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It was just after six o’clock and he wasn’t meeting Charlie until eight, but Tommy was antsy. He had toast and a banana, considered how he was going to lay the case out.
Adam Hannigan was a hit man hired to kill the Warwick family.
Charlie would ask him how he knew that. Tommy didn’t have proof, which was one of the problems—to get the proof, he needed a warrant. He had an inside man in Grant Warwick, but even Grant didn’t have the hard evidence they would need, and he wasn’t exactly a reliable witness. Tommy bent a few laws in the pursuit of justice, but he was confident he didn’t cross the line.
Tommy would also have to explain why they couldn’t trust the FBI. His reluctance wasn’t based on hard facts, but he’d seen enough to at least cast doubt—especially with how they handled the Hannigan investigation.
Though it was early, Tommy was too antsy to stay. He poured the rest of his coffee in a to-go cup, topped it off. He’d get to the office early and poke around, start catching up on things after his month’s leave. He was ready and motivated to return.
What if you can’t sell this investigation?
Tommy had thought about that a lot—if he laid all his cards on the table and his boss still said no, they weren’t getting involved. He didn’t know what he would do at that point. He didn’t want to consider failure. He’d been a Marine, dammit—failure was not an option.
Resolved that he had enough to make his case, he grabbed his keys, set his security system, and stepped out the front door. There was a small garage behind the house, but between his tools, home renovation supplies, and ample Christmas decorations—his neighborhood went all out every year—he had no room for his truck.
He hesitated when something caught his attention. A movement, a slight reflection, something in his yard that he didn’t expect. Dawn was just breaking to the east, and his porch light was still on—it automatically turned off at eight and back on at six. Between the dim morning and the bright white light, he saw nothing in his yard, yet the memory of the breaking branch that had drawn him from sleep had him wary.
Tommy had been in the Marines for three years and the US Marshals Service for sixteen. His instincts had always been good...but he knew in that instant he’d hesitated a second too long.
He reached for his gun while he dove to the right where there was some small cover behind the laurel bushes. Nothing solid to stop a bullet, but maybe enough to give him time to fire back. He had just put his gun in hand when thewhooshof a sniper rifle echoed in the still morning.
The bullet hit his left thigh, and he grunted as he stumbled off the small porch into the bush. The shooter was in the tree—in the fuckingtree!—in the middle of his front yard. He couldn’t see him in the faint light, the yard still dark. He immediately turned his gun on his porch light and fired; glass shattered, dark fell. He didn’t need to make himself an easier target.
He fumbled for his phone as blood flowed down his throbbing leg. His vision blurred as the unrelenting pain flowed through his body.
Focus, soldier!
He’d never been shot before, not in the military, not in the Marshals Service. He was trained in how to handle being wounded, under attack, learning to take cover, to call for reinforcements, to survive until help arrived. He dropped his phone, couldn’t unlock it, hit the emergency button, then refocused in the direction of the shooter.
He could see nothing in the near dark, he couldn’t see the tree through the bushes. He scrambled up, put too much weight on his leg and grunted. The blood was coming out too fast; his head felt light, woozy.
He heard a bullet hit the brick behind him. Another.
He couldn’t fire at what he couldn’t see!
Where are you, you bastard?
A bullet ripped into his shoulder, another into his neck, and he knew then that he was a dead man.
Nelson Lee didn’t hesitate: as soon as Granger shot out the light, he’d reached into his small bag and retrieved his night vision goggles.
The distance was child’s play; he could have hit a target twice as far back when he was ten and shooting cans in his backyard. Granger had moved suddenly, surprisingly quick, diving for the only potential cover.
But leaves couldn’t stop bullets.
The clean one-shot kill eluded him, but Nelson hadn’t lost. Granger was wounded, bleeding, and Nelson had the high ground, training, and patience.
He adjusted the goggles, looked into the bushes. Saw the large man stuck between the house and the hedge. He fired. Saw flecks of brick when the bullet hit the wall. Adjusted his sights, fired four times in rapid succession, moving the barrel down slightly to compensate for the different angle.
The third bullet hit the target, shoulder. The fourth in his neck. His body slumped and Nelson didn’t have a clear shot of his head.
Granger would bleed out in less than a minute, but Nelson left nothing to chance.
He descended from his roost in the tall oak tree, collapsed his rifle, put it in his case, then slung the case over his back as he walked across the driveway and up the short flight of stairs to where he could better view the body behind the hedge. He had on a Kevlar vest, neck gear, a helmet, goggles. Not only to avoid being identified by a neighbor, but Granger was a marshal; he might have fired back.
He was dead; Nelson was certain as he stared at the body slumped against the house. But he put a bullet in Granger’s head on the off chance that he wasn’t. He hadn’t known the man; it was better that way. Nelson didn’t like killing men he knew personally. But he had learned Granger’s routine, schedule. He knew the man was well trained, and had to wait for a successful kill. He’d had two previous opportunities where he’d walked away because they weren’t perfect. Nelson didn’t want to be caught or killed.
Nelson heard a faint noise, listened more carefully, realized it was a phone. He looked carefully and saw Granger’s phone under the bushes, the screen up, dimly lit.
