Accidental SEAL (SEAL Brotherhood #1) (35 page)

“I’m staying. Gunny, you go,” Cooper commanded.

Gunny looked between the two SEALs. “I’ll be back in an hour. I’ve got some friends here, if there’s time. Text me if it gets...if you can.”

“Fredo will protect me,” Coop said, throwing an arm around Fredo’s neck. Gunny was given the keys and left.

“Shh!” Fredo whispered, throwing off Cooper’s arm and scowling. “Something’s happening.” Coop pulled down his goggles and watched.

Fredo heard muffled scraping noises through the little microphone. He guessed it was from dragging Kyle’s body across the floor. He thought he heard a faint, “left,” from Kyle, but wasn’t sure. That would mean that he was alive, and so was everyone else.

Fredo and Coop watched the five goons load a groggy, half-dead Armando into the back of the van. A second black SUV pulled up and two more characters got out and ran inside the compound. Next came Deputy Hilber. He stood out like a white worm with his khaki uniform that almost glowed in the night vision goggles. He held the girl by the hair. She had her hands tied in front of her and was walking on tiptoes in ridiculous high heels that seemed way out of place. She was trying to wrench her head around to look at something. Fredo saw Kyle being dragged under both arms toward the other van.

Hilber pushed the girl into the SUV and came back to Kyle and bent over. Fredo listened as the microphone on the American flag was plucked from Kyle’s shirt. Hilber scanned the surrounding buildings and streets, briefly hesitating over their position. He dropped the mike and Fredo heard the crackle, followed by silence as Hilber ground the thing into the asphalt.

“Flag Audio’s gone.”

Coop nodded, watching the same thing. “His Invisio still working?”

“Yessir, for now.”

“But knowing you, there’s another backup.”

“Fuckin’ A. We can track him.”

The men loaded Kyle in the second van as Hilber barked orders to two men, who took off running like it was a marathon. The vans left. The two men were headed right toward their location. Fredo recognized how quickly they tackled the incline, their speed most likely a result from years of military training.

“I’m itching for a burger,” Fredo whispered while watching the ex-military types disappear into the neighborhood below. He presumed they were making their way up the hill and would be there within minutes. “Wonder if they got a decent place here, or if it’s all tofu and grilled veggies.”

Coop shrugged, then stowed his goggles, lifted the collar up on his jacket, and replaced his black cap with a Giants baseball cap he’d lifted from their ride. “I don’t care, as long as you’re paying.”

To the average citizen, they would look like an ordinary pair of Joes on their way home from a late night shift. They ducked into the shadows along a back alleyway and disappeared.

Gunny returned an hour later, as he’d promised, to the now-deserted spot and texted Fredo and Cooper, who were eating tacos at a canteen truck nearby. Fredo gave Gunny the address and five minutes later the Tahoe pulled up. It was filled with overweight, silver-haired guys who all looked just like Gunny.

“Whoa, we having a family gathering here?” Fredo barked. “Sure you got room for a little Mexican?”

Gunny introduced them to his friends, who were mostly retired police and firemen. Men he’d served with in Korea and Viet Nam. It wasn’t lost on Fredo that these guys were looking for one last good fight. He could tell they missed the hunt.

He shook his head. “Hate involving innocents,” he whispered to Coop, who just shrugged.

Coop leaned toward him and, out of earshot of the big guys in the front seats, said, “They’re far from innocent. They heeded the call when you were in diapers, amigo.”

Ain’t that a fact?
Fredo still didn’t like it.

Chapter 36

Mayfield decided it was his turn to call the meeting with Timmons. He’d heard nothing from Kyle or Christy, though he’d placed a call to her. There also had been no answer at the house on Stanyan Street, which worried him, too. Hilber wasn’t available, and the office said he’d taken a couple days leave.

Sure he was. In the middle of a quadruple homicide?

Maybe he’d waited too long, he thought. Things had started coming unraveled and he was getting more and more uncomfortable with circumstances by the hour.

“This isn’t an official meet and greet,” he said to Timmons, on the phone.

“So then that means shots at Jimmy’s.”

Mayfield looked at his watch. Christ, it was nearly ten. Way too late for a meeting, but never the right time for shots.

“Can you be there in half hour?” Mayfield asked.

“I’m here now.”

He could hear the crowd in the background. It was a Sunday, so it would be tamer than usual. “Okay. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Take your time, man. I’m expecting a call from Fredo and the team at any time. I assume that’s who you’re gonna want to talk about.”

“Yup.”

“You coming alone?” Timmons asked.

“Of course.”

“Then I’ll wiggle out of my friends.”

“I appreciate that.” The last thing Mayfield wanted was a public viewing. Here he was conspiring with the Navy against one of his own. But that was what he was about to do.

Or he’d be on his way to no retirement at that little fishing village in Mexico, where he’d live until the ammo gave out. Forget about the pension.

The patio outside Jimmy’s was warm, but a blazing fire pit at the center threw off a pleasant glow and heat that felt real good. Mayfield couldn’t get the cold chill off the back of his neck that persisted in spite of the fire and the warm night air. Timmons was watching him from a table in the dark corner. The guy was so still, Mayfield almost walked right past him.

Cars slowly tooled past. An elderly couple in matching workout clothes walked their little white dog. The dog obviously thought he was leading.

Maybe he was, Mayfield thought. Not sure why it tickled him, but it did.

He sat in front of Timmons and in an instant was met by a young nubile thing with a low-cut white cotton smock shirt over an impossibly short skirt. She kneeled in front of him and he couldn’t help but take a quick glance. Just a quick one. She had a wonderful rack. He murmured a forgiveness prayer to Maria.

“Sir? You want a beer, or something else?”

The something else came to mind, and Timmons grinned, picking up his drift somehow.

“Diet Coke.”

“Coming right up.” She rose and he had to follow those tanned long legs to the bar.

“How long’s it been, Mayfield?”

Mayfield checked out his unmanicured fingernails, wiggled his fingers, which moved the little heart tattoo with “Maria” written in the center, emblazoned on his forearm, and answered, “I had a Coke for lunch.”

Timmons was well on his way to being indecent in public. He tossed back another shot and winced like it was mouthwash, the kind that burned all the way down to your butt. He peered over at Mayfield in what looked like a challenge. He could see the officer wasn’t having a good day.

And that probably meant Mayfield’s day was shit, too. But what the hell. He leaned in and asked, “I got a dead guy burnt to a crisp in a cabin we haven’t been able to ID yet and two dead ex-deputies in the Palos Vega forest, and a dead personal trainer at one of our most exclusive condo complexes.” He looked right and left, then behind him, then whispered and leaned further across the table. “Something’s seriously out of whack. Everyone around this Lansdowne character is dying. And violently. Only a matter of time before one of your team guys gets it, too.”

“You’ve got more to think about.”

“Excuse me?” Mayfield knew he wasn’t going to like the explanation.

“You’ve also—well, not you, but San Francisco—has a dead shopkeeper and a celebrity billionaire shot in the chest, almost dead. And a dirty cop. Name’s Hilber.”

Timmons stopped. Then it hit Mayfield. Hilber had gone too far and now the Navy was getting a whiff of his stink. But this caper was long beyond anyone’s control now. Least of all his.

“Just thought you ought to know,” Timmons added helpfully. Mayfield could see why the man was on the drunker side of conscious.

“And now I’m missing
two
of mine,” Timmons added, holding up his fingers in the V sign.

Mayfield could see his retirement package going through a paper shredder. Shoot, at this rate, he’d have to hitchhike to San Felipe, carrying everything he owned on his back. This was a cluster fuck extraordinaire.

“I shouldn’t have trusted your SEALs.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I understand you told Kyle to
be the bait?
”

The man was right. It was partially his fault, too. “And so that’s what’s happened?”

“Yup. They’ve got Kyle. As far as I know, everyone’s alive. Point is, we can’t really go in there. We know where they are, but we have to let the locals do it.”

“I can ask for a certain amount of cooperation from several departments, but that’s only going to go so far. Pretty soon, they’re going to link everything to Lansdowne, make him out as the one running the operation. And, as the man-hours keep ratcheting up in this time of economic crisis, they’ll just come in blasting and sort it out later. You get my meaning?”

Timmons nodded.

“Someone’s connected the dots real good. Got ATF, maybe the FBI on it, too. This is becoming one giant fucking pile of shit, Timmons, and you know who is right in the middle of it.”

“Warren Hilber,” Timmons said.

Mayfield was going to swear loudly, but the nice young thing with the silky thighs brought his diet Coke, with a lime wedge on the lip for good measure.

Perfect.

He saluted her and took a long drag. Then he squeezed the lime over the top and took another. It seemed to ease his belly some, but not enough. “I don’t even want to fucking answer my phone anymore.” He took several ice cubes and ground them down quickly with his molars.

Timmons was nodding, staring at his empty glass. The girl hadn’t asked him if he wanted another. That meant she could count pretty good, Mayfield thought.

“So, Timmons, tell me something that’ll make me fucking feel better.”

Timmons smiled lopsided and speared him in the eyes with a stare Mayfield knew was only the precursor to something bad. Really bad.

“Kyle and the team didn’t get there in time.” Timmons said.

“And?”

“Used her as bait, and now they have Kyle too, just like you instructed.”

“Okay. Get to the point.”

“They saved the billionaire’s life. We have to get that word out there. But I’ve asked the two other members of Kyle’s team to come in.

“And?”

“They refused.”

Mayfield wanted to strangle the man, except they were on the same team and he was having his own share of problems. Of course, this news might convince a couple of his superiors that Kyle was more victim than perp, but it was a risk. He knew he’d waited too long to get additional help. He just thought these guys could handle it on their own. But the operation was exploding out of control.

“The one who is behind it all is Caesar Rodriguez, of the Scorpions. They—”

“I know who they are. They run guns and provide protection for the big Mexican gangs from San Diego. Got safe houses all the way from here to the border.” Mayfield waved off down the strand. “Word has it, they use ex-military.”

“No doubt,” Timmons said, frowning. “Our training’s the best.” He sat back and looked into the night air, like he was thinking about what to say. “We try to weed them out, but I’d be the first one to admit, we don’t get them all.”

“And the dropouts, the DORs?”

“Them, too. They get just enough training to be dangerous, but we try to get into their heads right away and weed out the nut jobs.”

“Or the ones with a higher calling.”

“You know the drill. You were there.”

That he was. Mayfield could remember the wet and sandy evenings, the chafing, the blood running down his leg under his uniform that Saturday after they’d passed Hell Week. He hadn’t bothered to take off his clothes and had showered in the warm water, shampooed his face, and fallen asleep soaking wet on the cheap motel room bed. He’d woken up twelve hours later and was starving. They all ate together at a café that overlooked the ocean they had spent six excruciating days in. All thirty of them, less than a quarter of the original class, had walked as if they were crab-like creatures from the black lagoon. And when he finally had taken off his shoes, his feet had been green.

“How’d Caesar get to your guys?” Mayfield finally asked as he ground down another few ice chips.

“Childhood friend. Someone who knows the family. Got mixed up with Armando’s sister off and on for years.”

Timmons held his glass up and it was taken within seconds.

“I think your sheriff is there, in San Francisco,” Timmons said.

“Good. I’ll throw some shit his way. That I
can
do.”

“And Kyle injured Caesar. He’s probably going to need medical attention, from the sound of it.”

“So we check the ERs. What kind of injury?”

“Fredo says he thinks an arm thing. The guy was screaming and passing out from the pain.”

The girl brought two glasses. “Another?” she asked Mayfield.

“Sure.” He was thinking about whom he could call to get the heat on Hilber, who was probably getting fairly desperate by now. “You know where they are?”

Timmons hesitated, and then tossed down the first of his two new drinks. “Yup. Know right where they all are. Kyle’s painted.”

“Painted?”

“We have a locator on him.”

Mayfield understood. “Anything else I should know about?”

“Nope.” Timmons grinned. “Well, if I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

They both laughed at that one.

“You guys have some toys, I’ll grant you that. Shoot, if we had your budget…”

“You’d catch more bad guys. I completely agree.”

“Sometimes I think that’s why I tried out for the SEALs,” Mayfield said.

“Yup. Heard that one, too.”

Timmons was having a good time playing cat and mouse with him. Mayfield had to ask the question. “Your guys aren’t actually thinking of going in there and getting him? Them, I mean?”