Chapter 15
Logan sat in a captain’s chair in the rear of the HERO Force van, two monitors glowing in front of him. One feed was from the camera trained on Gemma’s brownstone. The second was from a camera pointed at her street, where he was parked.
Both were equipped with night vision.
He’d be damned if he was going to let anything happen to her because he’d scared her away. Someone attacked her right here not twenty-four hours before, which meant they knew where she lived and she certainly wasn’t safe here.
She was angry with him. That’s why she’d come home.
It had been easy to find out where she lived, as the only lawyer named Gemma in the greater Atlanta area.
Even without a listed phone number he’d tracked her down with a single Internet search.
He’d have to teach her the finer points of existing anonymously in the information age, especially after this experience.
Assuming she ever speaks to me again.
He opened Royce’s computer and it came alive with a small song. From the messages he’d already read, he knew Royce had a very busy docket, a doting wife, and an account on Tinder that told Logan the other man wasn’t everything he seemed to be.
Logan was down to fewer than a thousand messages left to read, but his brain’s ability to multitask could be a curse. He could still see Gemma in his mind’s eye, remember what she felt like beneath him. She’d wanted a night of wild sex, and he’d given it to her.
Then you gave her another.
But that wasn’t the problem. He liked her. He liked her a lot.
Movement on a monitor caught his attention. A woman’s silhouette appeared in the upper right corner window.
Gemma.
His stomach clenched. For a moment he let himself wish things were different.
He shook his head, forcing his thoughts back to the computer. Campaign contributions. A gubernatorial dinner invitation. Airline reservations to Maui for Royce and his wife. An email from someone named, “Old Friend.”
Logan narrowed his eyes and clicked on it.
You’ve been living on borrowed time, and I just called in your loan.
Logan highlighted the sender and filtered the inbox, looking for more emails from this person. It came up with fifty-six matches.
The first set the tone for the rest.
I saw you in the paper the other day, getting an award for your years of faithful service to our community. They think you’re a hero, but I know better. You let guilty men go free, and you will pay for it.
Each email was another commentary on Royce’s supposedly shady character and the fact that he’d been bought and sold instead of issuing justice when it was due.
Each of you swore allegiance to this country. You from safely behind a bench like the coward you are, my brother from the battlefield. But when he needed you to speak up for truth on his behalf, you abandoned him, let his killers go free, and you will pay.
This sure sounded like the HERO Force case, and Garrison Cole’s brother Stewart was looking more and more like the sender.
He leaned back in his chair, wishing he’d been privy to all of Royce’s conversations with Jax and Cowboy. Logan knew what he wanted to search for next. He opened the filter window and typed JAX.
His fingers hovered over the keys. If he had a question about Jax’s communications with Royce, he should just ask. But that wasn’t what he was going to do.
He hit enter.
A short list of emails popped up on the screen and Logan clicked the most recent, sent from Royce to Jax the day before the explosion. It was just a few lines long.
Someone has been sending me emails threatening my life. He knows.
He says if I don’t make it right he is going to kill me. Have you two received anything like this? He doesn’t mention your names directly, but he alludes to knowing you are involved on some level. We need to talk. I’d like to do this in person. Are you free this week?
“Holy shit.” His eyes skimmed back over the passage, looking for the two words he needed to read again. He knows. Jax and Cowboy were just as guilty as he feared.
Movement on the monitor caught his attention—headlights coming toward him down Gemma’s street. It was a pickup truck, and it pulled to the side of the road two cars behind Logan.
This area was a mix of commercial and residential properties, but they were right at the end of the block on a Sunday night. From the location of that truck, he could only be heading to one building—Gemma’s.
Logan cursed under his breath as he ran through his options. The HERO Force van was completely blacked out. The man in the truck wouldn’t be able to see he was in here. He grabbed his tactical duffel bag and quickly changed into dark camouflage before moving back to the monitor.
He zoomed in on the cab of the truck. A man was clearly visible, fat and middle-aged, and looking through binoculars aimed at Gemma’s apartment.
Logan considered his options as he called Austin for backup. He could walk over there and ask the bastard what he was doing. He wouldn’t get an answer, but he’d surely scare the other man away. Unless he was really bad news, in which case he might have a weapon.
What he really needed was to get a plate number and warn Gemma. The night vision camera picked up on the reflective material of the license plate, making it appear completely white. He’d have to get the plate number the hard way.
As Logan watched, the man leaned forward, peering at Gemma’s apartment. Logan clenched his jaw. He couldn’t wait for backup. It was go time.
He opened the monitor app on his smart watch and selected the view of the truck driver, dimming the brightness to its lowest level. He grabbed his holster and weapon and flipped a switch, throwing the interior of the van into darkness before carefully sliding open the van door.
His vehicle shielded him from the driver’s view, so long as he didn’t catch the other man’s attention by rocking the van.
He crawled on his hands and knees, fisting his left hand to protect his burned palm as he moved past the car that separated him from the pickup truck.
It was too dark to see the plate number. He stopped and withdrew his cell phone, taking a picture he hoped he could enhance later.
The sound of a gun being cocked made his head snap up, half expecting to see the weapon trained on him. His heart stammered, but the man was nowhere to be seen.
Logan tapped his watch, the screen coming to life. The man in the truck pulled a ski mask over his face and opened his door, the squeak in Logan’s ears matching the image on the tiny screen.
Logan pulled out his Glock.
He could clearly see the man’s feet as he walked to the front of the vehicle. Surprise was his ally, and Logan launched himself at the man, clocking him in the head with the butt of his weapon.
The man lost his footing but recovered quickly, trying to train his gun on Logan. In a split second Logan had to decide whether to fire or attempt to disarm the other man.
His leg came up in a roundhouse kick, sending the firearm flying. The metallic click of a switchblade registered on his consciousness. The man swung at him, and in a reflex action Logan held up his hand to defend himself.
The blade sliced into his already burned palm. Pain blossomed, hardening his reserve. He trained his sight on the other man and fired.
The man’s eyes widened and his hand went to what was left of his ear. He turned to run and Logan grabbed him from behind. They were locked together, wrestling for control, the smell of blood and putrid sweat hanging on the air between them.
Logan was slammed against the cab, his skull bouncing so hard on the metal his vision blurred, the man now more a shadow than anything. Logan’s knee came up hard, catching the man in the balls and doubling him over.
The truck door opened and Logan wrestled to keep it shut.
He gripped his gun tightly.
Shoot him.
He hesitated.
Shoot him now.
The man made it into the truck and the door started to close. Logan’s left hand shot out, the steel frame of the door and truck body cracking the bones in his fingers.
The truck started, Logan barely getting out of the way before the tires peeled over his feet.
He stared at the blurry taillights as they drove out of sight, self-rebuke taunting him. He should have pulled the trigger. His knees started to give out and he forced himself to walk.
Gemma.
The stairs to her front door were a mountain. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to clear his vision. He used his right hand to guide himself up them as he cradled his left hand against his chest.
He rang the bell.
The sound of footsteps on the stairs and the light came on overhead. “What are you doing here?” She gasped. “Oh my God, what happened to you?”
“I got in a fight with the guy watching your apartment. Lucky for you, I was watching it, too.”