Zack (In the Company of Snipers Book 3) (28 page)

“How about we don’t go visit your boss just yet?” a familiar man’s voice interrupted.

Harley bumped the door open with the percolator in his hands and a madder-than-hell look on his face as Director Daniel Peters walked in behind him, a pearl-handled revolver stuck in Harley’s back. Peters waved for Harley to join the group at the table. Four more black-uniformed guards poured in behind him, all with weapons drawn. The six TEAM agents were instantly surrounded and out-gunned.

Peters gave Zack a cold look as he took the empty chair between Zack and Murphy. “Why can’t you for once in your screwed up, jarhead life follow orders like you’re told to?”

Zack didn’t answer. Peters didn’t sign his paycheck.

“All you jokers had to do was hit Vinnie’s hangout and report back to me. I told you to call if you ran into trouble, but could you do that? Hell, no.” He turned to Murphy. “Who’s the boss around here, anyway?”

“Not you, that’s for sure.” Murphy smirked, and Peters’ hand shot out, striking Murphy full in the face. All the agents jumped to his aid, but Peters’ men were already engaged, the barrels of their weapons in The TEAM’s backs. Murphy settled into his chair, wiping the blood off his cheekbone with the back of his hand.

“Sit,” Peters hissed. “I don’t have time for fun and games.”

The men sat, tension thick and heavy in the room.

“You morons should’ve contacted me like I told you.”

“Why? So you could keep running the show?” Zack shot back at him, his arm tensed to block the quick hand of Peters’ and the pistol-whipping that came with it.

“No. So I wouldn’t have to kill you stupid damned cowboys!” Peters snapped. “You guys always think you can do as you please.”

Zack grunted. Sure looked like Peters thought that, not him.

“Let me tell you how this is going to go down. Lay your weapons on the table. Come on. Let’s see ’em.”

David shook his head. “We’re not carrying.”

Peters looked surprised, glancing around the table. “That right? None of you carrying? Well, hell, that’s a damned good office policy. Makes a hostile takeover a lot smoother.”

Zack caught the latent hostility glowering across the table from Mark’s eyes. He was planning his own hostile takeover, and Zack planned to be ready to go when it happened.

“Word on the streets is the police didn’t apprehend all the Tigers yesterday like they were supposed to. Apparently, they can’t do what they’re told, either.” Peters turned, his revolver digging into Zack’s bicep. “Guess the Tigers are a little upset they killed that redheaded punk instead of you. They’re going down to some fancy hotel in Alexandria to finish the job.”

Zack bristled at the inference.

“And you.” Peters aimed at David next. “You weren’t supposed to show up at Lord’s place yesterday. It was none of your business.”

“Then why’d you tell Alex he was involved?” David asked, as calm as always.

“Because he was. How do you think he got to be Senator? And that greaseball, Carducci. How do you think he got so far up the ladder? It wasn’t cuz they were smart. Hell, no. I owned them. I would’ve owned Brown too, but there’s another punk for you. Brown wasn’t smart enough to know when he had it good.” Peters’ eyes glittered as he scanned the men around the table. “And Stewart ate it up like a dog with a bone, but no more. That’s why I’m here–clean up the loose ends. It’s what I do.”

“Why’d you kill Carducci?” Zack asked. “He just another loose end?”

Peters turned to him and the office stilled. He took a minute to answer, but the man wasn’t even breathing hard. “I should’ve known better with good old Kev. He figured he could pull you guys off Debargio’s scent with that stunt. Thought if he tossed one of them little girls at you, you couldn’t resist. He was right. It almost worked, but he never shoulda used one of my girls to do it. Lord tried to save his ass with a Senate investigation on Stewart, but Kev just kept making one mess after another. Gotta hand it to Stewart, though. Never thought he’d tackle Richards and Debargio like he did. He’s tougher than I thought.”

“He’s better than you,” Harley growled.

Peters’ raised brow and shrug matched his lack of concern. “Won’t matter after today. He’ll be just as dead.”

“You planted information with the FBI,” David stated.

Peters smirked. “It’s amazing how a little comment here and a little comment there can change the direction of an entire operation.”

“Like building a contingency plan to storm the foster homes,” Zack said.

“Whoa.” Peters leaned back with an appraising grunt. “As dumb as you are, you’re still pretty sharp for a junior agent. What are you complaining about? You all got to feel like heroes. It almost worked.”

“How many more foster homes are there?” David asked softly.

“Wrong question, Tao. You guys don’t have a clue what you’re up against. This is big business. I’m not even close to the top rung. I’m just the clean-up man.”

“The east coast business was an acceptable loss then,” Mark said quietly.

“More like insignificant. We don’t do too bad here in the States, but the real money is overseas,” Peters replied. “But I’m done talking. Time to do what I do best.”

Mark gripped the table, and Zack matched his move.

“You’re missing a button.” Zack stared at Peters’ suit jacket sleeve. This was the man who’d dumped Zhen Ting into the trash, the master manipulator behind Carducci, and the snake who’d employed Jun. He was the reason the tiny, unnamed toddler had been branded and drowned. Zack clenched his fist and planned, with or without Mark’s participation. He might not have his Ruger, but Peters was going to die today. “Bet you’re diabetic, too.”

Peters shot him a look of incredulity before his gaze shifted to one of his men. “Do it.”

That man pushed the conference room windows open wide before he pulled out a couple cans of spray paint. Within minutes, he’d tagged everything in the room with the bright orange and black stick letters and upside down religious graffiti, with a two-bit gang from Anacostia brightly taking credit for the murders of Alex Stewart and his team.

“Once the police arrive, they’ll chalk the whole mess up to the Tigers. Case closed. Those clowns won’t think a minute past the spray paint. It’s too bad your boss isn’t here.” Peters aimed his gun at David again. At the same time, Zack felt the sharp dig of a gun barrel at the back of his head. He glanced around the table. Murphy, Mark, and Roy were all subdued in the same way. The only one not skewered with a weapon was Harley, who still held the percolator.

“When we’re through here, Lennox, the Tigers are gonna visit your little girlfriend. Oughta be a touching scene, don’t you think?” Peters winked like he was sharing a dirty secret. “You dog, you.”

Zack’s mind went to Rory Dennison, dutifully keeping watch over Mei and Song. Rory hailed from Nebraska. Farm country. Cornhuskers. The heartland of America. And a few generations of damned proud United States Marines.

And then there was Connor Maher, a Boston man raised by a determined widow who’d single-handedly raised seven boys, most of who’d followed in Connor’s footsteps to join the Corps. The only brothers who hadn’t were still in high school. Peters and his men were in for one hell of a firefight.

“Then we’re going over to visit Tao’s kids, I think there’s about five of ’em, isn’t that right? Any last words you want me to tell Nancy?” Peters taunted David, his pistol in continual motion until he ended at Mark. “Then I’ve got plans for a blonde chick who lives in Rose Creek. That wouldn’t be a baby bump, would it, Houston? That’s kinda like two for the price of one.”

“You’re not leaving here alive,” Mark hissed, the promise of death in his eyes. Zack agreed with him, ready to spring into action at the first opportunity.

“You don’t think so?” Peters waved his revolver again. “Maybe you oughta check with Tony Brown and Kevin Carducci. They said the same thing.”

The four false Interpol agents grunted while Mark’s knuckles turned white against the edge of the table. Zack studied his friend’s deadly calm. He and Mark were both weightlifters. They could crush these guys. There was still hope.

“Woodley Park’s next.” Peters jabbed Murphy. “What’d ya do, Finnegan, rob the cradle with that one?”

If looks could kill, Peters would’ve been dead and buried with the insinuation, but there was little Murphy could do with the gun at the back of his head.

“Finally I’m going to chat with your poor, injured boss. Ya think I oughta include that little wife of his, that little Kelsey who gets all dreamy-eyed whenever they’re together? That’s another hard one to figure. What’s a doll like her see in a bastard like Stewart?”

Tension pulsed from TEAM agent to agent. Despite the open windows, the room seemed full of darkness. Zack glared at Mark, but all he offered was a scant nod. Harley shifted his feet.

“Hell, instead of killing the women and kids, maybe we oughta put them to work. Always looking for new talent. I’ve got appetites for young women all over the world, even pregnant ones.”

Mark’s eyes darkened and Zack held his breath.
Keep making Houston mad, Peters, and he’ll take you and your goons down singlehanded.

As if on cue, Peters’ agents dug their guns harder into the backs of their victims’ skulls. Mark, Roy, Zack, David, and Murphy’s heads were pushed so far forward that they were looking down at the table. Zack couldn’t see his fellow agents anymore, but he knew them. He could sense them. All were primed to blow.

“Then there’s you, Mortimer.” Peters pushed his chair back, his legs stretched out in relaxation. “You’re the only smart one here. No wife. No kids. Killing you won’t matter, so I’m going to make you a deal. How about I let you be the sole survivor again?”

“How about I let you be the sole survivor again? Tie him up, boys.”

By the sounds of it, one of Peters’ men holstered his pistol. Zack tensed. He caught the slight shifting of weight across the table from Mark, the way a man anchors his feet before he launches into a brawl. Zack prepared to follow suit.

Peters pushed his chair back and stood. “Let’s get it done. I’ve got a real job to get back to.”

Zack sucked in a deep breath. Time to move. Time to do something. Anything!

Peters stood behind Zack. So did one of his guards. Peters must’ve been aiming at Harley, though. Zack already had a gun digging into his skull. Peters wouldn’t be planning on wasting two bullets on a dumb junior agent, would he?

“On the count of three,” Peters’ slick voice ordered. “One.”

Zack tensed, all his energy ready to propel him off his chair.

“Two.”

Time had run out. Zack jumped to his feet and—

CRACK!

A gunshot shattered the air. The obnoxious Interpol Director lurched backward, a marionette blown off its feet. It was Alex at the door, his SIG locked in both hands as he advanced into the room.

Chaos erupted.

That one nanosecond of shocked surprise propelled Zack. His elbow caught the man behind him full in the face, knocking him off balance so Zack’s fist could do the rest. The guy’s gun flew. So did Zack’s fist. He hit the man’s nose. His cheek. His mouth. The guy never got a punch in. By the time Zack shoved his limp body aside, hamburger never looked so ugly.

Someone fired again. Had to be Alex. Another of Peters’ men went down with Murphy on top of him. Mark had barely pushed off the floor at the other side of the table, his fists red and bruised. Somehow, David Tao still looked clean and professional. No doubt he’d relied on his martial art skills.

The percolator was shattered. Harley was covered in water and coffee grounds, but he had the cocky Mortimer swagger on.
Take that, PTSD!
Roy was just releasing one tough guy from a stranglehold. Either the man had passed out, or...Zack didn’t think beyond that point. Didn’t much care, either. Dead was just as good.

Pride ratcheted up Zack’s spine. This was his team. His friends. His brothers.
No one messes with MY FAMILY!

“Murph, that’s enough,” Alex shouted, but Murphy was suddenly just as deaf as Alex. He kept punching an unconscious assassin’s bloody face again and again, his jaw clenched as tight as his fist.

“Murphy,” Alex shouted, like he wasn’t already loud enough.

Zack crouched beside Murphy, his hand restraining another blow to a face that no longer felt anything. Poor Murphy was spattered in blood and still mad as hell. “It’s okay. You can stop now. We’re done here. You done good.”

Murphy made eye contact, for a moment ready to strike Zack. It took a second for him to shift mindsets. When he climbed to his feet, he kicked the bloodied, dead body of Director Peters and bellowed, “You sonofabitch. I ain’t never too old I can’t take care of my Moira!”

“I got it, man.” Zack steered his senior agent away from Peters. “Look around. You’re in good company.”

Murphy was still ready to fight until he caught sight of Alex. “What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped. “Aren’t you supposed to be home taking it easy?”

Alex pointed at one ear as he secured his pistol inside the holster under his arm. “Mother! Ember!” he shouted out the door.

Zack grinned. The man was deaf, still bossy as all get out, and a damned sight for sore eyes.

Mother and Ember entered the room, each with a revolver drawn. Zack grinned harder.

“No one messes with my guys,” Mother said as she holstered her weapon, her chin stuck out in self-righteous bravado.

Ember calmly secured her pistol. She’d lost her dark glasses. The sadness in her eyes had been replaced by the look of the tough Navy Corpsman she’d once been. Zack was glad she was on his side. She was Amazonian again–tall, voluptuous, and deadly. He snagged one arm around her slender waist as he strolled out of the Sit Room behind his boss.

“I think it’s time for you and me to do some serious target practice,” he teased. Ember was the weapons expert. Target practice was the last thing she needed, but she took the bait.

“I already shoot better than you, Zack.” The light was back in her green eyes. Still fragile. Still more glimmer than audacious, but Ember was on her way back from the grave. She was going to be okay.