Fernando Chavez had done very well for himself over the years and was now a supervisor in the FBI’s Reno Field Office. One of his favorite pastimes was waterskiing on Lake Tahoe with his wife and their three young children.
Such a pity they all had to die.
Chavez’s ego had placed his family in danger. That and the desire to prove he wasn’t scared, or changing his routine just because of “some asshole.”
They were all so boringly predictable.
When Jamal Fidan had drowned, Bernie had spiked the man’s drink and when he was incapacitated, shoved him over the side of the boat, leaving him to flounder and flail until he finally sunk beneath the surface.
This was going to be a little different.
The “friend” accompanying the family on this beautiful Saturday morning was obviously some sort of undercover bodyguard.
The bodyguard glanced over to the other side of the parking lot and gave a nod.
Shit. A feeling of dread swept through blood and bone when the person in the driver’s seat of the white pick-up truck nodded in response. Bernie hadn’t noticed the backup.
With a shudder, Bernie put the 4X4 into gear and carefully reversed up the small gradient. No tire spins. No fast moves.
Watching the show would be a mistake. A foolish indulgence.
The eyes of the bodyguard on the boat followed the rented 4X4 as it traveled along the road beside the lake.
Fuck you, asshole.
Bernie hit dial on a pre-programmed number in the cell phone and sucked in a deep breath of anticipation.
Nothing happened.
Pulling over onto the side of the road Bernie tried again. The amount of plastic explosive in the cabin of that boat should be enough to incinerate everyone on board.
A third try had exactly the same results.
Goddammit!
Had they found the bomb? Was this whole scenario a trap? A setup? A cold sweat broke out over Bernie’s skin despite the heat of the day.
If it was a trap someone would be following, or maybe there was a surveillance plane high in the sky—or a drone. It would be virtually invisible. The pounding of blood through suddenly hot ears made it impossible the hear anything except for the erratic rush of panic.
Pulling back onto the highway, Bernie ignored the feeling of fear that wanted to consume. It was a glitch. A bad connection. Shitty cell service. Or they were blocking signals…
Bernie glanced up at the sky. The FBI was not following. The FBI was a bunch of incompetent fools. Bernie kept driving. For hours, going nowhere. In circles. Filling up with gas and taking in the sights. At the end of the day Bernie drove past the marina again but the Chavez family wasn’t there. The boat was though and the desire to go check why the bomb hadn’t gone off was almost overwhelming. But not being able to ignore stupid urges was why Peter was dead. The man could never resist a potential target and had picked up a female the Feds had planted.
Most people called it entrapment. Dominic Sheridan had shot Peter dead and gotten a fucking commendation.
Bernie’s fingers gripped the wheel so tight they felt welded on.
Next to Sheridan, the female cop was the most important target to destroy. Without that slut, Peter would never have been caught. Bernie had already set that plan in motion. Fernando Chavez was going to have to wait for now, be put on hold.
He lived in a log cabin in the woods though. Perhaps some gasoline and matches could be arranged. It was a hot, dry summer. The fire would grow fast and consume everything in its path. The perfect sort of vengeance—painful, terrifying.
Bernie didn’t even need to see the man die. It just needed to happen. All those responsible for setting up Peter needed to stop breathing on a permanent basis.
After ten hours of aimless driving the small, private airstrip came into view. It was almost tempting to go to Peter. To be with him again if only for a short time, but there was much to do.
Revenge was time-consuming. Soon it would all be over. Soon it would be done.