Mark (In the Company of Snipers Book 2) (16 page)

Mark was not prepared for the sight back at the farmhouse. Smoke still billowed from the blast where the first RPG had made contact, but now the heavy oak door, the same one he had so reluctantly knocked on months before, hung splintered and scorched on one hinge.

They ran to the rear of the home only to find everyone gathered around Libby’s father on the ground. Zack was on his knees and covered in sweat, performing chest compressions on an unconscious Jerry Clifton. Rosemary crouched beside the men, wringing her hands, her face red and worried.

“What the hell?” Alex exclaimed.

“Heart attack. Ambulance and local police are late as usual.” Zack panted. “Glad you two showed up. Spell me. I’m beat.”

Mark knelt and took over, easing Zack’s hands out of the way as he continued the same steady rhythm. “Come on, Jerry. I’ve got you now.” He turned to Zack. “How long have you been working on him?”

“About forty minutes. He went down right after you guys left.” Zack blew out a big breath and sat back on the patio, wiping the sweat off his face with a swipe of his arm. “We took another RPG. One minute he was shooting. The next he was down. Thought he got shot. Man, that’s a lot like work.”

“So if one of you was working on Jerry this whole time ....” Alex looked from Zack to Rosemary. Rosemary pointed at Zack just as he pointed at her.

“Zack’s a very good shot,” said Rosemary calmly. “I’m proud of him.”

Mark glanced up at Rosemary’s no-nonsense demeanor. She wasn’t wringing her hands. She was simply working the cramps out of her fingers after taking her turn at performing chest compressions on her husband. The woman was amazing.

“You two get ‘em all?” Zack asked.

“Two got away. Possibly a couple more in a pickup vehicle. Mother is tracking them. We’ll need to move soon if we’re going to stop them,” Alex answered. “I think you’re right, Mark. Something else is definitely going on here.”

Sirens screamed in the distance. Mark kept working on Jerry. Zack and Alex located a fire extinguisher and put out the fire in the front room.

It was a helluva night.

“Whew.” Murphy blew out a deep sigh. “How many of these danged rocking horses did you say you make each year?”

Libby sat contented and happy to be helping Kelsey at the basement worktable. Murphy and Roy had kept them up late the night before with stories of their crazy exploits over the years. They explained how they’d used C4 to heat cans of beans in the jungles of Vietnam, how they win at outrageous cockroach races, and how to keep dry in the monsoon season.

This morning was different. They were on Kelsey’s turf, seated on opposite sides of a worktable while an army of wooden horse parts waited in the middle to be painted, assembled, and glued.

Murphy’s job was to paint the square horse bodies a light tan, while Roy was in charge of painting the leg pieces dark brown. Kelsey covered the rockers with fire engine red, while Libby painted the head and neckpieces white. Multi-colored yarn lay off to the side for the rocking horse tails: blue for boys, pink for girls, and red for fun.

Jingle Bells. Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer. Deck the Halls.

Christmas songs kept running through Libby’s head. Painting relaxed her. So did the friendly banter of Mark’s friends. Murphy and Roy did not seem like typical bodyguards. Yes, they wore gun holsters under their jackets, and she’d seen their pistols, but their relationship with Kelsey was more on the fatherly side. They both treated her as if she were their favorite daughter instead of their boss’s wife. They doted on her, which explained why everyone was in the basement painting. When Kelsey mentioned the mountain of work she had to do, these two men had quickly jumped to help her.

“He used to do twenty-five each year. Since I joined the workforce, it’s gone up to fifty. We work on something all year around.” Kelsey pointed to more wooden pieces stacked in the corner. “Cradles are next.”

“And he gives these toys away?” Murphy asked.

“It’s how we celebrate Christmas. You know how he is.”

“He’s a damn workaholic, that’s how he is.”

Libby finished another piece. She couldn’t wait to put the eye decals on them. These little creatures were the cutest things ever, perfect for little children who had to be stuck in the hospital over the holidays.

“I think it’s sweet.” She leaned back to observe the scene. It did look like Santa’s workshop, only with a couple of grumpy elves.

“Humph. Never ever heard Alex called sweet before,” Murphy grumbled. “Besides, you just met him. He’s a slave driver.”

“Yeah. He is.” Kelsey laughed.

“You think he’ll ever be able to make enough cradles and rocking horses?” Murphy asked.

Libby sensed an underlying question to Murphy’s words.
Make enough cradles and rocking horses for what? The kids? For Kelsey?

“Maybe someday,” Kelsey answered softly. “Even if he did, he’ll still have to help me, won’t he?”

There was some hidden conversation going on between Murphy and Kelsey that Libby could not put her finger on, some untold story she’d have to ask Mark about later.

“Yeah.” Murphy reached across the table and patted her arm. He seemed so genuinely tender. “I guess so.”

“You painted me!” Kelsey exclaimed.

“Well, so I did. So I did.” He chuckled. “How you doing, Roy?”

“Fine.”

Libby glanced at Roy’s curt answer. He had been way too quiet, not joining in on the camaraderie. All ten of his fingers were covered in brown paint. His tongue stuck out of the corner of his mouth like he was really concentrating.

“Ah, Roy, you’re doing it again,” she said.

“Will you stop watching me, woman?” He licked his lips, his eyebrow spiked in comedic frustration. “You think painting these stubby little legs is easy? It ain’t. They keep rolling all over the place. If I stand them on end, they fall down. I’m tired of chasing ‘em.”

“I’ll help,” she offered. “If we dipped one end of the dowels in black paint, then it would make them look like they had hooves.”

“Good idea,” Kelsey said.

“Oh, no, you don’t.” Roy pointed a threatening paintbrush across the table at Libby. “Don’t you go pulling that trick on me. I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to make me feel guilty, only it ain’t gonna work. ‘Sides, those heads and neckpieces are bigger. Painting them will take me all day.”

“They’re already done.” She stuck her tongue out at him, so he followed suit.

He also rolled a few wooden dowels in her direction, his brow spiked in evil intent. “Well, if you insist.”

Murphy pushed away from the table, stood, and stretched. “I’m done. There’s only so much painting an old man like me can handle in a day. I’m going upstairs to start breakfast. Anyone else hungry?”

“Since you’re asking, I’d take a cup of coffee,” Roy said. “Bring some cream back with you.”

“I’ll put a pot on, but I don’t deliver. If you want it, you’ll have to finish what you’re doing and get your own.”

“’Scuse me?” Roy’s eyebrows shot up in mock exasperation. “Now listen here. You only had twenty-five square little pieces of wood to paint. I’m doing the darn legs. That’s—”

“One hundred legs,” Libby teased.

Roy leveled his paintbrush her way again. “I know. I can count. You keep this up, and you and me are going to be painting legs all day long.”

“I’d love that.” She pointed her paintbrush right back at him, cancelling his imaginary shot. “Then we could sing carols and get into the spirit of Christmas together. Won’t that be fun?”

He rolled his eyes.

“I know.” Libby loved to taunt. “Maybe it will snow, too. We might need to put up a Christmas tree down here while we paint.”

His eyebrow spiked. “Knock it off, young lady.”

Libby looked up to Murphy’s hand on her shoulder. “I thought you went upstairs?”

“Where’s my coffee?” Roy asked, still deep into the grumpy elf routine.

“Libby.” Murphy pulled a chair over and sat down next to her, his cell phone in his other hand.

She looked up into sad blue eyes. The festive spirit fled.

“What’s wrong?” The same premonition she had experienced in June strangled her once more. Long before Mark had knocked on her parent’s door, she had sensed something happened with Jonathan. Her heart froze in her chest, holding back breath and time.
Not Mark. Please, not Mark.

“Honey.” Murphy sighed. “Just got a call from Alex.”

She hadn’t even heard his phone ring. Roy and she were too busy teasing each other. She was having fun. Her stomach lurched.
Please, not Mark.

“I guess things went real bad in Spencer last night.”

Libby blinked at him, not understanding what and not wanting to hear any more.

“The cartel hit the safe house. They killed two FBI agents and one civilian. Injured the other civilian. She’s in the hospital.”

Kelsey gasped. Libby couldn’t process exactly what Murphy had just said. Civilians? What civilians. Who were the civilians? Weren’t Faith and Marie at the safe house?

“What?” Realization struck. Her heart thumped. “No.”

He took hold of her arm. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but Faith is dead, honey. Marie is in the hospital. She’s critical, but they say she’ll be okay.”

The world fell out from beneath her. She swayed. Murphy anchored her to the chair.

“No,” she whispered. “It can’t be true. Not ... not Faith.”

Roy came around the table to stand beside her. Everyone seemed to be holding their breath. Kelsey knelt at Libby’s other side. It was true.

“My sister—” Libby couldn’t finish. The words stuck in her throat.

“I’m so sorry.” Kelsey hugged her tight.

“I’m sorry, but there’s more.” Murphy rubbed a quick hand over his face. “There was a shootout at your parent’s place, too. Your dad had a heart attack in the middle of all the gunfire. He’s in the hospital.”

“My dad?” Libby couldn’t believe she had heard correctly. This was too much.
Faith dead? Shootout? Heart attack? Dad?

“He’s in critical condition, honey. Your mother is with him. She wants you to call first chance you get.”

Libby pulled away from Kelsey. “I’ve got to go home. My Mom and Faith … I have to leave.” She walked to the stairs, oddly energized. There was so much to do. Her mother needed her. Marie needed her. The house probably needed cleaning. Before she reached the steps, she turned back to Kelsey. “I can’t finish the rocking horses. I’m sorry, but I have to—”

She stood there blinking in dazed confusion. Her world had just imploded. What was she thinking? Her discombobulated mind told her to stay and help Kelsey at the same time that it told her to run home. She took a step toward her friends even as her hand on the banister held firm.
I have to leave. I have to stay.

In a second, Kelsey had hold of her. “Let’s get you upstairs, Libby,” she said quietly.

They walked up the steps into the kitchen together. Murphy and Roy followed on their cell phones, walking to different rooms in the house as they gathered information. Within minutes, Murphy joined Libby and Kelsey at the table, his face grim as he reached for Libby’s hand, big tears in his eyes.

“You’ve got one helluva mother, you know that, don’t you?”

Libby nodded. Her mother was the heart of her family.

He wiped his face, still clenching her knuckles. “These cartel guys used RPGs on the safe house. You know what an RPG is?”

Libby gulped. “That’s what … killed Jonathan.”

“That’s right. I don’t know how they got hold of all the firepower, but it sounds like they came prepared for a battle. Your parents decided to stay in their home and shoot it out. You need to know your mother was doing her fair share of shooting right along with your Dad. With their help, Alex and his team stopped the Russians. He’s damn proud of your Mom and Dad. He says to tell you he’s sure sorry about Faith.”

Libby nodded. That sounded like her parents. One was as stubborn and determined as the other. But poor Faith. Tears flooded her eyes at the thought of her sweet sister. Faith wanted to be a dental hygienist. She was in college. But now ….

Gradually Murphy’s words sunk in.
Shoot it out. His team. RPGs.
She squeezed his hand, afraid to ask. “Mark?” she asked in a whisper.

“He’s fine. He and Alex took down a couple dozen Russians all by themselves.”

Knowing Mark was safe was her undoing. Libby buried her face in Murphy’s shoulder and wept.

Waiting sucked.

Mark stood clenching and unclenching his fists, the only thing he could do to alleviate the adrenaline in his system. And fume. The ambulance had long since screamed off with Jerry and Rosemary. Mark was ready to hunt the rest of the Russians down and finish the job. Mother had already relayed their exact location, headed south. If
The TEAM
was to intercept, they needed to move soon.

Unfortunately, the local authorities had a different agenda. As soon as the Wisconsin state police rolled onto the scene, The TEAM’s plan to apprehend fell apart. With all the dead or wounded Russians laying all over Jerry’s farm, the sheriff’s department quickly jumped to the wrong conclusion.

Just as quickly, they took Alex, Mark, and Zack into custody, confiscated their weapons, and bagged everything in their pockets as evidence. Since all three wore cargo pants, all those pockets provided a lot of evidence. Ammo. Handguns. Clips. Extra magazines. And more. At first glance, Alex and his team were simply hired guns without any authority to do everything they had done. By the looks of the place, they’d done plenty.

The sheriff in charge was on his phone verifying Alex’s side of the story, while Alex was on his phone with the FBI in D.C. For some reason, he was the only one allowed to keep his phone.

“I don’t care about your sonofabitchin protocol. You cost one civilian her life.” Alex stilled barely long enough for a reply from whoever was on the receiving end of the line. “That’s the whole point. You shouldn’t have lost anyone!”

In aggravation, he slapped his phone shut and barked at Zack simply because he stood the closest. “We’re never working with the FBI again.”

Zack shrugged and turned away. Mark stepped away, too. His boss radiated hostility, but Mark had enough of his own. Grinding his teeth, he clenched his fists again, then spread his fingers wide. This whole operation had turned into a nightmare, and Libby was in the middle of the firestorm. Something had to give.

Searchlights flashed through the upper level of Jerry’s once pristine barn. The dairy herd inside was probably never going to give milk again after the ruckus of the night, but at least the Russians hadn’t set the barn on fire. The state medical examiner was busy with his forensic team. An array of lights displayed the carnage that Mark caused when he’d shot the crate full of grenades. He didn’t think twice about it then, and he didn’t care now. Every single one of those men was responsible for murdering Faith. He’d do it all again.

But why Libby’s parents? And why breach a safe house in a sleepy farming community that held two elderly people and two young women? It seemed the cartel had zeroed in on the Clifton family. Nothing made sense. Logically, Mark could understand if the hit had been against Jonathan’s parent’s home if only because the dope was buried in their son’s casket. That would have made sense, but how did the cartel know where the safe house was? The simple problem of a drug lord out to retrieve his stolen dope was not so simple anymore. When did the cartel get so smart?