Chapter Eight
_____________________
______________________________________________________
WHILE HER LAPTOP’S dead battery charged, Shelby sorted through two piles of snail mail her mother had neatly stacked for her.
As Colton and Connor worked on installing the new security system, she paid the recent utility bills, got her cable turned back on, and tossed the ball for Salisbury.
She’d seen the emotional leakage on Colton’s face in the kitchen—he actually wanted Connor to stay. The fact Connor had come to Oklahoma, regardless of whether or not their boss had ordered it, meant a lot to Colton.
Connor was lying about Beatrice sending him. He’d most likely volunteered, but knew Colton wouldn’t send him away if he believed Beatrice had ordered it.
Ah, the world of micro-expressions. No matter how long she studied it or how much she sincerely tried not to use her skills on others, the truth always revealed itself.
Colton brought her fresh coffee and her cell phone shortly after she sat down. After he went upstairs, Connor snuck in under the guise of checking the locks on the windows to tell her how happy he was she was okay. She asked about his new girlfriend and the guy nearly burst with eagerness to tell her about Sabrina Merinos.
Colton yelled down from upstairs and Connor hustled out, giving her a squeeze on her shoulder as he passed by.
Shelby sat back in her chair and smiled, happy for the man. It was a wonderful thing to be in love, to feel that spark.
She touched her lips. The kiss from Colton earlier had certainly lit her up. She could still feel the buzz in her system. Reliving the moment, her body reacted all over again.
Eighteen months had been a damn long time without him in her life, without him there to kiss her like that, to hold her and make her feel like she was the only woman in the world for him.
Of course, she could see that on his face. Even now, after all of their arguments and the divorce, he was still in love with her.
If only that were enough.
She could see past all of his facades, his lies. He used them to protect himself, to keep from getting close to people who had time and time again let him down. She couldn’t blame him for shielding himself. Everyone needed some form of emotional protection.
She’d found hers at a young age, having a father like Jack for a parent. The man had many sides, many faces—different ones for his family, his followers, the camera. Her natural ability to read people had developed from reading him, learning the micro-expressions others never noticed.
Her dad was a good man, a sincere one, even if at times his demeanor was overbearing and downright frustrating. He bordered on being a bully when he believed he was right. And Jack Claiborne always right.
Shelby eyed her laptop. The light had changed to green a while ago, letting her know it was fully charged, but she’d felt a clawing uncertainty. Every time she’d reached for it, a spike of pain shot through her right temple.
Now or never. Regardless of what her brain didn’t want to remember, she had to find the truth.
Her paper file on the veteran murders seemed woefully incomplete. Sure, the autopsy reports were missing—she remembered that. But she had a specific way of running an investigation, a system for filing her evidence, notes, and logging timelines. The folder on the table in front of her seemed to lack her usual organization. Where were her interview notes? Her Detail Report?
The DR was really a half-baked tool she used in every investigation. Partial descriptions that jumped out at her, facial expressions during interviews that didn’t jive with what the person said, anything that stuck in her brain, from times to bits and pieces of stories.
Sometimes she would list nothing but a word that kept circling her brain. All of those little tidbits looked like worthless words and numbers on paper, yet often when she linked them all together, they triggered something in her brain that led to her solving the case.
It wasn’t a procedure the FBI had taught her or would condone, which was why she always kept the Detail Report in her private file, but it worked for her. Even before the shooting, her brain had worked differently than most people’s—and one thing she had learned as a preacher’s daughter was that she had to use the gifts God had handed her.
So her gift for reading people’s faces, as well as the one that allowed her to see connections between trivial facts, were to be used for a higher purpose.
There had been times as an FBI agent when she doubted the existence of a benevolent God. All she knew for sure was that she was here to counteract the evil in the world. Her father was too. He had his religion to guide him. Shelby had her gifts.
She entered her password, watched the opening screen emerge, and ignored the messages about all the updates her computer needed. She had 1057 emails. Facebook, Instagram, Snapchat, Twitter…wow, she’d missed a lot.
They would all have to wait another day.
Where is it?
She clicked through several files. Where was the smoking gun?
Opening a folder labeled Paperback Novel, she scanned the contents. The novel didn’t exist, only files containing her research on investigations. She’d known other agents who’d been careless about their laptops, ending up with them stolen or hacked, personal notes on investigations suddenly in the hands of people who could use the info as blackmail or sell it to others who might do worse.
Shelby was extra careful, using several layers of encryption and never labeling anything with the actual case name. If someone were to hack through all her security, they’d see random notes on ‘characters,’ ‘locations,’ ‘backstories,’ ‘plots,’ and miscellaneous…all elements of a fictional tale.
She also used code names for her characters—the real life victims and perpetrators of the crimes she investigated. If anyone did put two and two together and figured out the details in these files were real, they’d still have a lot of work to do to link them to real cases.
She opened Three Dog Night, the name she’d given the veteran serial murder case “book” and began reading.
Twenty minutes later, she’d scanned through the case’s to-do list—another item that had been missing in her paper file. The one thing that stood out to her was to visit Irello Serevs.
Irello Serevs. Lori Evers.
It was a silly ruse, but one she enjoyed. She’s always wanted to be a code breaker for the FBI and in a way she was with her behavioral analyses of people’s faces. But since she couldn’t actually do it for the Bureau, the least she could do was create her own codes for cases.
In the file was a list of questions about Wyatt Evers and his time in the military. Shelby did a search for Lori’s phone number, picked up her cell and dialed.
LANGTON, EVERS, EDMUNDS. Three men he’d known, worked with. All involved with Connor’s rescue, all dead. Not just dead—murdered.
Shot by a sniper.
The same one that had hurt Shelby.
Only, he’d left her alive.
Not a kill shot.
Why?
To most people, it looked like it had been, but if the sniper had wanted her dead, he wouldn’t have grazed her skull—he would have put a bullet into her brain, just like he had all three veterans.
Could it be a different shooter?
Colton had circled the subject every day, over and over again, in the past three months. Now, he had more intel, but no more answers than before.
His gut told him it was the same guy, only he had a different agenda with Shelby.
“All entry sensors are in place,” Connor said, coming into Shelby’s bedroom. “Everything is linked to the main base. Try your phone app and see if it works.”
Colton had been installing the bedroom sensor when he’d noticed the window lock was loose. These old houses. He’d taken a screw driver to the hardware and everything was locked up tight again, the sensor in place.
Pulling out his phone, he tapped buttons to link his Rock Star Security app to the base’s secured-access software. As the app went through its paces, checking each sensor and the newly installed keypad, he tapped his thigh.
Three of his fellow brothers-in-arms had been taken down on the streets of their own country. From Shelby’s research, the string of killings had started with Colton’s childhood friend, Bard. As soon as he had a chance, he wanted to do his own investigation. Connor could stay with Shelby while he did some digging. Maybe he should ask Beatrice if she had contacts inside the Navy that could get their hands on the three autopsies.
The app finished synching with the system and a large round digital face appeared on his screen. “System installation and interface complete,” a sexy woman’s voice, complete with a British accent, said. “What would you like to do next, Shinedown?”
“Run metrics of system, Vesper.”
“My pleasure, Shinedown. One moment please.”
Vesper was Emit’s baby, but he’d initially named it R2-D2 LXR Version 3. The Star Wars geek humor didn’t hold weight with Beatrice and she’d immediately changed it, deciding the soft, sexy voice sounding more like a James Bond femme fatale, was better than a squat robot. Colton had to admit he liked Vesper a hell of a lot more as a name than R2-D2.
While the software did its job, he picked up his screwdriver and found Connor in the doorway, staring at him.
“What?”
“Any leads on the shooter?”
Connor didn’t know about Shelby’s case, but he did know Colton wouldn’t leave her again until he’d hunted down whoever had targeted her. “None.”
“How can I help?”
His instinctive reaction was to shut down this conversation, send Connor back to DC. Whoever was taking out the men on the rescue taskforce that had saved Connor might also be after him.
Mind your manners, Shelby’s voice sounded in his ears.
“System diagnostics complete,” Vesper announced.
He might be foolhardy and stubborn at times, but he wasn’t stupid. Shelby was right; Connor was here and could help. Colton would be a moron if he didn’t use him. “I need to go into town and ask some questions. Can you stay here with Shelby? Keep an eye on her for me?”
Connor’s phone dinged with a text. He glanced at the screen and smiled. “Sure,” he said to Colton. “Take your time. I’ve got it covered.”
Colton slapped him on the back as he passed. “I’ll get you back to Sabrina as soon as possible.”
“Nah, it’s good.” The kid was reading his screen, the goofy smile growing larger. Yep, they were doing more than texting. “She’s just…well, you know.”
Connor was happy and that was good. He deserved some happiness after what he’d survived at the hands of 12 September.
As if Connor read Colton’s mind, he looked up from sexting with Sabrina and grabbed onto Colton’s arm. “I owe you man. You saved my life and got me the job with SFI. You know I’ll do anything to help you and Shelby.”
“Save it.” Colton stopped on the landing of the stairs. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Connor’s voice dropped a notch. “I almost died at the hands of those bastards. I would be dead if you, Shelby, and the taskforce hadn’t tracked them down and rescued me.”
“We’ve covered this a dozen times already, McKenzie.” Connor would crap his pants when he found out that three of the men on his rescue were now dead. Especially Evers. “You would have done the same for me. We’re square, Irish. All I need you to do is keep an eye on Shel for me while I do a little digging.”
The easy answer was that 12 September had sent the shooter to take revenge. But the easy answer was rarely the right one. 12 September wasn’t subtle—they didn’t pick off their enemies one-by-one. They blew them up, mowed them down, and then blatantly took credit for it.
Surely the shooter had had plenty of opportunities to take out Colton. Less so of Connor since the kid lived at SFI Headquarters, while Colton was always in motion, traveling, working, living in dive apartment buildings with little to no security. He was an easy target, so why hadn’t the killer come after him?
“You investigated for weeks after Shelby was shot and found nothing. What makes you think it’ll be different this time?”
Colton headed for the stairs. The dragon inside his chest had asked him the same question that morning. Was still, mocking his seemingly futile attempts to understand any of this.
The one thing different this time around was that the three of them were there, in Good Hope, together. Two of the taskforce members and the man they’d rescued.
Was it possible 12 September was watching their every move? Did they plan to take Connor, Shelby, and him all out in one fell swoop?
It would make sense if 12 September worked that way.
But the MO was all wrong.
He punched the security app as he hustled down the stairs, Connor falling in behind him. “Vesper, activate smoke detectors and carbon monoxide sensors.”
“Yes, Shinedown,” the sexy voice responded. “Smoke detector sensors and carbon monoxide sensors now activated.”
Salisbury greeted him at the bottom of the stairs. “Come on, mutt,” he said to him. “Let’s go outside before I leave.”
“I’ll take him out,” Connor volunteered.
And be on perfect display for whoever might be out there? Fat chance. “I got it. You check on Shel, show her how to use the app, would you?”
“Sure.”
His friend didn’t suspect a thing, and for a second, Colton wondered if he should come clean, tell Connor his suspicions. But if he was wrong—and there were still plenty of factors at play that could take the investigation in an entirely different direction—then he could cause his friend to carry even more guilt than he already did.
Connor was just coming out of the lingering depression and constant PTSD he’d suffered after his time at the hands of 12 September. They’d killed two members of his unit and tortured him for months. He was still obsessed with bringing down the entire organization.
All it took was one thing to trigger all of that again.
Colton needed more facts, and answers to his questions before he dropped that kind of bomb on Connor.
While Salisbury watered every bush for the second time that day, Colton scanned the area, walked the property, and looked at the house from every angle. What he really wanted to do was kidnap Shelby and take her to a safe house. One in DC where Beatrice and the other Rock Stars were only minutes away in case anything went south.
But she would never leave her family and friends right now, and he couldn’t keep her shut away forever. The solution wasn’t putting her in a tower where no one could reach her. The solution was to find this asshole, whoever he was, and shut him down.
If that meant shutting down the entire 12 September group, Colton would do it.
The farmhouse sat on three acres, surrounded by the crop fields. The house and farm had belonged to Shelby’s grandparents.
The Good Hope-Good Homes housing development on the other side of the road had started during the boom of the early 2000s. It had petered out during the crash, the builder declaring bankruptcy and leaving multiple house skeletons standing unfinished. They were scattered every fifty yards or so, the ones closest to the main highway full of families and kids. Only the last to be built, out here at the end of the cul-de-sac, were empty.
The shooter that night had been in the house west of Shelby’s, using the window that faced the front porch to set up his rifle.
Colton had gone over the entire place with a fine-tooth comb, trying to figure out the exact spot where the shooter had stood, how long he’d been there, where he’d gone after he’d nearly killed Shelby. Having been an expert marksman himself, he knew how a sniper thought, what he carried, how he moved.
Yet after the shooting, he’d been so rattled, he’d had trouble getting into the sniper’s frame of mind. He hadn’t been able to go through the house skeleton to do his own research until after the cops and Feds had already trampled the place. If they’d found any trace evidence, they’d kept it to themselves. The trail wasn’t just cold by the time Colton finally left Shelby’s side at the hospital, it was completely nonexistent.
Dirt flew as Salisbury’s claws began digging, bringing Colton’s attention back to his own house—Shelby’s house. Something grey appeared under the dog’s paws and Colton leaned down to get a better look.
A semi-flat football. Probably left there years ago by a young Jack, and over time, it had ended up buried.
Colton pulled it out with one hand and ruffled Salisbury’s fur with the other. “Good nose there, dog.”
He tossed the football out past the porch and watched Salisbury chase it. There’d been times he’d dreamed of playing catch and throwing the football with his own son back here. Those dreams seemed a million miles away now.
Beatrice had texted him about Paulina’s condition, saying it looked like she was stable, but it would be a long haul back to living on her own. His boss was even now trying to pull strings with child services to find Marcelo a nice home with a foster couple close to the hospital.
Salisbury hustled back, the ball in his yap. He dropped it at Colton’s feet.
Colton bent down and stared the mutt in the eyes. “Should I leave you here to guard the place or take you and your nose for trouble with me?”
Salisbury wagged his tail, leaned forward, and planted a sloppy kiss on Colton’s nose.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.”
He and the dog went back in the house, Salisbury carrying the flat football once more. Connor and Shelby weren’t in the dining room and he followed their voices to the kitchen.
Their heads were bent together at the dining room table as Connor showed her how to use the Vesper app.
“That’s pretty damn cool,” she said, looking up to smile at Colton. “Not only can I use it for security, it can control the ceiling fans, water heater, lights, and sprinkler system.”
“You don’t have a sprinkler system, Shel,” he reminded her.
“I may have to get one, just so I can play with this more.”
He patted her shoulder. “The kit was missing a couple of screws. I’m going to head to the hardware store and grab some. I’ll be back in a bit.”
She grabbed his hand before he could remove it from her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Connor can help me whip up something for lunch. Then we better get back to the case.”
The feel of her soft hand on his made him want to stay. “Did you find more details on your laptop?”
“Nothing significant.”
“Have you seen the file on your shooting?”
She shook her head. “A few weeks ago, I called my friend, Denbe, at the office. He told me neither the police nor the Bureau found anything of merit. They’re not even sure where the shooter stood when he fired.”
Which didn’t make sense. While the local police had limited resources, the FBI could estimate where the shooter had been standing from the angle of the wound on Shelby’s head. They should have had the bullet, so they could run ballistics. At the very least, they could have figured out what type of weapon had fired it.
This Denbe character had probably told her that because he didn’t want her worried. Discussing her shooting would dredge up emotions the doctors didn’t want her experiencing yet.
“All right. See you in a bit.”
He kissed the top of her head and headed for the front door. Salisbury ran ahead, sensing he was in for a ride.
“Let me move my truck,” Connor said, following him.
Colton held up a hand. “Just give me your keys. I’ll take care of it.”
Connor dug them out of his pocket and tossed them. “Be careful, man.”
Colton nodded.
Outside, he jockeyed the rental out of the way, leaving the keys in the ignition as he hopped out. Old habits. But it was nice to be in a place where no one worried about someone stealing their car from the driveway.
Salisbury jumped into his truck and they took off, Colton waiting until he was a block away to pull over.
His first call was to Beatrice.
His next was to Agent Theo Ingram.