Page 36 of Heston
London chuckled. “What body part you gonna lose?”
“I’ll lose my wife!” Bates made it sound like his betting on the wrong banker was London’s fault. “He’s got my wife!”
“Don’t blame London for the choices you made,” Heston corrected. “You’re a lousy gambler and a shittier husband. You’ve got no choice. You’re stuck between a rock and a hard place. Where’s Malloy holding your wife? What’s her name? We might be able to saveher.”
“Kitten. Kitten Bates,” Bates replied, his gaze gone flat but still on that hole.
Well, wasn’t that just precious? Heston huffed in disgust. Wanna bet Kitten was the alias a clever call girl used to lure idiots like Bates into crooked card games run by sharks? Who in turn maintained an unbelievable profit margin—for the Irish mafia?
“Kitten?” Asher asked, surprised. “As in ‘here kitty, kitty?’ Or as in the slam, bam, thank you, ma’am, kind of kitty?”
“She’s a cocktail waitress, you son of a bitch! A good one.”
Heston grunted.I’ll bet.Things kept going from bad to worse for Bates. Yes, Heston would ask Mark to check out the dubiousMrs. Bates, but he suspected Kitty worked for Keane, and Keane wouldn’t hurt the girl who brought in suckers like Bates.
“I say let’s take him back to Alex, Hes and Ash,” London said, her voice firm, her decision made, and Heston’s way forward as clear as the light dancing in her tropical blue eyes again. “Alex will know what to do with him. He might even let him live.”
Finally, she was at peace with herself. And she should be. London had done damned good today. And if she was happy, Heston was going to make sure she stayed that way.
Chapter Seventeen
It took two hours to get Bates back to London’s camper, where, lo and behold, an armed Tom Landry stood guard over Ryan Malloy. London laughed at herself. That balls-in-the-bag trick must’ve been Asher’s way of either impressing her or, as it turned out, frightening the shit out of Bates. Legendary sniper Malloy looked pathetic, hogtied on his belly like he was, squirming with his ruddy face in the wet chipped-cedar bark at the rear of her camper.
“You asshole!” Bates screamed when Malloy came into view. Lurching forward, he stuck one water-logged boot out in a vain effort to kick Malloy. “This is all your fault!”
Heston jerked Bates away. “Shut it, or I’ll hog-tie you next to Malloy and let you two roll around in the mud awhile. Then we’ll see who kills who.”
The threat silenced Bates. Heston leaned him against the nearest tree and ordered him to, “Sit. Make a move and I’ll shoot your head off.” To prove it, he unholstered a pistol, but kept it pointed down.
London crouched to one knee for a closer look at the alleged world’s greatest sniper. Malloy wasn’t bad looking. He was blond, had a manly, square jaw with reddish-blond scruff that almost made him handsome. She guesstimated him at around a hundred seventy pounds, six foot two inches tall, maybe three. Which made him underweight for his frame.
But there was something wrong with him, something she didn’t expect in a sniper, least of all in the world’s best. Malloy’s skin had a yellowish tint, his eyelids were puffy, and the whites of his eyeballs were scarlet, the irises nearly non-existent. His pupils were blown, dilated so wide only black showed. Flat-black. No sparkle. No nothing. It was like looking into emptiness. He didn’t look up at her, much less give any indication he recognized the trouble he was in. There was no sense talking to him. The lights weren’t on and nobody was home.
“What’s he on?” she asked her camping neighbor.
“My guess is meth,” Tom answered, crouched protectively beside her with the tip of his boot under Malloy’s chin. Which she was beginning to understand was what good men did for their female counterparts—protect them. Not because they disrespected women, but because they really were bigger-boned, heavier set, and didn’t think twice about using their larger bodies to shield those they’d been trained from childhood to protect and serve. Made her girly parts tingle remembering how hard it had been for Heston to stand down when she’d talked with Tom. She was beginning to understand honorable men, and how much she’d hurt Hes when she’d walked away. How much he’d truly cared for her. How much he still cared.
“And before you ask,” Asher cut in. “You’re right, London. There’s no way Malloy would’ve been able to shoot accurately in the condition he’s in. I suspect he’s been a long-time user and he very well could be the man who pulled the trigger the day Kelsey went down. But the second I came face to face with him, I knew he wasn’t capable of killing anything except maybe a beer. Ever hear of precision-guided munitions?”
Asher glanced over his shoulder at what looked like an assault rifle on steroids lying on its side on her site’s picnic table. “That’s most likely the same weapon he used the day he shot Kelsey and Alex. Looks like a stand-alone rifle, but it isn’t. It’s part of a highly technical system.”
She nodded, still trying to figure out what made a good-looking man destroy himself with drugs. PTSD maybe? Thecompetition that came with being ‘the best of the best,’ as Bates said? Which made Malloy sound more like one of those silly military guys in the sci-fi movie,“Men in Black.”‘Best of the best of the best,’nothing. Malloy was the worst of the worst.
“The system works like this, London,” Heston said. “A shooter laser-paints the exact location he intends to hit, in this case, Alex’s shoulder or Kelsey’s head. Just the tip of her left ear would’ve been enough, especially since that’s closest to where she was grazed. The next time, Malloy only had to point the rifle in her direction and squeeze the trigger. The system would’ve done everything else. The smart bullet followed its programming, homed in on the laser designation, clipped Kelsey’s skull, and made Alex believe he’d seen red mist, when all he’d seen was skin, tissue, and the small amount of blood splatter caused when the round grazed her skull.”
“And yes, Agent Contreras” —Tom looked up at Heston— “that same rifle is one of the hundred‘fire and forget’proto-types stolen from McCormack Industries out of Rosslyn, Virginia, last year. I expect you know the place I mean.”
Heston blew out a huff. “I do. Jed McCormack’s a good friend to Alex, helped him start his business. I agree with your conclusion. A killer with this technology only has to get close to hit his mark.”
“And anyone else could have laser painted Kelsey’s head or her ear. Someone with a steadier hand,” Tom said.
“Works like horseshoes and hand grenades,” Asher added. “Close is good enough. No wonder Alex couldn’t determine direction or source.”
“Oh, my,” London breathed. “Smart bullets can adapt their flight path? They can change trajectories?” Sounded like science fiction. “What if Obermeyer’s plan is to kill the president? What if someone already laser-painted President Adams?”
“Jed already thought of that.” Heston tapped his temple. “As soon as McCormack realized what he’d created, he built a failsafe into the program that distorts any signal aimed toward the President, making one of his smart bullets just another dumb round that’ll fall to earth once it’s spent.”
“Deck’s on his way,” Asher informed Heston. “Not sure we should send Bates with him, though. You know how loyal Deck is to Alex and Kelsey.”
