Chapter Thirty-Seven
“Loser stays with Val.”
“Wait a minute,” Val said, pinning Dirk with a glare.
Ethan chuckled. They were in the living room of Luke’s rustic one-bedroom log cabin.
The place had a galley kitchen with an old freestanding white stove, a propane fridge, and a counter with a sink.
There was a small bedroom with a queen-size bed, a tiny bathroom with a shower, and a living room with a cast-iron woodstove, the only heat in the house.
A windmill and propane ran the generator that provided electricity, which ran the lights and the well pump.
When Luke wanted to, he could stay way off the grid.
The good news was, Dirk had gotten out of his house without being hurt.
He had crashed Ethan’s Jeep through the garage door to make his escape, so the vehicle hadn’t burned up.
It ran, but the bad news was, it was going to take a lot of bodywork to repair the damned thing. Still, Ethan was grateful.
He held up the matchsticks he’d broken into lengths. Both Dirk and Luke pulled one and held it up.
“Looks like you stay, Dirk,” Ethan said.
Dirk said the f word beneath his breath.
“Hey, you already had your fun,” Luke said. “Now it’s my turn.”
But the truth was, Luke always did his best to avoid a firefight.
He’d been Special Forces, a Delta operator.
He’d still be there if he hadn’t taken a bullet in some foreign country on a mission he still couldn’t talk about.
By the time he’d gotten back into fighting form, he’d moved on with his life.
He’d given his all for God and country, would again if he was needed, but he’d discovered he wanted more.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t yet figured out exactly what that more was.
“You know, maybe you should take Val instead of me,” Luke teased. “I hear she shot the hell out of those bastards from the back of your dirt bike.”
“You should have seen her in Atlanta,” Dirk said proudly. “Knocked some perv loop-legged with a curling iron.”
Luke grinned. “My kind of woman.”
Ethan glanced over at Val, but she was no longer smiling. Fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Ethan threw a hard look at his friends. “All right, you two, now look what you’ve done.”
Pulling her up from the sofa into his arms, he led her into the bedroom and closed the door. Val clung to him, held on tight while she cried against his shoulder. She’d been so damned brave. Sometimes he forgot that normal for him was far from normal for her.
Hell, who was he kidding? This wasn’t even normal for him.
He kissed the top of her head and just held her. Dammit, she deserved a good cry.
She snuggled closer and her crying eased to soft little sobs. She was wearing a pair of Luke’s sweatpants and one of his faded army T-shirts instead of her wet clothes. He could feel her soft breasts pressing into his chest and, bastard that he was, he started getting hard.
Val sniffed and eased a little away. Ethan lifted the bottom of his T-shirt, found a Kleenex among the change of clothes he kept at the cabin, and used it to dry her tears. “You okay?”
She nodded. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. It’s all just . . . so overwhelming.”
“Hey. You were really great back there. You were tough when you needed to be. You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”
She looked up at him, gave him a tremulous smile. Ethan felt the power of that smile all the way to the bottom of his boots. Jesus God, he was in love with her. Crazy in love. What a crappy time to figure it out.
His phone rang just then. He was still using the disposable. The fact that Luke could get cell service up here was one of the reasons he’d bought the property.
“It’s Sadie,” said the familiar voice on the other end of the line.
Ethan opened the bedroom door and walked back into the living room, the phone against his ear. Both men’s heads came up. Both looked guilty for making Val cry. Ethan just smiled.
“Hey, Sadie, what have you got?”
“Not a darn thing on Beau Desmond. He was a cop before he went private, just like it says in his file.”
“And Gallagher?”
“Valentine was right on the money. Bick Gallagher, aka Ray Bickford. Paramilitary. Worked in South America for a while. Showed up in Seattle three years ago.”
Ethan’s instincts started screaming. “South America. He connected to Julian Latham?”
“Not that I could find. Beau Desmond was the one who hired him at La Belle. I don’t know who recommended him. I have a hunch Desmond doesn’t know anything about Gallagher’s past. It was buried deep, Ethan. By someone who really knew what he was doing.”
“Desmond might not know who he is, but someone does. My guess—that someone paid him to kill Delilah Larsen. I want to talk to him. You got an address?”
Sadie rattled it off. “By the way, the shooting’s all over the news. Dirk and Pete were both mentioned. Said Dirk’s house was destroyed but Pete’s condition is good. Nothing about you or Val.”
“Glad Pete’s okay. Thanks, Sadie.” Ethan hung up and turned to the men. “It’s beginning to come together. I think it’s time we had that little chat with some of our closest friends. First on our list, Bick Gallagher, aka Ray Bickford. He’s paramilitary, worked in South America.”
“I never liked that prick,” Dirk said. “Gotta be connected to Latham.”
“Sadie couldn’t find it.”
“Doesn’t mean it’s not there,” Luke said.
“We talk to Gallagher, then talk to Stern.”
“Maybe you ought to call Hoover,” Dirk suggested. “Tell the cops Val recognized Gallagher as one of the shooters. If he’s carrying a bullet, they’ll at least be able to hold him.”
“Yeah, and if I do that, we won’t get a chance to have that chat.
I want to know who he’s working for. We still don’t know who Gallagher had in his crosshairs.
Could be me for digging into Latham, or it could be Val.
Maybe whoever hired Gallagher thinks Val knows something—the same something Delilah found out. Hell, it could be anything.”
“Ethan’s right,” Luke said. “We need to get to Gallagher first.”
“If the guy took a bullet,” Dirk said, “there’s a good chance he’s already on the run.”
“Could be. If he is, we go to Stern. One of them’s going to tell us something—one way or another.”
Luke reached for the holstered weapon lying on the coffee table, pulled his customized M9 Beretta out and checked the load, then checked his ankle gun, a subcompact Glock 27.
Dirk’s Browning rode in his side holster. Ethan rechecked his Glock, slid it back into his shoulder holster. All three men were reloaded and ready. The phones had been recharged.
Ethan strode over to Val, pulled her into his arms, and very thoroughly kissed her. She was clinging to his shoulders by the time he was done. “Just a little longer, baby. Then this is over. Can you make it?”
“Do I have a choice?”
Ethan kissed her again, looked into her gorgeous blue eyes. “You’ll have one later.” He wondered if she understood the message, wondered if she would be willing to consider making a life with him.
Her eyes filled for the second time. She went up on her toes and kissed him. “Be careful.”
Ethan just nodded. He and Luke headed for the door.
Val sat in an overstuffed chair near the iron stove, where a small fire burned against the chill. Dirk stretched out on the brown plaid sofa, sound asleep, long legs hanging over the arm.
His weapon lay on the floor within easy reach, though he had told her the security alarms had all been set and there was no way anyone could reach the cabin without setting them off. He looked tired. He’d ridden hard to get back to Seattle to help Ethan. He was a good man.
Val couldn’t help wondering if Meg had made the right decision.
She looked over at Dirk, and an image arose of him striding out of the back bedroom of his burning house, an assault rifle strapped across his chest. She tried to imagine Dirk with Charlie, a father to Meg’s little boy, but the image wouldn’t come.
She thought of Ethan and the shoot-out, and the echo of gunfire filled her head. For a minute she was back on the street, cradling Bobby’s head in her lap, her heart breaking as she watched the crimson flow of his blood sliding through her hands.
She had vowed never to enter that world again and yet here she was. Surrounded by gunmen, bullets flying, running for her life. One of them could have died today. Did she want to live that way? Live with the fear and the worry?
After her wild motorcycle ride, her arm had started throbbing again, a reminder of what it would be like to live in Ethan’s world.
He had said she would have a choice. Was he hinting at a future for them? She was in love with him. Of course she wanted to be with him. But could she handle the uncertainty? Never being completely sure that he would be coming home?
She glanced over at Dirk. Maybe Meg had done the right thing. But Val wasn’t Meg. She didn’t have a child to consider. Was giving up Ethan the right choice for her?
She leaned back in the overstuffed chair and closed her eyes, praying the answer would come.
Praying the men would stay safe.
Ethan swore as he strode through Bick Gallagher’s empty apartment.
As Dirk had rightly guessed, Gallagher was in the wind.
His closet door stood open. The hangers were bare, his clothes missing.
Dresser drawers were left open. A locked desk drawer had been opened, then hadn’t been pushed completely shut.
Ethan figured Gallagher probably kept another passport, another identity in that drawer.
He phoned Bruce Hoover, told the lieutenant Bick Gallagher, aka Ray Bickford, was one of the shooters at Dirk’s house. Val had recognized the guy and Ethan had shot him in the leg. He told Hoover about his hunch that Gallagher was the guy who had killed Delilah Larsen.
Ethan wouldn’t get the chance to interrogate the bastard, as he had planned, but with any luck, Gallagher wouldn’t escape.