Shadow of Doubt (An SBG Novel Book 2) (4 page)

She went to wipe her hand but Colin quickly grabbed it and licked the sparkling wine off her fingers.

“This guy’s smooth,” Grady murmured. “That was definitely a practiced move.”

Cappy had no words suitable so he kept his mouth shut. He had no right to feel the volcano brewing inside him but it built just the same. He wasn’t on a mission to rescue her anymore. She was a grown woman. It wasn’t his job to save her from making stupid choices like the one he witnessed in front of him now.

Michelle had barely taken a sip when Colin pulled her glass away and placed it on an end table. He dropped onto the couch and held his arms up. She hesitated, biting her lower lip, then laughed when he grabbed her and pulled her on top of him. The fabric of her skirt was loose enough, allowing her to straddle him. He wasted no time plunging his tongue into her mouth and running his hands all over her.

Cappy had to consciously work at loosening his fingers before he dented the stainless steel thermos. Her posture appeared stiff and awkward but Colin didn’t seem to care as he practically mauled her for God knew how long.

Finally, when Cappy didn’t think he could take any more, Colin rolled forward, helping Michelle stand unsteadily, then heaved himself up. He grabbed the champagne bottle and ushered her toward a doorway.

Lights went on in the next room.

The bedroom, of course, because those Fate bitches hated him. Cappy swallowed and told himself he had to watch no matter what happened next.

Michelle took the bottle from Colin, weaved to the windows, placed it on a table, then pulled the curtains shut. Thank God.

The cameraman continued to film even though nothing could be seen through the heavy curtains. Four long, ulcer-producing minutes later, Michelle appeared. She ran from the bedroom, and with jerky, frantic movements, she resituated her dress. Pausing, she glanced back into the bedroom, then dashed for the foyer and promptly threw up in the corner. Shaking, she brushed a hand through her medium-length hair and wiped her eyes. Without another look, she grabbed her shoes and purse and raced out the door.

The cameraman swung the handheld to film the hotel’s front door and within a minute, Michelle appeared, running up the street.

The video ended.

Michelle Holman cradled her pounding head and groaned. Closing her eyes against the bright sun piercing the fast food joint’s windows, she rested her elbows on the Formica table.

The extra-large coffee was not doing the trick.

She was already seriously late for work and bet Senior Park Ranger Rick Spitz—aka Major Prick—was probably foaming at the mouth. Tough darts. No way could she motivate her hungover body to move any faster than a snail this morning.

Another brief snatch of last night’s disaster assaulted her brain. This time shutting the hotel curtains after denying Colin’s offer to pour another glass of champagne. She groaned again softly and dug the heels of her palms into the grit weighting her eyes. She had barely slept last night due to the vertigo, roiling stomach, and constant images. Why had she allowed her coworker to talk her into breaking her stay-away-from-guys rule? Had she honestly thought last night would end differently than the other few times she’d attempted to start a relationship or even a one-night stand? If her aversion to performing most things sexual didn’t kill the mood, the scars on her body usually did the trick.

Whoosh
. Her stomach lurched at the overpowering scent of hash browns now sizzling in a vat of grease.
What the heck was I thinking getting out of bed? I should’ve just called in sick
. It was the truth, after all.
Wine flu is totally a legitimate illness.

She swiped her hands on her uniform pants and grimaced. They were getting a little too snug for comfort. Damn genetics. All the women in her family sported wide hips and “healthy” thighs. Her coworkers swore she looked great but all she felt like was a pear. Her breasts were average but her butt and legs definitely had substance. When she could handle food again, maybe she’d try the soup diet next. This all-meat diet to increase protein and restrict carbohydrates did nothing but add weight.

The chorus from “Hero” suddenly blared from the cell phone resting on the table between her elbows. Having the theme song from
Spiderman
was corny and her coworkers made fun of her for it but she couldn’t help it. Every time she heard it, a pair of rich, coffee-hued irises invaded her mind, reminding her there truly were saviors in the world.

She swiped the phone awake. “Hello.” Dang, her voice sounded too groggy. She cleared her throat and missed the first part of what the caller said.

“. . . uben. We need to meet.”

Her spine stiffened at the terse tone.

“Agent Rueben?” she asked, relieved she no longer sounded like she housed a frog. “I’m surprised to hear from you. Is it the end of the quarter already?”

Silence for two thunderous beats then he said on a sigh,
“Are you really surprised? I would think after the night you had this call would be expected.”

WTH?
“Last night? I admit I got really drunk but I didn’t think that warranted a call from the U.S. Marshals’ office. Was I supposed to clear my drinking schedule with you first?” Why was she baiting the man?

“Michelle,”
her case officer snapped.
“I really need you to come in.”

Her pulse shot up, and she had to grip the phone tighter in her trembling hands. “What’s going on?”

“Look,”
he whispered. She instantly pictured him hunched at his desk with his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece.
“We know what happened. It’s all over the news for God’s sake.”

“
What’s
all over the news?” she asked tightly.

“When can you get here? It’s not safe for you right now.”

Oh God.
“Not safe?” she repeated weakly. Blackness crept over the edge of her vision and she blinked to focus her eyes.

“Where are you?”

Something about his tone cleared a few of the cobwebs in her fuzzy brain. Maybe it was the intensity or the fact that he wanted her so dang bad that set her alarm bells ringing.

“Michelle? You there? Agent Colson tried your apartment but you didn’t answer. He’s on his way to the state park.”

Michelle tuned out. Not safe? Her breaths sawed in and out. What did that mean? How could her day get worse after last night? Wait. Last night. Didn’t Rueben say something was all over the news?

She hung up and tapped open her browser app. It took two tries and a lot of swearing at her shaking fingers before she successfully typed in “Indianapolis news.” Thousands of hits returned but she only had to glance at the first page.

Holy Mother Mary and Joseph.

She dropped the phone onto the table and tried to absorb the headlines. “Senator’s Son Found Dead In Hotel,” “Police Called to Blakely Hotel,” “Grisly Murder at Blakely.”

Her stomach threatened to vacate the little bit of coffee she had sipped. She scrolled the page down and paused when a YouTube video proclaiming, “Playboy’s Last Fling,” caught her eye. She pressed Play.

When the video ended, she bent over the bench seat and lost the battle on keeping the coffee down. What the heck happened? Her breathing raced so hard she choked on the dry heaves racking her body.

A child squealed, “Gross!” while a mother barked at the girl to be quiet and keep moving.

Oh my God. She swallowed hard to control herself and sat up, pressing a hunk of napkins against her mouth. Rueben. He must think she did this. Crimony. She had to go. She absolutely could not be handcuffed. Sweat trailed along her hair as images from Colom—

No
.
Get moving.
It wouldn’t take a U.S. Marshal from Witness Protection very long to retrace a path between her apartment and work and realize she probably stopped here on the way.

Regretting she couldn’t take the time to clean up the mess, she exited through the side door and quickstepped to her old Ford Focus. Where should she go? She gripped the steering wheel and searched her brain for an answer. Bank. She needed to get as much cash as she could before they froze her accounts. Assuming that’s what the authorities did to suspected murderers. She blinked against the black spots dotting her vision again and pulled out onto the road.

“Keep it together,” she muttered to the steering wheel. “You survived worse than this.” Her stomach threatened to spill for a second time. Maybe not the best time to go down memory lane.

The blue-and-yellow sign of her bank loomed into view. Thank God. She parked on the side away from the street and ran. When she was in view of the windows, she forced herself to walk. If she continued to act erratically, the bank was going to call the cops. Not the best goal. Authorities meant handcuffs and being chained inside small rooms while they tried to force her to talk, to admit she did it, then getting locked up in a tiny cell where she could be at anyone’s mercy. Never again. She’d do something drastic before she’d allow that to happen. Yeah, avoiding all authorities was the only plan she had at the moment.

***

Cappy forced his lungs to breathe slowly against the onslaught of memories. Memories he never permitted to rise to the surface; remembrances that should just remain inside the black box deep in his brain. Bad enough he couldn’t stuff the guilt deep enough; instead, it hung on his heart like a constant companion for the last six years. His last mission as a Green Beret. The last time he got to talk to his best friend, Jacks, before a bomb blew him and the rest of the unit apart. The same bomb that tried to take Cappy’s life but he somehow managed to survive and escape the jungle with the help of the mysterious “other group with no name”— SBG he’d come to learn later.

The only mission in his life where he had been so completely consumed by the victim that he abandoned his training . . . and led his unit to their deaths. Dammit. Now was not the time to lose it. He forced the visual and audio-enabled explosion to the back of his mind and concentrated on controlling his rapid heartbeat. What the hell had happened to Michelle after the chopper took off? Murderer? Never in a million years would he have guessed that’s who she’d become. Even if she did take a life, he’d think it would be someone from the cartel. Vengeance and revenge he could understand. But the Senator’s son? What the hell was he missing?

Wraith stood by Grady’s side, studying Cappy. A small frown marred her face as she tilted her head. Cappy ignored the unease of her keen eyes seeing too much. If the Senator was calling him, they were about to get involved. Time to start lining his people up instead of mooning like an adolescent.

“Ted,” Cappy snapped, “Romeo and Magician are just a few hours away from Indianapolis. Book them on the quickest flight there. I want them in the middle of whatever alphabet agency is leading the investigation.”

“Probably FBI,” Ted replied, already pounding on his keyboard, “since this involves a senator.”

“Perfect. Their aliases still active?” Cappy asked just as his phone rang again.

“Jesus,” Talon griped, fiddling with a blade from his vast collection of knives. “Just answer the damn thing. He’s not going to give up.”

Cappy placed the phone on speaker.

“WHAT THE HELL, CAPPY!”

Cappy grimaced while Talon smirked.

“I’ve been calling all morning,”
the Senator continued his tirade, but on a more human level. Before Cappy could reply, the man barreled on.
“I want you to get your team to Indianapolis ASAP. I’m calling in my favor. I helped you, now you help me.”

Cappy opened his mouth, but again the politician cut him off before he could speak.

“I know you’ve seen the video by now. Find this woman. I want my son’s killer brought directly to me. You understand. TO ME first. I’m booked in the Cerise, across the street from the Blakely. I’m about to board my flight, so I should be in Indianapolis by twelve thirty. I expect updates on your search. Whatever you need is yours.”

Cappy waited a second. When it seemed safe for him to talk, he said, “Already working on it.”

“Senator? This is Ted. Is the FBI in charge?”

“I’ve made enough waves. Everyone has their hands in the investigation, including the FBI,”
Senator Harris replied abruptly.
“Why?”

“I need you to tell the Special Agent in Charge you’ve requested Agents Raymond Stiles and Sonya White be assigned to the case,” Ted answered. “It’ll help Romeo and Magician slip into the mix without too many eyebrows being raised.”

“Done. What else?”

Cappy lifted the phone. “That’s all for now. I’ll call you tonight.” He disconnected and started lining his team where he needed them. “Wraith, I know you and Grady are still discussing my offer to rejoin the team and have a manager trainee you’ve just hired, but I could really use your help.”

Wraith peered at Grady, who inhaled, then nodded.

“Sure, Cappy,” Wraith answered. “Tell us what we can do.”

Jim Fields raised a trembling hand to his mouth and continued to stare at the computer screen. His wife, Patricia, clutched his arm and gasped when a close-up shot of his baby girl loomed large on the monitor.

For six long, terrible years they had waited and hoped for a glimpse of their daughter, but not like this.

The phone rang, but he ignored it.

On the screen, Michelle allowed the young playboy to lead her into the bedroom.

Jim closed his eyes. When had his little girl grown up? An image of Michelle in pigtails on the back of a tricycle filled his mind. That little face stared up at him with two missing front teeth in her huge grin as the sun poured over her head.

He peered at the screen, but the hotel curtains were now pulled shut, thank God.

He both cursed and thanked his addiction to YouTube. The crazy videos people posted were too fascinating to pass up. As part of his morning routine, he grabbed a cup of coffee and scrolled through the latest postings each morning.

Patricia cried softly beside him and he mentally cursed again. Maybe he shouldn’t have pulled her into the room. He hadn’t thought past the dumbfounded blow the second he recognized the woman in the video.

A flurry of movement on the screen cut through his second-guessing. Michelle ran out of the bedroom. Jim clenched his hand on his mouth at the sheer panic and terror on her face as she gathered her shoes and purse, then tore out of the room.

“Oh, Jim,” Patricia exclaimed as the video ended. “What happened? What do we do?”

He glanced at her tear-streaked face. “Let me see if there’s anything in the news.” He opened a new browser window and typed “Playboy’s Last Fling” in the search bar. Thousands of hits returned, a lot wanting to direct him back to the YouTube video they just watched, but the others made him sit up in alarm.

“What the hell?” He squinted at the headers as Patricia cried out.

Headlines such as “Senator’s Son Found Dead In Hotel,” “Police Called to Blakely Hotel,” filled the page. He clicked on “Grisly Murder at Blakely” and got as far as the first paragraph before he snatched up the handset on the edge of his desk.

Holding the cordless phone, he opened another browser and pulled up the Blakely Hotel. He scrolled until he found their phone number and dialed. The phone rang at least ten times before a harried male voice answered,
“Blakely Hotel Indianapolis, how can I direct your call?”

“I want to make a reservation.”

A half-second beat, then,
“Uh, arriving when, sir?”

“Tonight and staying indefinitely.”

Patricia covered her mouth, her eyes wide with confusion and tears.

Jim rushed through making the reservations, then hung up and stared at the frozen screen.

“Don’t we have to clear leaving town with the U.S. Marshals first?” Pat asked tremulously. “I don’t think we’re allowed to just go.”

“I don’t care if this breaks some damn contract we signed. I’m going. It’s been six years since the cartel attacked us.” Regret ate at his conscience. He should have fought harder to be placed wherever Michelle had been stashed. At the time, the U.S. Marshals had insisted Michelle’s safety would be compromised if they joined her since she was already ensconced in a new life and persona. It sounded plausible, and Jim had allowed himself to be talked into their current location, but no more. He needed to help his baby girl.

Pat searched the monitor, her eyes drying and her spine straightening. “There’s no way she would have done this.” She jabbed a finger at the screen.

“I agree.” Jim dropped the handset back into its cradle. “Something’s not right.”

***

Victor Dalmingo sat in the middle of the cot and leaned against the cement wall in his cell. With so many coats of cheery gray paint, the surface was extremely smooth and not too cold against his spine. He crossed one orange-clad ankle over the other and unfastened the top button on his jumpsuit.

Metal scraped as cell doors clanged open or shut and prisoners shouted epithets at the guards roaming the corridors.

He had yet to get used to the cacophony of endless noise these animals made daily. The only bright spot he found in this hellhole was how easily he bought the warden. For twenty-five grand, Victor no longer had to worry about a roommate, and for an extra five, the man furnished him a lifeline.

Victor reached inside his jumpsuit and pulled out a small black cell phone from a hidden pocket he formed out of duct tape near his heart. The thing was an ancient model but he babied it like it was the latest prototype. Glancing through the bars, he confirmed no one gave a rat’s ass what he did in here. He couldn’t change his door remaining wide open, but so far the inmates left him alone. Probably had something to do with him breaking the arm of a particularly large bully on his first day. Victor might be forty-three years old and out of the field for the last five years, but he had kept his body and skills honed by sparring with his chosen team of assassins whenever he could.

He flipped the phone open and tapped in a series of numbers.

After a single ring,
“Hello,”
greeted his ear.

“I’ve seen the footage of last night’s escapade. Any problems?”

“No,”
Griffin answered bluntly.
“Everything happened as anticipated.”

“Did anyone see you at the club with Colin?”

“I’m sure plenty of people did,”
his operative replied in a bored tone,
“but no one’ll remember me or link us together. I made sure my interaction was brief and the guy was toasted by the time we talked.”

“Excellent, as usual.”

A squeaky shoe sounded just outside.

“Hold on.” He lowered the phone and jammed it beside his thigh just as two guards strolled into view. An odd pairing, with one towering over the other by at least a foot. Keys jangled from loops on their self-important stuffed belts and long, metal flashlights banged against their legs. The one closest—and the shortest—lazily scanned Victor’s cell and raked his eyes up and down Victor’s sprawled body. Victor raised a leg to rest his foot on the thin mattress and dangled his wrist off his kneecap. With his posture screaming
nothing to see here
, he dipped his chin at the guard.

“You talking to someone, fish?” the guy belligerently asked.

Great. A guard with a Napoleon complex itching to prove his manliness. He did
not
have patience for this shit. Nor did he want to broadcast this to a member of his personal assassin squad.

“No,” he answered, hoping the guy would just get over himself and move on.

Napoleon sauntered into his cell, his left thumb hooked on his belt while his other hand gripped the flashlight.

Dammit. Victor inched his right hand over his thigh, never breaking eye contact with the asshole, and worked until his fingers pushed the phone closed.

“You think you’re hot shit taking out Monwell?”

Manuel, dipshit
, Victor mentally corrected, but didn’t feel like getting into a pissing match over the guy’s name. He just held the guard’s gaze instead.

Napoleon slowly slid his flashlight out of the leather loop, gripping it by the bulb end, then popped the tip under Victor’s chin. The metal bit into the underside as Napoleon exerted enough pressure to force his head to lift.
Asshole
.

“You that big-shot CEO thrown in here for murdering his bosses so he can run the company?”

Victor forced his fingers to stay relaxed. If the prick lifted the end any higher he was going to take the man out.

“Buncha tree-hugging dirt worshipers, right?” Napoleon Complex continued. “You’re in the right place if you’re in love with wood.”

The guard slid his beady eyes over Victor’s physique, lingering on his crotch.

Victor’s hand shot up and wrenched the flashlight to the side, narrowing his gaze on Gay Napoleon’s face.

“Never in a million years, asshole,” Victor answered softly, with enough menace to solidify his point.

“What did you—”

Static crackled on both guards’ radios, drowning out the man’s red-faced rant. A tinny voice intoned over the speaker,
“Lockdown commencing. Report to cellblock D immediately.”

“Come on, Bill,” the second guard called from the cell entry. “You can finish this later.”

Gay Napoleon/Bill stared at Victor, his narrowed hazel eyes promising they would
definitely
be “talking” later.

Victor smirked, accepting the threat with a nod and lifting his eyebrow, putting a whole lot of I-will-wipe-the-floor-with-you in his expression. Spots broke out on Gay Napoleon’s cheeks as he yanked his flashlight free.

“We gotta go,” Guard Two said again.

The little man slammed his flashlight back into its loop and strutted backward out of Victor’s cell, never losing eye contact until he reached the corridor.

Thirty seconds after they left, the door to his cell clanged shut.

Victor sighed and hit Redial.

“Everything good?”
Griffin asked, his tone still bored.

“Yeah. Don’t worry about it. Did you retrieve the backup flash drive?”

“Yep. Got it in my hand now.”

An image of the assassin’s cutting-edge prosthetic arm popped into Victor’s head. The thing was state-of-the-art and cost a fortune, but it still creeped him out.

“Good. Continue hammering at the Senator until you destroy him.”

“That mean I have a green light for the second phase?”

“Yellow. Use your discretion as to how, but don’t act until I tell you when. As for the files on the flash drive, wait on my signal to release them. I’m timing it so I can destroy the Senator and get out of here at once. Only after that happens can you eliminate Cappy.”