Ruined. Just ruined.
And they were probably going to get to school right in time for the assembly.
As Matthias slept behind the wheel of his car, he dreamed of the night Jim Heron had saved his life over and over again. The events that had led up to the bomb and the long, painful trek back to relative health played and replayed in an endless loop through his mind, as if the needle on his old-fashioned mental record player was stuck.
Matthias had lured Jim Heron to that abandoned, dusty hut as a witness because there was nobody else in the XOps community whose word held more weight and credibility. The idea had been for the soldier to leave the body parts in the sand and go home to tell the others there had been a terrible accident: If anyone else had filed a report like that, the assumption would have been that they had done the killing. Not in Jim’s case, though—he was a straight shooter in a world full of curves, and he’d never had any problem copping to what he’d done, right or wrong.
Which was proof there was a little bit of good in Matthias, after all—at least he wasn’t dumping his suicide on the head of another guy.
And yeah, of course he could have just blown his own head off in a bathroom somewhere, but although he was suicidal, he had his pride. Taking a self-administered lead injection was just too fucking weak—much better to spackle the crap out of a few stone walls and be mourned as the strong fighter he’d always been.
Pride, however, had had its costs: instead of leaving him in the sand, that cocksucker Heron had saved him —and figured out his little secret. The explosive device had been the tip-off. As Matthias had lain there bleeding like a stuck pig, Jim had found remnants of the bomb and recognized them for what they were. Namely, one of their own.
The SOB had taken the fragments, put them in his pocket, and slipped off his belt. Then he’d thrown a tourniquet on Matthias’s leg, picked him up, and started hauling ass. He’d been royally pissed off, and his savior routine had clearly been part punishment, part leverage—and all consuming. The bastard had walked and walked and walked . . . until sometime later, Isaac Rothe had showed up among the dunes with a Land Rover.
Jim’s demands had come weeks afterward, at a hospital in Germany. By that point, Matthias’s head had been nothing but a huge hot-air balloon of agony, and he was having to get used to only one eye working. Heron had sat at the bedside and laid down his terms: Out. Free and clear. Or he took what was left of the bomb and all of the story to the only person who could have done anything about it.
Hello, Mr. President.
Irony of ironies, had it been any other soldier, any other human with a beating heart and a trigger finger, Matthias wouldn’t have worried about the threat. But again, Jim Heron—good ol’ Zacharias—was one of those motherfuckers people believed in. Bomb fragments could be fabricated; the believability of a worthy guy? Pretty damn indisputable.
And there was no surviving as boss if people didn’t think you had the balls for the job anymore.
At that point, Matthias had felt like there was no other choice, and told the man to go along his merry way.
In the aftermath, the suicidal thing had come back and he had considered it seriously. But then his second in command had shown up just in time—sure as if the guy had seen where he was headed.
Very persuasive man, that one. And as it had turned out, Jim had saved his body, but that second in command had somehow brought him back to life.
Although there had been consequences to the renewal: almost immediately, Matthias had opened his eyes —or one eye, as it were—to the mistake of letting Heron go: that soldier was out in the world with too much information, and the exposure wasn’t acceptable.
His second in command had agreed, and they had been about to set the wheels in motion for an “accident” when Jim had called looking for information on one Marie-Terese Boudreau. Perfect. Timing. The plan had been to have Jim take out Isaac in exchange for the intel he wanted—and then to murder Jim.
Except someone had gotten to Heron first.
Dead. Jim was dead. Matthias had seen the body with his own eyes. And yet . . . somehow he felt as though he’d spoken to the guy. Yes, he had dreamed that he had talked with Jim Heron—
Matthias came awake with his gun in his hand, the safety off the weapon and the muzzle pointed at a white guy in a navy blue uniform—who had, going by the jimmy in his hand, just pried the lock and opened the car door.
The paramedic froze and put his hands up. “I just want to help you, man.”
Probably true enough. But damn it to hell, the guy’s partner was undoubtedly calling in the police right now, and p.s., doing any kind of face-to-face with a civilian wasn’t a bene in Matthias’s book.
He lowered his gun. “I’m a federal agent.” He put his hand into his coat and decided to flash his FBI credentials—which were legit to a point.
The paramedic leaned in and squinted at the laminated photograph and the bullshit name and the very real crest. “Oh . . . sorry, sir. We got a call. . . .”
“It’s okay. Just pulled three days straight up at the Canadian border and I’m on my way to Manhattan. I got off the Northway looking for some chow around four a.m., but there was nothing open and I had to get some sleep. You know how that is.”
“Oh, I so get that.”
Chatter, chatter, chatter . . . blah, blah, blah . . .
When the police showed up, they ran the ID in their system, and gee frickin’ whiz, it checked out. And his story about being on a classified mission and having to pull over from exhaustion was consumed like a Thanksgiving dinner: He went from criminal to celebrity.
Stupid fools.
After he sent them off, he drove away himself and took his phone out. There were a number of voice mails . . . and one high alert.
Well, what do you know . . . looked like Isaac Rothe had turned himself in and his location was the house of his lovely and talented defense attorney. How fucking perfect: Although they could have picked him off standing up in Grier Childe’s kitchen if they’d absolutely had to, this was going to make things much less complicated.
Matthias called his number two, and as the phone rang, he thought of how many times he’d had this conversation: Go. Get the bastard. Cap him. Take care of the body.
He’d done it so many times.
As that pain in the left side of his chest fired up again, he ignored the sensation—
“Yeah?” his number two answered.
“Isaac Rothe is ready for you.”
There wasn’t even a pause. “The Beacon Hill address?”
“Yes. Go there now and get him.”
“I’m out of state.”
“Well, get ‘in state’ and get to him. ASAP.”
“Roger that. Where do you want him?”
Good question. Isaac wasn’t known for great escapes; his reputation was for fast, clean kills in extraordinary circumstances. But you didn’t pull off jobs like he had without being highly resourceful.
“Hold him at that house for me,” Matthias said abruptly.
As he considered the situation, instinct told him that a change in strategy was appropriate. After all, Grier Childe and her father could use some reining in—and nothing got a civilian’s attention more than watching someone get murdered. Good old Albie was proof of that—
For some reason, Jim Heron’s voice popped into Matthias’s brain. No specific words, just a tone that lingered, a grave, imploring tone that made Matthias feel like he had to stop everything and . . . do what exactly?
“Hello?” his number two demanded, like the guy had either said something that hadn’t been responded to or there’d been nothing but silence for a while.
“I don’t want you to kill him,” Matthias heard himself say.
“Oh, I know. You’re going to do that yourself.” Satisfaction. Such satisfaction, like that was the plan all along.
