Holding Out for a Fairy Tale (23 page)

A request to investigate a suspicious person or vehicle was not a high-priority call anywhere. He sighed and hung up the phone.

He checked his sidearm, rubbed his hands over his shirt to drive home the reminder that he was wearing a vest, and reached for the door. It was his house. He knew the layout. He knew all of the points of entry. And he could easily go around to the back porch and look through the windows without being spotted.

If someone was inside his house, he had no chance of getting inside without them knowing. Ray had been kind enough to fix all of the magnetic switches on his doors and windows, so anything he opened would make the alarm system chime. So the most he could do was hope to get a decent view through the windows and decide on a course of action from there.

“I am never leaving him alone without a fully charged cell phone again,” said Elliot.

Elliot made sure the street was empty, turned off the dome light above him so it wouldn’t turn on when he opened the door, then climbed out of his car. He jogged down the street to a small opening between residential fences where there was access to the canyon-trail system that bordered his property. The canyon was usually filled with hikers, joggers, and kids, but with the sun setting early and the weather getting chilly, the canyon was empty at this time of night. He followed the trail up until he was next to his neighbor’s fence, listening for dogs or other people more than looking for them. The canyon smelled like juniper, sage, and sand—it was so different from the scent of the redwoods he’d grown up in outside of San Francisco, and different still from the vast evergreen forests in his last duty station in Montana. He’d spent enough time sitting on his back patio in the darkness that the smell already felt like home.

He dropped from a jog into an easy stroll, giving his eyes a chance to adjust to the darkness. He walked along the perimeter of his neighbor’s six-foot privacy fence, then along the five-foot chain-link fence that separated Elliot’s property from the canyon beyond. He studied his empty yard, which was just as wild as the canyon, and the wood patio that ran along the entire length of his house. No one was in sight and nothing moved. He took a few more quick steps, then hooked his elbow over the fence and let his momentum swing his legs over the top. He hurried into a shadow and stared out at the yard again. There was still no movement.

Sticking close to the fence, and then to the side of the house, he crept up the back steps to the patio, where his living room windows offered an unobstructed view of three bulky shapes. For a moment, he remembered similar moments before storming into dark buildings, when he could make out the shape of assault rifles through night vision goggles. The details weren’t as clear, and he was in a different desert, but the shapes were similar enough to recognize the short angles of rifles held up and ready.

Elliot ducked beneath the patio and dialed 911, hoping the glow from his phone wouldn’t attract any attention. He gave the dispatcher his badge number and the address for what felt like the hundredth time, informed them of his previous call and reported the presence of the intruders, then asked that officers responding be made aware that a plain-clothed FBI agent was already on the scene. He covered his phone as three loud cracks echoed above him. His heart nearly stopped as he scanned the darkness, looking for whoever had spotted him. He wasn’t hit, though, and the only sounds to be heard were muffled thuds from inside the house. There was no breaking glass, no running footsteps.

Elliot peered up over the edge of the patio, then ducked back down. Someone was still moving inside. He inched back up the stairs and stopped when a soft glow illuminated the living room and kitchen. The light in his laundry room, between the kitchen and the garage, had been turned on. In the kitchen, Elliot saw the familiar profile that left him frozen. Ray, holding a very big revolver, was standing in his kitchen in a sleek gray suit. Where the three hulking figures with assault rifles had stood, now there were three bodies on the floor, all dressed in dark clothing, all very dead.

“Fuck!” Elliot sprinted to the side door. He raced into the garage, trying to keep to the shadows but desperate to find Ray and stop him. As he spun on the concrete, he stopped. A triangle of light cascaded out the laundry room door, spilling onto the concrete. A man in a black hooded sweatshirt was standing behind the door, a small assault rifle tucked into his hands. He was leaning into the laundry room, aiming the rifle into the kitchen.

Elliot moved fast. He ducked low and sprinted forward, then surged to his feet when he was close enough to disarm the man. The intruder had no clue he was there, and Elliot managed to pop the rifle out of his hands quickly. He had no hope of turning the gun or keeping control of it, so he settled for flinging it toward the wall. He swept the man’s feet out from under him and brought him to the ground in a smooth, easy motion. As usual, the moment the fight went to the ground, the other man flailed, and Elliot took control.

Elliot slipped his arm around the man’s neck, locked the intruder’s right arm up against his ear so it was useless, and squeezed. In less than thirty seconds, the choke hold cut off the blood flow through his carotid artery, and he slumped into unconsciousness. The entire mess had taken less than forty seconds. Elliot gently lowered him to the concrete and checked to make sure his pulse was steady.

He heard a pistol cock and glanced up into the barrel of a gun and eyes that looked very much like Ray Delgado’s. “That was impressive.”

“You’re not Ray.” Elliot said, glancing between the barrel of the gun and the man in the gray suit.

“Neither are you,” the man laughed. “Poor Raymond never lets himself have any fun. Alejandro Munoz.” The man introduced himself but stayed still, keeping his gun raised.

“Put the gun down.”

“Are you a friend of Raymond’s, perhaps? A bodyguard?” Alejandro smirked and shifted his feet. “A boyfriend?”

“I am FBI. Special Agent Elliot Belkamp. This is my house. Put the gun down.”

“Hmm. No. If you’re a friend of Raymond’s, I expect you’ll just try to kill me, even if I put the gun down. He would. Where is he?”

“I’ve got no idea.”

“Really?” Alejandro clicked his tongue. “I hope you’re telling the truth. I went to all this trouble thinking I was keeping him alive. What a waste.”

“If you’re here to keep him alive, isn’t the gun a bit counterproductive?” Elliot asked, holding both of his hands up, fingers wide.

“Hardly. I think that little shit at your feet is the last of them. Stand aside.” Alejandro flicked his pistol to the right. “I’ll deal with him.”

“You won’t touch him,” Elliot growled, holding his ground.

“Are you kidding me?” Alejandro rolled his eyes. “He was here to kill you, moron. Him and three other motherfuckers Garcia hired.”

“Don’t care,” said Elliot. “I disarmed him, I knocked him out. That makes him my prisoner. My prisoner, in my custody. Put the gun down and put your hands on your head.”

Alejandro cocked his head, smirking. “After that stunt you tried yesterday, I knew you had balls. Or a single-digit IQ. But I never expected this. Do you have any idea who I am, Mr. FBI?”

“What stunt?” Elliot asked, hoping to keep Alejandro talking to buy himself a bit more time. He’d been hearing sirens for what felt like twenty minutes, but no one had stormed into the house yet.

“You tried to lure me into an open confrontation, all by yourself. No backup, no cover, just you and me. At the time, I thought it was beyond stupidity. But you took him out like it was child’s play.”

“That Lexus outside is yours, then?”

“Nice, isn’t it? You can relax. If I wanted you dead, Mr. FBI, I’d have cut you to pieces yesterday afternoon.”

“If you don’t want me dead, you can put the gun down.”

“Again, no.”

“What do you want, then? Why were you following me?”

“Because these dogs want Raymond dead. And the rumor is you’re the one hiding him.”

“Why would they want Ray dead?”

“Why else? Retaliation. Esteban Garcia sent his brat to seduce my sister so he could fuck us over. He thought they could make me out to look like a traitor and a worthless thief. He didn’t think to send someone with more than half a fucking brain cell, so I really consider his death a kindness. Esteban thinks that Raymond killed him, though.”

“What? Esteban Garcia? Luca’s father?”

“He’s a smart man,” Alejandro said simply. “But his son was a waste of flesh. I did the man a favor, putting him down.”

“You killed Garcia?”

“The boy used my sister, turned her against her own flesh and blood. He disrespected me. And he disrespected Raymond, too. He violated his home, destroyed his property. If I let that kind of disrespect go unanswered, what kind of man am I?”

“A sane man?” Elliot knew he should keep his mouth shut, but he couldn’t help it.

“A weak man. I wasn’t cruel about it. After the way he used Sophie, I should have been, but I didn’t want to offend his father.”

“Killing him wasn’t supposed to offend anyone?”

Alejandro shrugged. “I left him in one piece, and I left the body so his family can bury him, all out of respect for his father. I even told this to his associate. But I suspect he orchestrated his son’s game here anyway, so he must have known what would come of it.”

“Associate?”

Alejandro shrugged. “One of Garcia’s men, I’m sure. He has them everywhere. I am the only thing keeping Esteban Garcia himself out of San Diego, and what better way to make room to move in than to convince my uncles that my sister and I have betrayed them? The only thing I can’t believe is that she was stupid enough to get taken in by him.”

“Mr. Munoz, I don’t care what kind of pissing match you’re involved in with other drug cartels. Murder is murder. Put the gun down, now.”

“Stop playing pig for a minute and think. These men knew you, Mr. FBI. Your name, your home address, and that you were playing host to Raymond. I had trouble tracking you down. I had to follow you all afternoon to find you. I lost you, doubled back here. And then I found these men. And you know what? They didn’t wander around looking for your car; they didn’t waste time watching this house to make sure it was yours. They knew where you lived. They knew what kind of car you drive. And they wouldn’t have hesitated to shoot the first person stupid enough to walk through the front door. Someone sold you out, Mr. FBI.”

“Esteban Garcia has someone inside the Gang Task Force….” Elliot whispered.

Alejandro nodded slowly, his smile gleeful and manic. The barrel of the .45 weaved through the air for a moment, then exploded in a crack that seemed to shake the entire garage. Elliot dove to the side and rolled, hoping to disarm Alejandro before he could line up a second shot. Alejandro sidestepped quickly, leapt over the unconscious man, and sprinted toward the road. Elliot chased him to the curb and fumbled with his phone as he watched the silver Lexus SUV speed away.

“St. Claire!” he yelled, when his boss finally answered the phone. A half-dozen police cars and an ambulance turned the corner onto his street. “St. Claire, somebody just tried to kill me. Three people, armed with assault rifles, were waiting in my fucking house! Have you heard from Hathaway? Is Delgado safe?”

“Belkamp?” There were sirens on the other end of the phone too. For a moment, he thought she might be in one of the cars racing toward him. “Belkamp, are you safe? Is Delgado with you?”

“Someone broke into my house and tried to kill me! They were after Delgado!”

“Was he with you?” Elliot could barely make out her voice over the din.

“No.”

“Delgado’s hotel room is completely destroyed! The bomb squad won’t let anyone inside yet. Get back to headquarters and stay there!”

R
AY
LISTENED
to the phone ring, but he didn’t answer it. He was simultaneously wishing he’d had less to drink and wishing he had more alcohol. The quiet around him was suffocating, and with nothing but the damn phone’s ring tone to cut through the silence, Ray felt like his skin was crawling. Being able to talk to someone,
anyone
really, would help. But the caller ID said the call was from Elliot, and he was the last person Ray wanted to talk to.

Ray had played every video game on his phone twice, and flipped through two of the cheesy police procedurals his ex-partner kept on the shelf with his very limited DVD collection. He forgot about breakfast and lunch, microwaved dinner, and drank four beers out of the six-pack he’d picked up that morning.

He didn’t drink enough to get really drunk, just enough to take the edge off.

He was totally out of distractions, and he really needed one right now. All day, he’d been thinking about the way he felt with Elliot inside him, working his prostate until he couldn’t think, until he couldn’t breathe. It had been devastating and amazing at the same time, and it had left Ray feeling like he’d been struck by lightning. He wanted to feel it again, to make Elliot feel the same mind-numbing shock. He’d been overwhelmed by how badly he’d wanted to just be close to Elliot afterward. As close as physically possible. When he’d taken his turn later, he’d rocked his cock past Elliot’s sphincter muscle, he’d forced himself to go slow, setting an agonizing pace that dragged the sex out, giving him the chance to stroke, kiss, and caress every inch of Elliot’s body.