Page 19 of Heston
Because the thought of anything happening to London turned Heston into a chest-thumping, testosterone overloaded—what’d she call him? Oh, yeah, a hairy ape with a pea brain. That about summed him up. Heston had no idea why she was the only woman who brought his inner caveman roaring to the surface. Spanish machismo? Possibly. His dad was a Marine. Carter Contreras could be an ass, especially with his sons. Was he that much like his dad?
BLAM!The door behind him slammed open and in came Alex, instantly taking control of the room like a category ten hurricane takes charge of Florida. Had to be a Cat 10 because hurricane ratings only went to five, and Alex’s rage was way beyond the requisite 157 mph windspeed for a Cat 5.
“You!” Alex snarled, sticking a long, angry finger in Heston’s face. “You and Asher! Get your son of a bitchin’ gear. I’ve got a job for you.”
Murphy, Mark, and Asher hustled in on Alex’s heels. “Now hold up, Alex,” Murphy argued.
Alex whirled on him. “No! You hold up. I want that son of a bitch dead!”
The phraseson of a bitchwould forever remind Heston of his boss. He looked to Murphy for calmer explanations. “Where am I going and why?”
“Because you work for me and I said so!” Alex roared, pacing around the chairs and tables scattered throughout the room.
Heston inhaled slowly and refused to retaliate. Alex was hurting. That was all this tantrum was about. When he hurt, he took it out on everyone around him. God knew how long he’d be a nightmare to deal with, but deal Heston would. For as long as it took Kelsey to recover. Longer if necessary. If London’s best quality was stubbornness, Heston’s was loyalty.
“The Irishman has contacted Alex,” Mark, instead of Murphy, explained quietly. Mark had grown up somewhere in the Midwest, tossing hay bales, wrestling beef and hogs, and working sunup to sundown on his family’s farm. He was wider and thicker muscled than Alex. But Alex was the alpha, and right then Heston could almost see hackles—make that stegosaurus plates—sticking straight up off his pissed-off boss’s back.
“That son of a bitch threatened my wife!” Alex spat. “Again!”
Mark said, “He called on the hospital phone in—”
“Because I threw the son of a bitch’s burner in the gawddamned White River!”
Deep breath. Count to ten. Let Alex rant and curse all he needed. Wait on Mark.
“He called on the phone in Kelsey’s room,” Mark continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted by the ogre Alex had become. “He told Alex he obviously hadn’t learned his lesson. That he could get to Alex or Kelsey anytime he wanted. That he knew which room she was in and next time—”
“He’ll shoot to kill!” Alex roared. “Her! My Kelsey! That bastard’s threatened her for the last son of a bitchin’ time!”
“What the fuck?” Heston asked, equally offended at the balls this Irish moron thought he had. “Who is this bastard, and whatdo you want me to do to him when I find him? Because I will find him, Boss.” Heston leveled that promise at Alex.
“Damned straight,” Asher added from the doorway where he still stood, his arms raised over his head, his hands gripping the overhead jamb. “Heston and me’ll hunt the fucker down, Boss. You want him alive or can we just bring back his head on a spike? Or his balls? You’d mount them on your wall, wouldn’t you?”
Oddly, Alex calmed at that grisly pronouncement of loyalty. He was shaking. His nostrils flared as if there wasn’t enough air in the room. His chest heaved like a blacksmith’s bellows. Pursing his lips, he let some of that hot air go. The laser blue ice in his eyes melted the tiniest bit. His Adam’s apple ratcheted up, then down. With a hard-won swallow, he finally said, “I want them dead, Heston, Asher. There’s at least two of them. The guy who gave me the burner wasn’t the shooter. Couldn’t’ve been. He’s too weak of a chicken shit to be the only one behind this.”
Alex’s chest heaved with another deep breath. “Other than that, I’ve got nothing. No brass left behind to pin those shots to any specific weapon or caliber. Don’t know precisely where they fired from anyway. Don’t know who the hell they are. Don’t even know where to look or who to ask. It happened so fast I couldn’t determine trajectory. No fingerprints on Kelsey when I found her, and the fire destroyed all evidence in the trailer, if there even was any. Weather destroyed footprints. I’ve got nothing!”
Heston watched the man he’d follow into Hell return to a semi-normal version of himself. Still agitated, but calm enough he was breathing better. Hopefully thinking better, too.
“Mother’s tracking all cell towers near Mount Rainier, but so far she’s found nothing,” Murphy added.
“Ember, Beau, and Jameson are running various scenarios with the FBI,” Mark said. “The Bureau suspects the Irish Mafia’s behind this, but they’re not ruling out the Russian or Sicilians.”
“No shit,” Alex bit out. “If my old man’s—”
“Whoa,” Heston interrupted, his palms forward for Alex to stop and explain. “Your dad? What’s that about?”
Alex turned to Mark and growled, “Tell him.”
A pained expression shadowed Mark’s face. “Alex recently discovered that his father might’ve played a part in the Irish Mafia’s business out of Boston. But I’ve investigated every word of Mel Stewart’s bragging. He’s not a reliable source, but he did run small jobs for Pops Delaney, whose birth name was” —Mark clapped a hand to his mouth and coughed— “Killian Stewart. Pops Delaney, aka Killian Stewart, was Mel’s older brother, which makes him Alex’s uncle. DNA confirms the lineage. That’s the only link I can find, but I haven’t found anything that proves Delaney exploited it.”
“Don’t waste time looking. My dad’s a gawddamned liar,” Alex said grimly.
“Understood, but Mel and Pops were brothers, and maybe Pops didn’t want Mel involved.”
Alex snorted. “Wouldn’t be surprised. Nobody trusted Mel. Not Mom or Gramps. Sure as hell not me.”
Heston’s lips pursed at what had to have been a magnitude 9.0 shock when a hard-driven patriot like Alex learned he was related to an Irish crime boss. “How recently did this come to light?”
