested for all of sixty seconds before he shoved the images back across the table. “Why didn’t the ME include the vic’s face in the shot? How do we know this is really Alex?”