Blood Lines (16 page)

“Do it, McKinley,” a gruff voice ordered. The salt-and-pepper–haired FBI agent came up beside the ambulance. Max growled at him.

McKinley unfastened the cuffs.

Remy massaged his wrists and went forward. “No guns,” he told the FBI agents. “Anyone pulls a gun right now, the dog may go for you. And he won't let anybody close to Shel.”

They stood around him. The revolving red and blue lights striped the scene.

“Max,” Remy called. “Hey. Take it easy now.”

The Labrador kept his fangs bared. He straddled the big Marine's midsection protectively. Only a dog that big could have done that job.

“Max. It's me. Remy. We're friends.”

Max gave him a sideways look.

Remy held his hands up to show he meant no harm and carried no weapon. He squatted down almost within reach of Shel but no closer. Max wouldn't have allowed anyone to get any closer without going for a throat.

“Tango, Max,” Remy said. “Tango.” It was their secret word, the one that Shel had taught the Labrador that would tell him to obey Remy. Each member of the NCIS team had a secret word. If something happened to Shel, the dog wouldn't leave his side unless someone else with a code word commanded him to.

For a moment Remy didn't think Max was going to obey. He'd never used the word for real, never when Shel hadn't been right there to enforce it.

Then Max lowered his head and tail. The liquid uncertainty in the dog's brown eyes was almost heartbreaking.

Carefully Remy reached for Max, aware that the control word might not hold under the circumstances. “Shel's hurt, boy,” Remy said in a soothing voice. “Shel's hurt and we gotta let these people take care of him.” He curled his fingers in Max's fur and gently pulled him off Shel.

The dog came reluctantly and sat beside Remy. Quivering and fearful, Max licked Remy's face. Though he wasn't a fan of dog saliva, Remy dealt with it. He patted the Labrador's head and stroked his fur.

“Can we get him now?” the blonde EMT asked.

“Yeah,” Remy said. “And plug that shoulder wound. You've got a nicked artery in there.” He tried to say it calmly, but the idea of an artery hosing Shel's blood out with every heartbeat was scary.

The blonde started to pick Shel up from the ground. “I hardly think—”

Remy stood without a word and kept hold of Max's fur. The dog stood with him at once. “Back off,” Remy snarled. Anger settled into him.

The blonde EMT stepped back. “What makes you think you can just—?”

“Urlacher.” Remy focused on the medical supplies in the kit beside Shel. “Back them off.”

“What do you think you're doing?” Urlacher asked.

Remy hunkered down and popped open the first aid kit. He pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. “I'm a combat medic. This is a combat wound. I know what I'm doing. I'm saving my friend's life. That's what the Navy trained me to do.”

“He can't—,” the blonde started to protest.

“He can,” Urlacher said. “He is. You step back out of his way and prepare to transport.”

Remy worked feverishly to pack the wound and staunch the bleeding. Once he had that done, the rest of it was in a surgeon's hands. He blinked sweat out of his eyes as the black EMT knelt beside him to assist. When the man didn't get in his way, Remy allowed it.

>> North Carolina Airspace

>> 2134 Hours

Tension knotted Will's stomach as he flew through the night. He tended to the airplane's needs out of habit and training rather than thinking, and he didn't like that he was doing that. Flight was less risky than driving a vehicle on the ground—and, thankfully in this case, faster—but a pilot still had to pay attention.

Maggie sat beside him in the copilot's seat. She wasn't trained to fly, but she coordinated the communications loop so he wouldn't have to. She turned toward him. “Director Larkin is online now.”

Before becoming the director of the NCIS, Michael Larkin had been a homicide cop and then division leader in New York City. His record and his no-nonsense handling of cases and personnel had won him his current position. Although they sometimes butted heads over procedure—especially in regard to the military way of handling things—Will liked and trusted the man.

“Will,” Larkin said quietly.

“Sir,” Will responded as he made an altitude adjustment. “Sorry to interrupt your trip.”

“It's all right. I'm just glad we've got phone service out here.” Larkin had gone on a family fishing trip, and they were currently staying at a cabin in Cape Hatteras along the Atlantic shoreline. “How's Shel?”

“I can't tell you anything more than Maggie did, sir. Remy said the OR took Shel back about twenty minutes ago. We haven't gotten any word yet.”

“Remy said it looked bad.”

“Shel's been through worse.” Will had kept telling himself that from the moment after he'd received the news.

“I guess what I really want to know is how you're doing.”

“I'm fine.”

“One of your men is in the OR,” Larkin said. “I know you're not fine.”

Will silently admitted that. Shel's getting shot, the severity of it, created painful echoes of the loss of Frank Billings. Frank had served with Will aboard the aircraft carrier where he had made commander, then followed him into the NCIS billet. When the business in South Korea had started up, Frank had been the first casualty Will's team had ever suffered.

The only casualty,
Will amended.
God willing.

“I'm fine as I can be, sir.” Will stared through the plane's Plexiglas windows and listened to the even throb of the dual engines. “There's going to be some confusion in Charlotte.”

“I understand that. Apparently my answering service has already received several phone calls from Special Agent-in-Charge Urlacher. I take it he's the point man on the confusion.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How did he get involved?”

Swiftly, with cool efficiency despite the tension inside him, Will relayed the story.

“Urlacher is trying to flip Victor Gant on his opium supplier,” Larkin said when Will finished.

“That's the way I understood it.”

“Well,” Larkin said, “I suppose there's not much chance of that now, is there?”

“No.”

“The rest of it, whatever Urlacher's business is with Victor Gant, doesn't concern us.”

“No, sir,” Will agreed. “I'm just going to Charlotte to bring Shel home.”

“Do that, Will,” Larkin said. “I'll keep Urlacher off your back. Let me know if you need anything else.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

Larkin broke the connection.

“Will.”

Will glanced at Maggie.

“I've got Shel's brother, Don, on the line. I still haven't gotten an answer at Shel's father's house.”

“I'll talk to him,” Will said.

1
6

>> Rafter M Ranch

>> Outside Fort Davis, Texas

>> 2057 Hours (Central Time Zone)

The whole time Don drove his Toyota Camry down the long dirt road that led to the house where he'd spent all his childhood years and become a man, he felt his father's gaze on him. The ranch house sat far enough back off the highway that no one could approach without Tyrel McHenry noticing.

It was still early enough, Don knew, that his daddy would be up. Probably watching a baseball game and soaking homemade corn bread in a glass of fresh buttermilk. That was one of the treats his daddy loved, though he wasn't much for pies and cakes outside of the occasional piece of coconut pie.

Don still wore the suit he'd delivered his message in at church only an hour ago. He and his family had barely gotten home before he'd received the call about Shel from the NCIS.

He parked beside his daddy's Ford F-150. After a minute, because he knew his daddy didn't like any sudden movement out in the yard, Don got out of the car and walked toward the home.

The ranch house was a small three-bedroom that Tyrel McHenry had built with his own hands before he'd asked for his wife's hand in marriage. He'd wanted to give her a good home, and he had. He still managed the roofing and upkeep on his own, though Don and Shel had both spent considerable time helping out while they were growing up.

Don was just stepping up onto the wooden veranda that ran around two sides of the house when he heard his daddy's voice from the side.

“Kind of late for you to come calling, ain't it?” Tyrel asked.

Don froze where he was and—for just a second—felt as guilty as he had when he'd tried to come sneaking home back in high school after staying out too late with Shel. That hadn't happened often. Shel had stayed out a lot, but Don hadn't.

“Yes, sir,” Don said. “I wouldn't have come if it hadn't been important.”

Tyrel sat in the dark of the porch in one of the two rocking chairs that had been on the veranda as long as Don could remember. They'd taken some mending over the years too, but they'd stood up under the weather and the time. Tyrel had built them as well.

“Your brother was shot,” Tyrel said flatly.

“Yes, sir.”

“I already know that. Them people he works with called.”

In the dark, Don couldn't see his daddy's face. He had no idea how his daddy was taking the news, but he sounded as calm as ever.

“They said they couldn't get hold of you,” Don said.

“They left a message.”

Confusion spun through Don. “They called more than once.”

“They did.” Tyrel rocked gently in the chair.

“You didn't answer the phone.”

“Didn't need to. I heard their message. If anything changes, I expect they'll leave a different message.”

Feeling overcome, Don sat down on the edge of the porch like he'd often done when talking to his daddy. They hadn't ever talked for long. God knew Don had tried, but Tyrel McHenry had just never been one for long-winded conversations. It came to Don then that he'd probably talked to his daddy more that day than he had in years.

“They say Shel's hurt pretty bad,” Don said.

“He'll be all right.” Tyrel's voice was firm and unyielding. “He's been hurt before.”

Don sat there for a moment and tried to figure out what he was going to say next. Then he realized that there was no other way than to just say it.

“I'm going up there, Daddy,” Don said. “Commander Coburn said Shel needs to take some time off to heal up. Now I know Shel; he's not going to want to do that. So I figured I'd go up there and bring him on back here so he could be with family.”

“That sounds good. But I'm betting you won't get him to come.”

“I've decided I'm not coming home without him. For one, he needs to rest. And for another he hasn't been around his family—”
his daddy
, Don wanted to say—“in a long time.”

“Good luck with that. You know how stubborn Shel can be.”

And I know who he gets that from,
Don thought, but he didn't dare say it.

“Maybe,” Don said cautiously, hoping he was sounding like he'd just come up with the idea on the spot, “he'd listen if
you
told him that.”

Tyrel stopped rocking. “Ain't my business to be telling a man full growed what he ought to be doing.”

“You're his daddy.”

“Both of y'all are an age you don't need a daddy telling you what to do.”

“Then come with me and
ask
him to come home.” Don tried to stare through the darkness to see his daddy. But he couldn't quite see the older man's hard face. “I can get another plane ticket.”

For a long moment, Tyrel didn't say anything. During that time Don thought his daddy was actually considering the possibility.

“You go ahead on and do that if you've a mind to,” Tyrel said. “But it ain't for me to do.”