Gabe (In the Company of Snipers, #8)(42)

What had they done now? Taken Alex out because he was their better? Because he and Jed McCormack, the local billionaire, were tight, and Jed had more clout in Congress than the FBI director? Or just because Alex had been a flaming pain in the ass from day one? Because he really could do more with less? God help the FBI the day the American taxpayer found out that little nugget of more-bang-for-your-buck information.

Damn. Was this assassination because of the FBI annual budget? Was this nothing more than the Bureau director’s personal vendetta carried out by his in-house snipers?


The wildest scenarios flooded Mark’s head until Steven pointed to the video monitor, following the slow-mo trajectory of the kill shots. “See? Right here. There’s no heat signature, Boss, umm, Mark. Sorry. Whatever FBI Agent Becker shot into the victim lacked a significant heat signature. It was not a live round.”

“Say what?”

“Exactly,” Mother purred. She had her smug face on. I told you so glistened in her crystal blue eyes, and something else, but Mark simply didn’t have time to analyze her bitchy mood.

“So you’re telling me Becker’s shot wasn’t lethal? He didn’t kill Alex? Then why did he fire at him? What kind of ammo did he use?”

“Whatever it was, sir, it wasn’t the ten millimeter the ME and FBI claimed. That size of round would’ve lit up under thermal imaging, both from the combustion gases and the friction when the rounds exited the chamber. This, whatever it is, was significantly cooler. It might’ve been a smart bullet. I need to run more data to be sure.”

“Can you enhance it?” Mark asked impatiently, the facts he thought he knew at war with this newest intel. What the hell is going on? Is Alex alive or not, damn it?

“I’m still working on that. If I can’t do it, I’ll find someone who can,” Steve answered quickly.

“Good job, Steven. You, too, Mother.”

Mark mulled Steven’s breakthrough over on his way back to his office—umm, Alex’s office, damn it. Had Steven just proved Alex wasn’t assassinated? No way. They were missing something. They had to be.

I saw the blood. The body. There is a reasonable explanation. There has to be. He is dead, damn it.

Isn’t he?





Chapter Thirteen


“Man, Boss. Even up there in heaven, you surprise me,” Gabe muttered when he opened the door to Kelsey’s backyard shed. A shelf ran the length of the back wall with a pegboard wall behind it that held everything from hedge clippers to garden gloves.

Shovels, rakes, and a hoe hung in their appointed place to the right of the door—a green garden hose neatly coiled on its rack hung at the left. The only thing on the concrete floor was a simple push mower with a grass catcher. Even the damned grass catcher was clean. His OCD boss really was—OCD.

Gabe knelt to retrieve a roll of garbage bags for the wisteria trimming he’d promised Kelsey. Why not? All the video feeds showed normal, and besides, trimming an unruly vine seemed a damned small thing to do. Hell, he would’ve painted her house if it had made her happy.

Besides, it also kept him out of Sullivan’s domain.

Her brows had spiked plenty when he and Zack had returned Kelsey, after her less than thirty-minute walk, to the end of her driveway. The poor thing was exhausted, so Sullivan took over and ushered her to her bedroom. Of course, Sullivan’s evil eye was in play by then, which only made Gabe want to laugh in her face.

She thought she looked mean with that skimpy raised brow of hers? Hell no. The thing wasn’t even bushy. She ought to meet a few Afghan tribal lords he’d worked with while in the Corps. Those unibrows meant business. Sullivan had nothing on them.

Shaking the plastic bag out, he latched onto a pair of stainless-steel hedge clippers and prepared to tackle the wisteria beast. If it was anything like his mother’s, this could turn into an all-day chore. Of course, Alex also had a chainsaw. Gabe deliberated for all of one second, but Kelsey liked the vine. Hacking it off at the roots was probably not a good idea.

He commenced clipping and trimming, pulling long strands of woody vine away from the swing. The wisteria demanded careful concentration. One particular branch turned into a twenty-foot long tentacle that travelled the entire length of the rain gutter under the eaves. He clipped it where it sprouted from the main branch and pulled until the dead wood lay in circles at his feet. As gnarly and stubborn as it was, the massive vine offered a definite blind spot to this corner of the yard.

He stepped around the back of the swing, hoping for easier access to the tangled mass. The sight stopped him cold. Imprinted in the soft soil was a clear set of boot prints.

Only they weren’t his. Zack’s either. They both wore the prescribed work boots, steel-toed with a zigzag pattern on the sole and a circle on the ball of the foot. Whoever had been standing in this spot of the flowerbed had left a definite elliptical pattern bordered by a waffle-weave of rectangles.

“Hey, Gabe. You ready for breakfast?” Zack called out the back door. “Miss Shelby made omelets. They’re good.”

“Come here.” Gabe motioned him over. “Look what I found.”

Zack ambled to the flowerbed. “That explains camera nine. I thought maybe we had a bad lens. All I’ve gotten this morning is glare.” He scanned the backyard. “We’ve been had. Look at that.”