Gabe (In the Company of Snipers, #8)(83)

“What?” Mark snapped.

“We were kinda in the middle of defending ourselves when a black car bumped us out of our lane. You probably heard the racket. The driver nudged into us nice and easy like, forcing us out of his way. He shot out the Escalade’s tires. They lost control. Flipped the SUV over a couple times, but that was who stopped ’em. Wasn’t us.”

“What’d he look like?”

“Couldn’t see through the black window tint. Couldn’t see a thing.”

“Coupe or sedan?”

“Sedan, just like Becker’s last night. Hey listen, I gotta go. The police need to talk to me. Later.”

Mark hung up and scrolled through his recent calls. He hit Zack’s burner phone number, his heart in his throat. Hell. Losing Whisper and Smoke would destroy Kelsey.

“You called?” Zack asked quietly.

“Check the dogs, Zack. Check ’em now. They might’ve been poisoned.”

Zack dropped the phone, bellowing, “Son of a bitch! Kelsey! Come help me.”

Mark closed his eyes at the sounds of tragedy and heartbreak coming over the line. God, she’d lost so much already.

“Smoke!” she shrieked. “Help me, Zack. Please. They’re dying!”

“I am, Kels. God, there’s so much blood.”

“I know. I know!”

Mark clenched his eyes and prayed. Not them, too. Not Whisper and Smoke.

More phone bumping and racket ensued until Zack came back on the line. “They’re heaving blood. I’ve got to get a vet here. Sorry, Mark. I’ve got to go.”

“Tell the vet it’s rat poison,” Mark named the brand so the vet would know how to treat the dogs.

“Right. Later.” Zack disconnected, and Mark was as angry and as weary as he’d never been during all of his combat tours combined. Nothing compared. The ugly morning had gone from bad to worse. He’d barely stepped out on the front walk when his cell rang again. David.


“Did Connor and Rory apprehend the SUV? Everyone okay?”

“Yes. They caught up with Stevenson and Bukowski. Sounds like Rory and Connor had help intercepting them from some guy in a black sedan,” Mark muttered, hating that this info bite would add fuel to the spreading Alex myth.

“Good. The gang of ten is down to the last man then. Fallon.”

Mark scrubbed a hand over his face, glad for the accurate assessment, but the continual interference of that joker in the black sedan was a problem he didn’t need. Who the hell was he? Alex? Then why didn’t he come out and admit he was alive?

“There’s something else.”

“What?” Of course there’s something else. There was always some-goddamned-thing else!

“Mother just tendered her resignation.”

“She what? But I just spoke with her. She didn’t say a word about quitting when she transferred Connor’s call.”

“And then she left. Sorry. I know this is the last thing you need to deal with right now, but she didn’t want to talk about it.”

Mark hung up without another word, his phone clenched in his hand so tightly that it hurt his fingers. Sonofabitch! How did Alex wake up every single day and want do this damned job?





Chapter Twenty-Five


And here I am, sitting in a police cruiser in the middle of the Arlington Memorial Bridge. What would Mom say?

Shelby growled to herself. Two police officers had Gabe in custody, his feet kicked wide and his cheek to the trunk as if he were a common criminal. They’d frisked him twice, but Gabe was smart. Before that Becker guy could stop him, he’d pulled stuff out of his pockets and dropped it over the bridge railing as quick as if his pants were on fire.

Shelby would’ve dropped her weapon over, too, but Becker was faster. He’d caught her by her wrists and pulled one arm behind her back. Then the police officers took Gabe down, scraping his cheek to the pavement before that jerk, Becker, stopped the rough handling. “Easy, boys. He’s mine.”

Shelby had to give him credit. He’d very courteously removed Gabe’s pistol from her hand like a gentleman and escorted her to the patrol car.

“Howdy, ma’am,” he’d said, as if he were at a Sunday social instead of the middle of a crime scene on the bridge. “Why don’t you take a seat and rest awhile, while I have a little talk your boyfriend?”

Shelby hadn’t said a word because that was probably what he’d wanted—her to spill her guts or something like that. She worried for Gabe out there and surrounded by police, but what could she do? Escape? The notion intrigued her. She could run. That might give Gabe time to get away, too. Or something. But no. He looked pretty indisposed at the moment.

Sam Becker, the liar. She didn’t trust him. Not one bit. He was dangerous. Gabe had said he was. The only guys he’d said anything to were the four police officers. A tow truck had already hauled the Escalade with the flat tire, away. One officer had escorted that driver to another cruiser, not in cuffs though. What was going on? Becker had caused all the trouble. Not Gabe.

At last, the authorities must’ve believed something Becker told them. They let Gabe stand up straight. He arched his back, but then everything went from bad to worse. They cuffed his hands in front of him.

A white van marked with the bright gold insignia of the FBI on its side panel rolled onto the scene. Becker said something to that driver, nodding toward Shelby, and oh my gosh. Her heart pounded. He thinks I’m a criminal?