Weather the Storm (Security Specialists International #3) Page 2

  “Here’s the number for my offshore account.” A rustling of cloth indicated Crocker had pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket.

  “I want it done fast.” The Boss’s words were short and clipped, a sure sign of rising anger. His accent had a tinge of East Coast, not New York or New Jersey, but definitely northeastern United States. “SSI is hurting my cash flow.”

  And then it hit her where she’d heard the accent before. Boston. The Boss was originally from Boston and had almost succeeded in eliminating the slurred, nasal vowels of a true Bostonian.

  “My job. My timeline. I’m not rushing onto SSI turf without adequate intel.” Crocker’s tone said this was non-negotiable. “I’ll start preparations after the deposit hits my account. I’ll let you know when we’re going in.”

  “My money. My timetable…bottom line, I need it done before the end of the year.” The Boss’s anger had iced over into cold fury and his voice said “don’t mess with me.”

  “I didn’t know traitors had bottom lines. I just thought y’all were bottom feeders.” Crocker’s Southern drawl was even more evident as he insulted the man who’d shown he was willing to pay a lot of money to eliminate problems. Either Crocker had balls of steel or he wasn’t as smart as he should be.

  “You have a problem working for me, Crocker?”

  Elana shuddered. If anyone had aimed that ominous tone of voice at her, she was sure she’d whimper and run away.

  “Yeah—” Crocker’s tone was matter of fact. The merc’s lack of fear made Crocker all the scarier. “—but as long as your money’s good, I’ll do the job. I don’t give fuck all about the political games you’re playing. Don’t fuck me over. I make a bad enemy.”

  Another clue. Whoever or whatever the Boss was, he had to be in politics or close to politicians in some way. But that could be said of a lot of men in D.C. Still, every piece of the puzzle was one piece closer to the full picture.

  “So do I, Crocker. So do I.”

  And the two men had reached detente.

  Crocker snorted. “At least we understand each other. No more face-to-face meetings will be necessary.”

  “Good. We done? I need to get back to the arena before my friends miss me.”

  And another fact. The Boss had attended the game tonight. There were cameras at the arena. In fact, there were security cameras all over campus including the library. Video of men coming and going from the arena and the library could be searched for duplicates using facial recognition. Elana smiled. She knew how to find these men, even if she couldn’t get a look at them now.

  You won’t be allowed to help.

  She’d offer anyway. Or maybe she could work with Dr. Walsh? This was the professor’s area of expertise.

  “Yeah, we’re done,” Crocker replied.

  “Go on. I’ll follow in a minute. I don’t want to be seen with you,” the Boss muttered, again his words sounded more like an insult than a statement of fact. “In my day we’d have done this with a drop.”

  “Fuck you, cocksucker,” Crocker spat out the words in his buzz-saw voice. “In your day, drops were routinely intercepted. People are nosy. NSA hears and sees all. You should know that. You’ve been sitting behind a desk too long. The world’s different than when you did wet work. Face-to-face is safer, especially since my guy is fucking up the security cameras all over campus.”

  Elana mentally swore. No cameras meant no easy ID. Maybe she could catch a glimpse of the Boss after he left. Unfortunately Crocker would be long gone. But the mercenary world was a lot smaller than the world of D.C. politicians and their hangers on, and she had his “merc” name to start with.

  The outer door closed.

  The Boss swore vilely under his breath, “Cock-sucking, mother-fucking, pecker-headed son of a bitch.”

  His words were far cruder than those he’d used with Crocker. With the merc he’d been condescending in tone, but his language had been that of a man with education and authority. Yet, now he cursed like a soldier, another clue to his background.

  The Boss went silent. Elana listened hard for any sound from him, any hint he might be searching the room. She barely breathed and prayed he was too lazy to make the effort. After what seemed like an hour, but was more like a minute, she heard the snick of the room door closing; it sounded like a gunshot in the empty space and she jerked.

  Slowly, she counted to ten before she shimmied out from under the table and stood. She trembled from head to toe, a combination of fear and the chilly dampness from her sweat. She couldn’t afford to collapse on one of the room’s sofas and congratulate herself on a narrow escape. She had to follow the Boss in an attempt to catch a glimpse of him. If the police nabbed him, then Crocker, in all probability, wouldn’t go through with the job. She also had no doubt the Boss would “out” the man in order to lighten his sentence.

  Setting her walkie-talkie to silent mode, she sent an emergency alarm to Harry. After double-checking to make sure the device was set on vibrate for incoming calls, she then opened the door a crack and peeked around it. She let out a long slow breath as she caught the sight of the back of the man who had to be the Boss. She saw no one else.

  The Boss headed for the main stairwell at a steady pace, not too fast, not too slow. He could take the stairs down to the bottom level and leave the building through the parking garage without passing by Harry or Betsy on the main floor.

  Assured the Boss was well away from her position, she left the safety of the lounge and tip-toed a path across the carpeted floor, parallel to his. The tall book-filled stacks hid her movements. The carpet muffled her steps. In her mind, she pictured Harry, unable to raise her, running to her last known position, gun out, and Betsy calling the campus cops. They had a good chance of catching the Boss before he even left the library.

  Then a door creaked. The sound echoed off the stacks in the night-silent room. The noise had come from the vicinity of the graduate study rooms.

  Libby!

  The grad student must’ve decided to take a break—or even go home. The Boss would pass right by her room. He’d see her. If Libby saw him, he’d kill her. Elana knew this as well as she knew right now her insides had turned to jelly and her heart beat as if she’d run a marathon.

  Libby would be helpless against the cold-blooded killer.

  Silent mode was out the window now. Elana raised the walkie-talkie to her lips. She needed Harry and his gun here faster.

  Before she could make the call, the sound of a door crashing into a wall was followed by a shrill scream.

  Fear held her hostage and every animal instinct coupled with horrible memories from her past urged Elana to flee. But she couldn’t. No one had moved to help her when Demidas had shot her parents and kidnapped her off a busy Russian street. She refused to be a coward and leave Libby alone with a killer. She refused to bury her head in the sand.

  Elana ran as quickly and quietly as she could. Harry was on his way. The campus police would be en route also. Could she distract and delay the Boss? Make him chase her?

  God, what in the hell was she thinking? But could she live with herself if she didn’t do something to help Libby?

  She unclenched her jaw and then screamed, “I heard you and Crocker. I’ve called security. Campus police are on their way.”

  “Fuck you, bitch,” the Boss roared. “Goddamn fucking snooping piece of ass.” From the sound of his voice, he was on the hunt, approaching her position. She moved in the opposite direction, keeping bookshelves between them.

  There was still no sound from Libby. Was she hiding? Or was she hurt and scared?

  “I saw you.” Elana circled back around to approach the graduate study rooms. “I heard what you told Crocker to do. You’ll be caught.”

  “You’re dead, bitch.” The Boss’s tone was cold and calm in its certainty.

  Elana peered through the stacks. And then she actually did see him.

  The Boss was tall, maybe six-foot-two or so when compared to the heigh
t of the stacks. He had dark, close-cropped, military-style hair. He was dressed in a navy pullover sweater, a pale blue dress shirt sticking out at the collar, and what looked like designer jeans. The type of clothing any Georgetown fan might wear to a basketball game on a mild night in early December. He had the military bearing to go with the haircut—and she’d bet her 401(k) he was either currently military or former.

  He’d gone silent—stalking her like an animal—and held a matte black gun as if he knew exactly how to use it. He was in the aisle parallel to hers. He’d find her soon.

  Where the hell was Harry? God, she hoped he hadn’t been patrolling the parking garage when she’d sent the emergency signal. It would take him twice as long to get to her and Libby.

  Keep moving, Ellie.

  Elana, all her senses hyper-aware, headed toward Libby’s position after she saw the Boss’s head move toward the other end of the room, toward the back stairs.

  When she spotted Libby’s motionless body on the floor in front of her study room, memories of her mother lying on a cold Moscow street―dying―overwhelmed her…“You fucking bastard!” she screamed, her cry echoing around the room. “You hurt Libby.”

  Elana raced along the parallel aisle toward the back of the room. Toward the Boss. When she heard him coming, she stopped. With a strength fueled by rage and fear, she dug in her heels and shoved at a section of bookshelves. The stack fell over and landed with a booming crash.

  “What the fuck?” His shout was furious. Her heart sank. She’d missed.

  Elana ducked behind a section of couch seating at the juncture of aisles.

  He let off a couple of wild shots. Pfft. Pfft. One of the shots tore a hole in a couch next to her. She gasped and then clamped her mouth shut. Keeping low, she duck-walked until she was behind another section of bookshelves.

  “I’m coming for you, bitch.”

  Elana looked around for anything she could use as a weapon. There was nothing. And she wasn’t sure she could shove another section of shelving at him. She’d lost that element of surprise.

  She couldn’t win a battle against a man with a gun, but Harry could. She needed Harry or at least the threat of Harry here…now. She brought the walkie-talkie to her lips and flipped off silent mode, a loud squawk filled the air and Harry’s voice shouted, “Elana! Elana! Answer me. What the fuck is happening? Are you still on four? The cameras are all fucked up! What the…”

  The Boss fired a few more shots in her direction, and she dove for the floor and belly-crawled back toward Libby, back toward the Boss and his gun. Was she stupid? Smart people ran away from gunshots.

  “Those were shots. Elana talk to me.” Harry sounded exactly like the D.C. cop he used to be. “I’m almost there. I need a situation report. Campus police are less than a minute away.”

  “Fucking cunt.” The sound of pounding feet running away from her and then the explosive clang of the main stairwell door had Elana sighing with relief. He was gone.

  “Elana!” Harry yelled. “Answer me, dammit.”

  “I’m fine. The man missed me. He hurt Libby.” She took a breath and continued, “Bad guy is going down the main stairs. He has a gun.”

  “Roger that. Hold on. EMTs are coming.”

  Elana sat up and spotted Harry coming down the central aisle of the fourth floor from the direction of the back stairs. He had been making rounds when the emergency signal had gone out, or he would’ve come up the main stairwell from the third floor. He spotted her and made to head her way.

  “I’m fine,” she shouted. “Get him.”

  Harry nodded and entered the main stairwell, leading with his gun.

  Elana prayed he’d catch the Boss—prayed he’d stay safe. Then she turned. Libby hadn’t moved. She lay curled into a protective position, a lax hand on her stomach.

  Dropping to her knees, Elana checked for breathing and couldn’t feel Libby’s breath. She checked for a pulse at the woman’s neck and found none. Ohmygod, ohmygod.

  There were red marks on Libby’s neck, right over her carotid. “Sweet Jesus.” The bastard had cut off her blood supply.

  Elana’s job was to get Libby’s blood pumping, which meant getting her heart started. She began compression-only-CPR. As taught, she mentally hummed the Bee Gees’ song “Stayin’ Alive” to set the proper rhythm for the compressions. Thank God, the university had all personnel stay current on basic life-saving techniques.

  Where were the paramedics?

  Patience, Ellie. Harry called them. Less time has passed than you think.

  As Elana hunched over her unconscious friend, Libby’s distended abdomen moved. The baby was kicking. Thank you, Jesus.

  The sound of running feet approached. Instinctively, Elana covered the injured woman with her body. No one else would hurt this woman and her unborn child tonight if she could help it.

  “Elana! Paramedics and police are on their way.” Betsy’s words were breathy as she ran to Elana’s side.

  “God, tell them to hurry. I’m not sure this is helping.” She began the rhythmic compressions once again. “He cut off the blood supply to her brain. She needs real medical care, not me.”

  Betsy looked at Libby and then at her, then dropped to her knees. “She’s not breathing?”

  “No.” Elana continued with her CPR, in increasing despair. Libby’s skin was pale and tinged blue-gray. She wasn’t getting any oxygen. Elana was losing her…or had been fighting a losing battle all along. “Take over the compressions.”

  Betsy nodded and began the pumping motion.

  Elana angled Libby’s head back for mouth to mouth. “We’ll go old school CPR. Coordinate with me.” She began puffing breaths into Libby’s mouth. Then stopped and let Betsy do chest compressions.

  Anger speared through Elana, giving her the strength to keep on breathing for Libby until help came. The Boss would pay. She knew what he looked like. Libby would get the justice Elana never had.

  Even though she was lightheaded and in danger of crashing from a post-adrenaline high, Elana kept puffing breaths into Libby’s slack mouth. Silently she urged the woman’s heart to beat. Betsy continued to time the compressions, tears streaming down her face.

  But it was obvious they were losing the race against time.

  God, where were the blessed paramedics?

  Then she heard—“Get out of the way, ma’am. We’ve got her.”

  Strong but gentle hands moved her to the side and another set placed an oxygen mask over Libby’s nose and mouth almost before Elana was out of the way. Betsy moved to her side and helped her to stand; they stood, holding onto each other, as the paramedics worked.

  The grim faces and soft curses of the medical team told her Libby wasn’t responding. But the paramedics didn’t give up. They shocked her heart. And, finally, after what seemed like hours, they managed to get a heart rate. With Libby stabilized for the moment, the men readied her for transport.

  “Are you taking her to Georgetown?” Elana asked the paramedic nearest her. It was the closest ER, but that didn’t mean it was where they’d take Libby.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She breathed a sigh of relief. Georgetown was the best. Libby and her baby might have a chance. She’d go there after she made her statement to the authorities.

  A uniformed D.C. police officer approached them. “Ladies, we need to ask some questions.”

  “Yes…uh, yes…” She turned toward the middle-aged black patrol officer. His face faded in and out and all of a sudden her legs felt like limp noodles. “May we sit down somewhere? I need to get something to drink. I’m sort of dizzy…”

  Betsy held onto her on one side and the officer grabbed her other arm. “Are you hurt?” he asked. “Campus Security reported there were shots fired.”

  “No. Just a reaction to all the stress, I think…” She looked at Betsy. “How long were we helping Libby?”

  “Ten minutes or so. Seemed like forever.”

  The officer said, “Traffic h
eld emergency response up. Game just let out.” He paused as if he were aware the excuse sounded lame in the grand scheme of things. “Uh, where should we go?”

  Betsy took charge. “Employee lounge on three behind the main desk.”

  The three walked to the elevator. As they got on, Elana asked, “Did Harry manage to stop the man?”

  The police officer’s expression turned to stone.

  Elana’s heart began racing again, and she reminded herself to breathe. “Is Harry okay?” The patrol officer looked fierce, and his eyes filled with anger. “Oh my God, did he…”

  “The security guard…Harry…is dead. He was shot in the library garage.”

  Betsy gasped. Elana moaned and braced a hand on the side of the elevator. Her stomach churned with guilt. She swallowed hard and prayed she wouldn’t throw up. “I should’ve told him to be careful. I was worried about getting to Libby.”

  “Ma’am, you told Harry enough. We heard what you told him over the line he’d opened to us. He knew the bastard had a gun and had hurt the lady. He was fully aware—we all were—of what he was heading into.” The officer took her arm and supported her as the door opened onto three. “Let’s get you something to drink with some sugar in it. You’re in shock. You’ll need to be alert in order to tell the homicide detective what happened. You’re the only person who can describe the killer.”

  “I thought you…no, it’s murder now, so of course Homicide would…I’ll do whatever I can to help. I did see the killer. Very clearly.” His face would populate her nightmares right next to Demidas’s.

  He squeezed her arm gently. “We’ll get him, ma’am. We lucked out this time, we have an eye witness. It’s always easier to solve crimes with a witness.”

  Not always. She had firsthand experience on that topic.

  Chapter 2

  Saturday, December 3rd, 7:00 A.M. (MST), Sanctuary, Idaho

  Keely Walsh-Maddox lay on her right side, gasping, as Ren, her husband of almost a year, made love to her from behind. As his cock thrust in and out of her pussy in a steady rhythm, his talented hand alternated from gently rubbing her once-again flat stomach to manipulating her engorged clitoris. He’d already given her two orgasms and was going for a morning sex record of three when a rousing chorus of Nickelback’s song, “S.E.X.,” sounded from her cell phone.