Chapter 18
Moments before…
“Nice crowd,” Enders murmured in Duncan’s ear. “At least for a funeral.”
“Thanks,” Duncan groused low, his head bowed enough he could covertly check out the surrounding area from under the brim of his hat. Being in the very back corner of the long chapel, this part of the so-called crowd was sparse.
“Huh, Shaw’s here with that Aylin girl, too.”
“Mmm-hmm,” he mumbled, hoping no one heard him. All he needed was for someone to think he might be talking to himself and come investigate. He doubted they would recognize him in his current state, but he still didn’t want to chance it.
But Enders was right. More people than he’d expected to attend had shown up. Did he take any satisfaction in that?
No.
None of these people mattered. Why would they?
He barely knew most of them, and the rest he didn’t recognize at all.
The ones that did matter were at the front of the chapel.
He’d soaked in the sight of them—Haven, his family, the Pruitts, the team—following his casket being pushed by the funeral staff while the people in attendance had stood. The last person in had been…
Solace.
She’d wiped at her eyes—hard—several times, then taken a visibly shuddering breath before staring out over the pews.
Her focus had then quickly shifted to someone else he couldn’t make out and then nodded, before she’d stepped down from the slight rise where the family remained and he lost sight of her.
Those few moments weren’t nearly enough time to see the woman he?—
“Nothin’ to say?” Enders said, chuckling low.
“So, you honestly think whoever this is will be here.” Duncan muttered that statement instead of directly answering the man’s question.
After a heartbeat of silence, Enders growled, “Oh, they’ll show.” Then his tone remained low—menacing—as he said, “Just wait.”
What else could they do?
Through Enders’ third-party connection, it had taken five days—and a little blackmail—to force their hand. Enders had put conditions on the job.
His ultimatum?
He would go through with the contract. Duncan would die. But the body wouldn’t go to them. He’d make sure the family would receive it. And if they wanted proof of death, it would be on the person who put out the contract to verify it.
By showing up and contacting him directly at the funeral.
Enders had suggested that he’d wanted them to have as much to lose as he did if the truth ever came out.
And if they didn’t agree to his terms?
Duncan Sheppard would forever be missing—dead or alive—and they’d never know. Enders could make that happen with no problem, and the third party knew it. As it turned out, this person wanted to ensure he had died so badly, it was a gamble that had paid off.
They’d finally agreed.
That’s why the crash in the remote mountain location hadn’t been reported for almost a week. It had been a plan carefully orchestrated by Enders to find out who had put the contract out on his life.
And now, Duncan was a dead man.
He allowed himself the opportunity to stare over the sea of people filling the pews toward the very front of the chapel where his family stood. It had been hard watching them go through this. But that’s what he’d been forced to do.
He let out a slow breath to steady his racing pulse. Then another. It wasn’t working.
Nothing was going to work until they knew who was behind this and—cliché or not—they made them pay. Only then could he justify putting those he loved through this trauma. He focused on his daughter currently standing under the shelter of Cal’s arm and whispering something up at him.
Haven.
His little girl had held her head high—her back ramrod straight—as she’d led his family and the team into the chapel. He was so proud of her. Unwanted, tears pricked his eyes. Then he shook his head at an irony that wasn’t lost on him.
I’m crying at my own funeral.
If it wasn’t so ridiculous, he’d laugh.
As quickly as that thought crossed his mind, it vanished when movement at the front caught his attention, drawing his focus back to Haven.
Her brave face as she greeted another visitor might fool others, but not him.
Even from this distance, he couldn’t mistake the devastation she was valiantly trying to hide.
As he had since she’d first walked in, he found himself rubbing a hand over the center of his chest. The deep ache that had lodged there the moment she’d appeared had only gotten worse. It literally hurt his heart to see her like this.
But this farce had had the effect Enders had intended.
“If your family and friends, hell, the team, believes this is real,” he’d said, “so will the one who hired me.” And no one looking at Haven right now would believe this was anything but real.
Please don’t let her hate me.
Hopefully she, along with his family and the team—Solace—would understand this hadn’t been his choice.
The fading bruises from the stun gun proved that fact.
The shock running through his body when Enders had insisted he had to die, wasn’t something he’d soon forget.
Neither would how in that split second before he’d been knocked out, he’d believed that was exactly what was about to happen to him.
Although coming to while falling to earth at 120 miles per hour might top that memory.
And though he’d never admit it to anyone, he might have screamed.
Once Enders had landed their tandem parachute jump and he’d gotten loose from the straps securing him to the man, Duncan had been ready to tear him apart. Even though he could barely stand.
“What in the fuck was that?” Duncan had swayed on his feet until he’d used a nearby tree to keep him steady.
“I told you, you had to die.” Enders hadn’t flinched at his fury, just looked down at him dispassionately as he’d told him exactly what he’d just set in motion, starting with the ruse he’d used to convince him they were about to be found out—the man deserved an Oscar.
Each word had stoked Duncan’s silent anger, as he’d dug his fingers into the tree’s bark.
“So, you lied to me,” Duncan had ground out.
“Would you have gone along with the plan to kill you if I’d consulted you first?” Enders had spoken as if Duncan should have had no choice at all. “Would you have gotten on that plane? Would you have jumped?”
“Hell, no,” he’d fired back, then—still unsteady on his feet—he’d stumbled forward and grabbed hold of the other man’s t-shirt and gotten in his face. “Dammit,” he’d said through gritted teeth. “I can’t do this to my family.”
“Well, there ya go.” With that, Enders had pulled away from Duncan’s grip and went about the task of gathering up the parachute. “I can.”
All Duncan had been able to do was stare after the man. How could he have argued with that kind of logic?
Later, when he’d discovered the extent of the deception, he’d asked Enders where he’d gotten his body. All the man had done was grin slightly and shrug. Since then, he hadn’t dwelled on that part of the plan too much. If he did, it might raise more concerns than he already had.
Speaking of Enders…
They hadn’t walked in together, meaning he had no idea where in the chapel the man might have staked out to keep tabs on those coming and going. Strategically, it would be somewhere behind him. He wasn’t going to twist around to find out. When Enders was ready to be seen, he’d make himself known.
“Senator Spivey,” a male voice said, but not too loudly—he supposed since they were at a funeral—and Duncan stiffened and slowly turned his head, still careful to make sure he kept his face hidden.
“Oh, not yet,” Spivey said low, with an obviously false modesty that made Duncan want to body slam him in front of everybody. Of course, being the corpse, he had to remain in his seat. “The special election is still a month away.”
“Oh, you’ll win, sir,” the man standing in front of him said, as a small crowd gathered around Spivey and his wife.
The tall red head had made sure she would stand out.
Oh, she was dressed in black as a concession to the circumstances, but she’d managed it with some sparkle.
Then Duncan groaned low when she dabbed at her dry eyes with a black handkerchief.
Right, like she cares that I’m dead.
He frowned at Spivey. Too bad he wasn’t their man. It wouldn’t have bothered him in the least to take down Spivey and his wife. But his day was coming. Mercy Carter would make sure of that.
“Uh-oh,” Enders grumbled. “We’re about to have trouble.”
“They’re here?” He forced himself not to stand and see who it was.
“No, it’s not them.” Duncan turned his head and stared down the aisle. “It’s some of your team.”
Not just some of his team, but Solace, with Chance right behind her.
He shouldn’t stare, but he’d been hungry for her the past three months.
What else could he do but absorb the sight of her heading to a spot less than ten feet from him—her face pale and hardened with anger.
And beautiful. But this close, he could clearly see lines of weariness and worry marred her normally smooth features.
I did that.
Once Solace and Chance broke into the group around Spivey, whatever she said was lost to him. But from her angry expression, rigid stance, and the in-your-face way she leaned into his space and poked her finger into his chest, it had to be harsh. Then, of course, was the Spiveys’ affronted air.
That’s my angel.
“You two need to sit your asses down,” Enders said low, coming up behind Spivey. The would-be senator visibly jerked, while his wife gasped. Then, just as Enders was telling the couple, “And stop trying to hog the attention,” Duncan’s eyes were drawn to a familiar young woman entering the chapel.
“It’s her,” he murmured, standing without any thought that he might be bringing attention to himself, while Enders’ whole demeanor changed.