Cheating Justice (The Justice Team) (2 page)

Ouch
. Mitch stepped forward, offered a handshake. “I’m living the high life. ‘Go home. Find a wench, raise fat babies, live a good, long life.’”

Rodgers laughed at the movie quote, took Mitch’s hand and dragged him into a manly embrace. “All for one?”

Mitch hugged him back. “And one for all.”

As Rodgers jogged off, Mitch watched the deepening shadows gobble him up. What had happened to the three of them? Tommy was dead, Mitch on the run, and Kemp had sold his soul to God and country. Not the way Mitch had thought their story would go.

“All for one, and one for all,” he whispered to himself as he took off in the opposite direction. “Don’t worry, Tommy. I won’t let you down.”

At six o’clock the next morning, Mitch stood in a coffee shop sipping a cup of Joe strong enough to break his teeth. He stared at the overhead TV screen where President Perkins was giving a news brief about his new gun control legislation. He was flanked by his VP, the House Speaker, and the Attorney General and Deputy AG from the Department of Justice.

Two minutes later, the picture switched to the CNN newsroom and a newscaster started the next story. “Breaking News” flashed across the bottom of the screen and Mitch stared in disbelief.

Kemp Rodgers, White House aide, murdered in Rock Creek Park.

What the fuck?

And the picture of the suspected killer hanging over the somber newscaster’s shoulder?

Fugitive Mitch Monroe, wanted by the FBI.

Chapter Two

“You’re twenty-four clicks right.”

Dammit
.

Three days after taking a man’s life, Caroline Foster lay on her belly in cold, moist dirt that seeped through her cargo pants and T-shirt. Not the worst conditions she’d ever faced. Besides, an unusually warm October sun drenched her back and spread its heat into her core while she practiced a shot that would give her bragging rights for six months.

In D.C., bragging rights meant something.

Whipping wind surrounded her and she eased back from her M-24 sniper rifle. Beside her stood Joe Harrelson, the retired marine sniper who owned this private range where her membership cost a good chunk of her salary but allowed her to avoid the Bureau facility when she needed distance from all things FBI. Particularly when she’d been forced to take a few days off. “
Twenty-four
clicks?”

How could that be? She stared across the windswept range to her target six hundred yards out. Behind the target, a small bush swayed in the wind and bent backward at a forty-five degree angle. She didn’t want to question Joe’s expertise. Not really. But, he was wrong. His twenty-four clicks would be solid if it was a fill-value wind. What they had was three-quarter value.

Either way, the shot had to be precise because her target was less than six inches in diameter and would be sliding along a cable at six miles-per-hour. Throw in the wind and this was a complicated shot. One only a handful of agents in the Bureau had made. And never in three-quarter value wind.

Didn’t matter.

She’d happily be the first. And a woman to boot.

Still holding the remote that would put the target in motion, Joe eyeballed the wind flags, then checked mirage in his spotting scope. “Twenty-four clicks, darlin’. Or you can hold three feet into the wind. Your choice.”

Behind her, two weekend shooters snickered. Joe glanced back at them. “You boys wanna try this shot? Last I checked neither of you could hit a bulls-eye at two-hundred.”

Caroline sighed and repositioned herself behind the rifle. “No need to defend my honor, Joe. These boys are about to get schooled.”

The assholes shut up.

Good boys.
Here’s a treat.

Laying her cheek against the stock, she checked the scope and adjusted the parallax. Her target once again came into focus and wavy lines of mirage danced across her scope. Caroline waited. Watched.

A shot like this was as much mental as physical and confidence played a bigger part than she liked to admit. Her confidence came from experience and hours upon hours of lying in wet, soggy dirt to simulate conditions that wouldn’t be comfy-cozy.

After a few seconds, the mirage shifted from horizontal to vertical. Joe had nailed the wind speed, but his angle was off. A twenty-four click hold wouldn’t work. Holding into the wind might.

Especially with a moving target.

“Watch and learn, boys,” she said.

She nuzzled the stock, leaned into the bipod and loaded it forward.

I got this
.

The small bulls eye came into view and she moved the crosshairs four Mildots to the right. Based on the bending bush, if she kept her right hold and pulled the trigger when the target got to the bush, she’d be dead on. Damned near impossible shot.

I got this.

She gritted her teeth, drew a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. Another breath followed, but she held half of it, let her body settle as she curled her finger around the trigger.

“Ready?” Joe asked.

“Send it.”

He pressed the remote and the target lurched.
Here it comes. Wait, wait, wait.
Everything moved in slow motion, the target, the swaying bush, the wind, all of it. Calm silence brought her to a zone of concentration that gave her peace and a sense of order. She drew back a straight trigger.

Boom!

Joe looked into his spotting scope. “Eeee-doggies! Bulls-eye, baby. Damn girl, you might be the best I’ve seen.”

She’d better be, considering the Federal Bureau of Investigation expected her, and the handful of other agents in the D.C. field office that were lucky enough to have been recommended for sniper school, to hit targets the average shooter wouldn’t attempt. Sniper school had lured her to apply and—
eh-hem
—
make
the FBI SWAT team, a position taken in addition to her regular duties as a special agent.

Caroline glanced back at the jokers behind her. “You were saying?”

One guy stared at the ground as the two shuffled away. “Helluva shot.”

“Bet your ass,” she said.

Still grinning, Joe checked the spotting scope again. “I gotta try this shot sometime. I bet I can’t do it. Damn, that sucks.” His cell phone rang and he checked it. “I need to take this. You done here?”

“Yep. All wrapped up. Thanks.”

Caroline leapt to her feet, dusted off what dirt she could and laughed. The boys at the office would love this story. Definitely helped alleviate the angst from her boss putting her on paid leave.

But rules were rules and blowing a target’s skull apart tended to make a lot of people twitchy. Three days ago, Jeff Klausner, the ASAC—Assistant Special Agent in Charge—had summoned her to a hostage situation after negotiations failed. Negotiators liked to talk through issues. Caroline didn’t mind. She had patience. If talking got someone out safely, that would be the best possible outcome. Unfortunately, that hadn’t happened. As the best sharpshooter in the D.C. field office, she’d been dispatched to handle the creep who’d shot his wife.

Throughout their careers, most FBI snipers rarely fired their weapons. Caroline was the exception. In the three years she had been on SWAT, she’d eliminated a target three times. In each incident, she’d been given the standard time off until a full investigation had been documented. Her latest mission had gone as planned and maybe the time off irritated her, but she was a good little employee and didn’t argue. Caroline, being Caroline, had taken the time to visit the practice range. To keep her skills sharp.

To keep from thinking about ending a life.

Because as much as she was bothered by that fact, as much as she told herself it was part of the job and she was saving innocent lives by ending a not-so-innocent one, her finger was still the one on the trigger.

Criminal or not, her targets were loved by someone and those someones mourned their loss.

A lesson she’d learned on her second mission when everything the Bureau had done was questioned in a lawsuit filed by a grieving family. Every move she and the other agents had made was scrutinized and she relived the shooting day in and day out until the case had been dismissed. No wrongdoing had been discovered, and maybe for the Bureau it went away, but not for Caroline. She still thought about the nineteen year-old, bi-polar young man who’d lost his life at her hands and wondered if it could have been avoided. If the negotiators could have talked longer…if they’d known about his illness.
If…if…if.

“I always said you had the best ass in the FBI.”

Her body froze. Eleven months, five days and—she did the math—twelve hours had passed since she’d heard that voice. The one she’d thought about time and again after his last brief visit to her apartment, and she still managed to be equal parts pissed off, concerned and flat-out heartbroken.
That
voice could only belong to one person. Thus the remark about her ass and—
wow
—she always knew he had a set of stones, but this was too much even for Mitch Monroe. The man she’d spent all these months trying to forget. Months of burying herself in cases, months of begging her boss for every available opportunity to keep her mind occupied, months of a busy life that didn’t allow for downtime.

Or thoughts of Mitch.

Without turning, she picked up her weapon. “Well, look what the cat dragged in. A girl puts her career on the line for you and you don’t call, you don’t write, nothing. To say the least, your technique needs work.”

And then he laughed. She’d waited months to hit him with that line and he
laughed
. Classic Mitch. She closed her eyes and—forget that he was a federal fugitive now wanted for murder—she’d kill him herself and be done with the whole affair.

Mitch, a murderer? She couldn’t believe it. No matter what the White House was spinning about Kemp Rodgers’ death, Mitch wouldn’t kill his friend.

Then, again, she’d been Mitch’s friend once…

Finally, she turned, bracing herself for whatever disguise might greet her, but found none. Brave.

As usual.

She took in his long brown hair pulled back in a low ponytail, his dark eyes and ripped jeans, and shook her head. “You’re insane for coming here.”

He shrugged. “It’s a private range. Not like I walked into Quantico.”

It wasn’t enough that he’d almost destroyed her career when he’d first started working The Lion case, now he wanted to have a second go at it. He was a fugitive wanted for murder and she was an FBI agent. She should arrest him.

Yet, she stood waiting for him to say something that would make a damned difference. I’m sorry? I didn’t do it? Anything that would erase the idea that he could have murdered his friend.

She set her rifle on the table behind her, slid the bolt open.
Not loaded
. She knew it wasn’t, but she checked anyway. Always.

Mitch shuffled behind her.

Too bad. He could wait like she’d waited for him all these months.

Her canvas carry case sat on the bench seat. Like many people, she preferred canvas over hard plastic because the softer material didn’t make the rifle sweat. She dug through the case for her lens covers, popped them on, set the rifle into the case—bolt upward—and zipped it.

She’d clean the rifle later. For her, keeping a weapon in top working order meant cleaning it after every use. Even if only one shot had been fired, her weapons got cleaned. Every time.

She sensed Mitch moving closer, stirring the air around her, upsetting the energy, letting her know he was near. He had that way about him. Sometimes good, sometimes not.

“I need your help.”

Of course he did. Should have known. Radio silence for eleven months and now he wanted her help. “I should shoot you and dump your body in the Reflecting Pool.”

“Yeah, you should.”

She spun and—c
rack!—
smacked him, sending his head sideways and making her hand sting. She’d never physically attacked anyone before and she couldn’t say it felt right or just, but unleashing it felt good. To let him know he’d hurt her. “We were friends. I helped you and you disregarded me.”

“
Disregarded
you?” Mitch slid a hand over his cheek. “I’ve stayed away and I’m sorry. But what, Caroline? You want to do lunch or hit the shooting range with me? A guy wanted for assaulting your boss and now a federal fugitive?” Gently, he knocked on her head. “Think about it. I was protecting you.”

She didn’t need his protection. “I’m mad at you.”

“Atta girl.”

God, he was annoying. “You had a good reason to take a swing at Donaldson when he threatened you during The Lion case, but honest to God, Mitch, I think he should have swung back and ended it right there instead of trying to throw you in jail. But you should have manned up and never run from the charges, so whatever this is, I can’t help you.”

“Tommy Nusco.”

“You murdered him, too?”

Surprisingly, he blanched. “I didn’t kill anyone. I need to know what went down with Tommy.”

Oh, please. He really had lost his mind if he thought she’d touch that subject. That involved ATF and the State of New Mexico and she wasn’t about to step into that snake pit. “You better worry about what went down with Kemp Rodgers and why the White House is after you. Turn yourself in, Mitch.”