6

Wrong! Everything had gone wrong!

Her hands shook with rage, making her fingers clumsy as she disassembled her rifle and rushed to pack it away.

She’d hit the woman, but it hadn’t been a head shot like she’d planned. She must have estimated the thickness and the density of the plate-glass window incorrectly. The miscalculation had altered the trajectory of the bullet, deflecting her shot slightly off course.

Quickly setting the stage for her exit, she placed her props where they couldn’t be missed and told herself it didn’t matter that the shot hadn’t been clean. The view through the rifle’s scope had been clear. Judging from the blood and location of the wound, the bullet had riddled Eva Salinas Brown’s gut. Chances of surviving an abdominal hit like that were minuscule. She’d have a massive bleed, most likely be dead before the paramedics even had a chance to take her vitals. One of the advantages of designing and packing her own bullets was knowing exactly what kind of damage they could do.

One last look around the nest told her that all was in place. She ran to the interior door, pulled out her handgun, and carefully checked the main hallway. Empty.

Then she heard the heavy steel door open from the inside stairway. Then footsteps on the concrete floors.

Shit. They’d found her hide.

Should she stay and pick them off like flies as they stormed the door to this room? Or cut her losses and retreat?

She fought the temptation to stay. She couldn’t be certain but she had a good idea who was out there. She’d just killed their partner’s wife, so it would be Taggart and Cooper to the rescue. As predictable as a fat man having a heart attack. God, she’d love to see their faces just before they died.

Yet if she stayed, she could end up dead. There’d be cops and feds all over this building in another few minutes.

Wisdom won out over excitement as she heard them out there, kicking in doors, searching for her.

When she’d arrived this morning, she’d rigged the hall door to her room in case anyone came snooping. She’d tucked a standard M67 hand grenade into a tin can, pulled the pin, then wedged the spoon inside the can so it couldn’t release. Then she’d wired the can so when the door opened, it would pull away the can and arm the grenade. Her standard insurance against intruders; it worked every time. Whoever came through that door didn’t stand a chance.

Carrying her rifle case, which resembled a valise, she slipped out a rear window that led to the exterior fire escape and raced down the stairs.

And all the while, she envisioned the investigators finding her hide and the bloody, mangled bodies of Taggart and Cooper. She could see the rest of their team finding her special “calling cards” and the wrong turns they would take before eventually realizing who had killed them.

Discovering that the woman they’d thought was dead had risen like a phoenix from the ashes of hell, to extract her long-awaited revenge.

•    •    •

“On my go,” Coop said, his frosty breath clouding the air in the frigid hallway.

Taggart nodded. He was ready.

Coop sucked in a breath, gave a quick nod, then kicked in the door. He rushed into the room, Taggart diving low behind him.

The room was empty and deathly quiet.

Except for a soft hissing noise.

Coop instantly recognized the sound. “Grenade!”

He grabbed Taggart by his shirt and dragged him to his feet. Then they ran and dived across the empty room, as far away from the door as momentum would carry them.

•    •    •

She heard the explosion just as she hit the street.

She’d have to enjoy the satisfaction later. Right now, she needed to make tracks. Outside the building, there was nothing but litter and cracked asphalt and a little skiff of snow.

She calmly walked two blocks, looking like a businesswoman with an oversized valise hurrying to get to work. When she reached the Jeep she’d stolen in D.C. last night, she stowed her rifle on the floor in the backseat, then slid behind the wheel.

A healthy dose of fear raced with her along the backstreets behind her as the facts set in. She’d fucked it up. Had she lost her edge? Had the two-year hiatus, while she’d healed and mourned and plotted her revenge, taken her out of the game?

The Russians would not be happy. The entire team was supposed to be taken out or disabled. Brown, Taggart, and Cooper were supposed to be dead. Maybe Taggart and Cooper had died back there in the building, but maybe wasn’t good enough. And for certain, Brown was still alive.

She glanced in her rearview mirror. Even though she’d changed the plates on the Jeep, she half-­expected to see a squad car, lights and siren blazing, or a black sedan filled with hard-eyed, ruddy-faced Russians bearing down on her.

Regroup. Her mentor’s voice echoed inside her head. Regroup and redeem yourself.

He was right. Of course he was right. This could still work out well. Her chest fluttered with excitement. Now she’d have Brown and his team on the ropes. Have them on the defensive, hunting in the dark.

As for the Russians, maybe she could turn this to her advantage. Create another opportunity to squeeze them for more money. And enjoy more anticipation, knowing that whatever remained of Mike Brown’s team would be running scared when they realized that a ghost could reach out and kill them at will.

It would take them a while to put the puzzle pieces together, but once they figured it out, they’d be looking over their shoulders for the rest of their very short lives.

Would she get them in bed, sleeping? In their car, stopped at a red light? One thing she knew for certain: there wouldn’t be any more Monday breakfast meetings. No socializing, no lighthearted banter, no chance of anything being normal ever again.

That thought, coupled with what had happened to whoever had opened the door to her nest, finally made her smile.

•    •    •

“What did you say?” Coop poked a finger in his ear, then tried to shake away the incessant ringing.

Joe Green stood over him. “Can you walk back down the stairs on your own?”

“I can walk,” Coop muttered. “What I can’t freaking do is hear.”

When the grenade had gone off, they were a good ten yards away from the rigged door, hugging the floor.

That’s where Green, Santos, and Waldrop had found them. Then they’d dragged them down the stairs, where the ambulance Green had called—just in case—was waiting. Several police cars also filled the lot.

Now Taggart was at the hospital. The rest of them were back up on the sixth floor, studying the shooter’s nest.

“What’s the word on Taggart?” Coop asked Green.

“Concussion. Dislocated shoulder. Lots of bruises—he hit a radiator when he slid across the floor. He’ll be fine. He’s already awake and bitching to be released, but he’ll be on the DL for a while.”

Coop let out a huge breath of relief. Thank God. They’d been through the fire together more than once, and this had come too close to being the last time.

“Any sign of the shooter?” He wrapped the blanket the ambulance crew had given him tighter around his shoulders and winced. He’d taken some shrapnel in his left calf and low on his shoulder blade, and the local anesthetic the EMTs had used when they sewed him up had started to wear off.

He and Taggart were lucky to be alive. The grenade had exploded only partially inside the room; most of the damage had been done out in the hallway. The shooter had wanted to cover a partial breach in addition to a full one, which had saved them—though Coop was sure that hadn’t been the intent.

He stared at the playing cards lined up like soldiers on the dusty windowsill, where they were sure to be spotted. His gut knotted. The intent was now pretty darn clear.

A jack of hearts, burned around the edges, with “COOPER” printed precisely across the middle.

A jack of spades, with a slice through the center, had “TAGGART” written in the same bold, black ink.

Another jack of hearts, pierced with a bullet hole, had been labeled “BROWN.”

And finally, a queen of hearts. The name “EVA” was clear beneath the black X that stretched from corner to corner.

One bullet had been carefully placed nose-up on top of each card. The four bullets were identical: .223 Remington cartridges that were almost exact matches to the bullets the U.S. military shot in the M16 rifle.

“What do you want to bet these cartridges will match the bullets we’ll dig out of the wall in the restaurant?” Green said grimly.

Santos crouched down so he was at eye level with the shells and looked them over well. “These didn’t come out of a box someone picked off the shelf. They’re designer. Hand-loaded. Someone’s very particular.”

“Someone who’s got it in for the One-Eyed Jacks.” Waldrop frowned at Coop. “He even used ammo similar to ours. You thinking vendetta?”

Coop stared at the bullets and nodded. Someone was out to get them for a very specific reason.

“An Al-Qaeda cell bent on retribution?” Santos suggested.

Coop shook his head. “This is too staged. Too selective. Al-Qaeda or one of its splinter groups would have taken out the entire restaurant if killing us was their goal.”

“Why Eva?” Waldrop speculated quietly, then glanced at Coop. “What does she have to do with the One-Eyed Jacks, other than being married to one?”

“She’s the one who got the three of us back together.” So that had pissed someone off? Or maybe they’d pissed someone off since they’d reconnected?

“Who knows that one-eyed jacks hold special meaning to you?” Green asked.

“Other than you guys?” Coop shook his head. “Family. Close friends.”

“And apparently, someone with an ax to grind,” Green added with a concerned frown. “We can talk more back at HQ. You’ve got to get out of the cold, brother.”

“Fine,” Coop said, unable to stall a bone-rattling shiver. “But no one else needs to know that I took a little shrapnel today, okay? No one.” He would not be pulled off active duty for some BS minor medical incident. He needed to get to work and figure this out.

“And Mike doesn’t need to know about any of this, either.” He lifted a hand toward the playing cards and the bullet casings. “Not until . . .” His voice caught when he thought about Eva, fighting for her life. Possibly dying. “Not until Eva’s out of the woods,” he said, determined that she would make it. “He’s got enough to deal with.”

“He’s going to be pissed if we keep him out of the loop on this,” Santos pointed out.

Yeah, he’d be pissed, all right. “I’ll take the heat,” Coop said. “But I won’t put any more on his shoulders. Not right now.”

He glanced at the cards again. Specifically, the queen of hearts. “We need to get a protection detail at the hospital ASAP.”

Green pulled out his phone and made it happen.

“Mike will realize they’re guards, but he’ll be okay with it. And for God’s sake, everyone watch your back. This may be about the four of us, but you all may be considered targets by association.” The blood oozing out of the bandage the EMTs had applied to Santos’s arm was proof of that.

His shoulder hurt, and suddenly, he couldn’t stop shivering. Whatever the shooter’s reason was, one thing was clear: Anyone who would set up something this elaborate was on a mission.

Which meant he wasn’t finished with them yet.